Lauren Takes Leave (47 page)

“I’m going to resign tomorrow,” Kat tells me as we spread
cream cheese on our respective bagels and move from Jodi’s expansive, formal
dining room into her supersized living room. Her custom-built duo of
traditionally overstuffed damask sofas have been pushed aside and replaced with
uncomfortable, backless wooden cubes, to reflect the Jewish tradition of
depriving oneself of luxury while in mourning. We select two of these stools
near a huge bay window and sit overlooking the English garden.

“That’s a big day you’ve got planned, Kat. Divorced and
unemployed all in one shot. Maybe you want to hold off for a few weeks? Clear
your head first?”

Kat gives me a tired smile. “How long have I been
complaining about my job?”

The answer is: for as long as I’ve known her. “Fair enough.”

“I’m going to resign effective June, so I’ll finish out
the year, and give the demented-stration some time to fill my position.”

“That’s mature of you. It will also give you some time to
think about next steps,” I add.

“I’ve thought,” Kat says. “Next steps are planned.” In her
usual fashion, however, she is not immediately forthcoming with the rest of the
paragraph. She takes a bite of a bagel and chews it slowly.

“Oh, c’mon!” I say. “Out with it.”

“Simple,” she says. “I’m doing what generations of failed
O’Connells do when the mainland gets to be too much. I’m going home.”

I think of Kat’s father and four brothers, weather-beaten
New Englanders who spend entire summers on top of houses, fixing shingles and
painting trim. When the seasons change, they move indoors, drinking beer in
pubs until the first sign of daffodils brings them back into the light. “Home
home?” I ask. “Nantucket?”

“Yeah. Ever since my mom died last year, I’ve been missing
the island. You know what they say, pour sea salt on the wound to help it heal,
or whatever.”

“I think that’s probably the opposite of what they say.”

“Then it should definitely work for me.”

I take a deep breath and let it go. “So, you’re sure.”

She nods, chews, and swallows. Her green eyes speak
volumes of the things she can’t say, retelling the stories of the decade we’ve
spent together as teachers and friends.

“You’re not just going home to drink, are you?”

“No. Yes. My sisters-in-law are opening a yoga studio in
an old barn out in Cisco. The guys have been refurbishing it.”

“So…you’re gonna do lots of yoga?”

“Teach, dumbass. I’m going to teach yoga.”

“Oh! That’s perfect! Aligning the chakras and all!”

“I’m putting Varka’s bull to good use.” She smiles
wistfully.

I hug her tightly, which is awkward with our plates of
deli and our seated positions on these benches. But even with our knees rubbing
into each other’s, and with the promise of a calmer, more centered life ahead
for Kat, I still manage to feel overwhelmingly sad.

There are so many types of loss, I realize, closing my
eyes as we rock back and forth in our embrace, and so many ways to mourn.

I pull away from Kat and steady my plate on my lap,
studying her face, trying to memorize it.

“I’ve always wanted to try this,” I say, reaching out and
taking one of her curls in my fingers. She looks at me oddly, but lets me
continue. I pull the curl out straight, watching the hair extend far past her
shoulders, testing to see how long it can really reach. Finally, I let go and
watch the wave instantly tighten back up.

“I love you, Kitty-Kat.”

Her eyes are brimming with tears, but she blinks them
back. “Weirdo. Would you like a lock of my hair for your memory chest?”

Which is her way of telling me that she loves me, too.

I dab my eyes with a crumpled tissue from my pocket and
pass it to Kat. Then I deftly change the subject.

“Oh—I almost forgot—whatever you do tomorrow when you
speak to Martha,
do not
admit to being with me last week. I spoke to her
about my absence and she totally doesn’t know that you were in Miami.”

“A benefit of her lack of Internet savvy, I guess.”

“And…Shay?” I ask.

“That’s it. End of story.”

“Really?”

Kat shrugs. “I mean, I’m grateful that I had this week,
fucked up as it was. With you and Jodi. With Shay. And now I’m grateful to be
moving on, whatever that means for me.”

We both sniffle ourselves back to normal.

“I, for one, am grateful for the faraway land of Nova
Scotia and the wonderful smoked salmon it has given the world,” Lenny says,
joining us and trying unsuccessfully to fold his long body down onto one of the
boxes. He gives up and remains standing, towering above us.

“Where’s Tim?” I ask.

“Still talking to Doug in the limo,” Lenny says. “They’re
just finishing up some specifics about the job.”

“Thanks, Len,” I say. “When you said you were going to
help Doug’s company, I thought you meant…” I trail off. “Like…you know…” I’m
getting a little choked up just thinking about how much help he really just
gave to Doug and, by proxy, to me and my family. Having a working relationship
like that with Tim Cubix’s production company is bigger than anything a bank
could do to help Doug’s finances. It will give him actual work—exciting
projects—and connections to others who might require his services too.

I think our Tudor is safe.

“I know.” He smiles. “It was the least I could do, Lauren.
I mean, I really fucked up, coming to see you in Miami and all.” He shakes his
head ruefully. “I’m glad I could do something right for your family.”

“Amen to that,” Kat says.

“Jodi!” Lee calls, much too loud for the particularly
somber circumstances under which we are here. His voice carries through the
wide rooms and echoes, bouncing off the twelve-foot ceilings. We all kind of
jump at the surprisingly accusatory tone embedded in those two syllables.

“Coming!” Jodi sings back, apparently not at all ruffled
by her husband’s bark. She sails down the stairs in yet another black ensemble,
her now-dry hair fanning out behind her dramatically, recently applied lip
gloss sparkling.

My curiosity piqued, I turn to the sound of their voices
in the front hall and notice Claudine, Jodi’s housekeeper-slash-babysitter,
quickly grab her jacket out of the closet and skedaddle toward the front door
just as Jodi reaches the bottom step. “I’m so sorry,” Claudine says, turning
back to Jodi with one hand on the doorknob, “I didn’t know.” Then she bolts
through the front door like a drunken teen leaving the darkened playground
moments before the cops arrive.

“What is she talking about?” Jodi asks, as the front door
slams shut.

Lee’s face as he enters the hall from the kitchen is not
amused.

“Looks like there’s been some hanky-panky of the
domestic-help variety,” Lenny whispers to Kat and me. “A little ‘bend over and
let me watch you clean that oven,’ huh? Whaddaya think?”

“I think you really are the world’s largest douche bag,
Len,” Kat says.

“This has nothing to do with sex,” I say, putting the
pieces together.

“How much do you pay Claudine?” Lee asks, trying to keep
his voice neutral. Before Jodi can answer, he’s speaking again, moving toward
her slowly. Jodi mimics his steps, except that she’s moving backward, and they
dance a bizarre tango like that in a circle around the foyer. “I’m asking
because I went to pay her for the week, which you usually do on Fridays, only
you were in Florida. Since she came to help out today, I paid her for that, and
then I counted out four hundred dollars in cash and handed it over for her
weekly salary.”

Jodi’s big brown eyes grow bigger and more afraid, as if
she’s Scrooge being shown a vision of her wicked past and the consequences her
actions will carry into her future.

The shivah has stopped midchew, as all thirty or so of the
guests hang on to this dramatic display, some with Styrofoam coffee cups held
aloft and frozen in time.

“And you know what she said?” Lee asks.

“Thank you?” Jodi guesses, her back now up against the
silver-and-taupe wallpaper, her hands tucked behind her, clutching the
decorative chair rail for support. Her body may show fear, but her voice
remains solid ice.

Lee shakes his head and smiles sadly, like he’s the only
one in on the joke. “More like ‘Oh, Mr. Moncrieff, one of those hundred-dollar
bills goes to Miss Jodi’s salary.’”

“She can’t really be that fucking stupid,” Jodi mutters to
herself, anger now creeping in to claim its rightful spot behind surprise.

Lee laughs bitterly. “That’s the part that gets you upset?
That Claudine was dumb enough to tell on you?”

Jodi pauses for a moment and looks like she’s going to
cave. I think it’s time to usher everyone out of this shivah so that the
Moncrieffs can have their marital dispute in private. But then Jodi steps up
onto the first stair so as to be seen more clearly by the crowd and strikes a
defiant pose.

Who am I kidding? Jodi loves an audience, no matter the
occasion.

In that momentary silence, Great-Aunt Elaine gets up from
her seat in the living room and pushes her way through our little group. “Wait
a second, wait a second,” she says, shuffling her feet slowly. Then, once she’s
reached the foyer, she says, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

She steps into the center of the room and stares sort of
wistfully into the middle distance. “When I was a young girl, my mother gave me
and my sister Sonia pushkes.”

“What the hell is a push key?” Kat whispers to me.

“Maybe it’s something related to Jodi.”

“And why does every funeral have a
nostalgic-old-lady-on-a-tangent?”

I shrug.

“A pushke is a small can or box kept in the home for the
collection of tzedakah, or charity, and
yes
, it relates to Jodi,” Elaine
says, looking over at Kat and me and winking. “I may be slow to walk, but I am
quick to hear. Anyway,” she continues, “our family kept one in the kitchen, on
the window ledge by the sink. We’d contribute change to it and give it to the
synagogue a few times a year.

“But not this pushke; this pushke was different. This tin
can was a set aside for Sonia and me to save up some money—a dime here, a penny
there—you’d be surprised how, over time, it really adds up! And before you knew
it, we would each have enough money to buy a new pair of satin gloves or a
Billie Holiday record. Or both! All I’m saying is that Jewish women have been
keeping little stashes of money on the side, hidden from their fathers and
husbands, for ages. The pushke is tradition.”

Jodi is hanging onto every word her great-aunt is saying,
as if it’s Talmudic law. When Elaine stops to catch her breath, Jodi looks
triumphantly at Lee and says, “See? I was doing it for charity. And because
I’m, like,
supposed to
.”

Great-Aunt Elaine walks over to Jodi and places her
gnarled, arthritic hands on top of Jodi’s beautifully manicured ones. The pair
stares deep into each other’s eyes. “Not only is it tradition, my darling
grand-niece, it’s your birthright. It is truly your
destiny
to steal
from you husband. It’s the Goldberg way. Given your insight, I’m not surprised
that you discovered this secret all on your own.”

“So
you
were the charity that you were giving
charity to?” Lee asks, incredulous.

“Charity starts at home, Lee,” Jodi says defiantly,
perfectly content to stand behind her own bullshit, especially now that’s it
been proven to be true. Then she steps down off the stair and approaches him,
her voice softer. “Lee, you treat yourself to plenty of extravagances because
you have the money.” She points out the window to the Porsche parked in the
driveway. “But…I don’t have an income. So, the fundamental question is, how am
I ever supposed to treat myself to nice things if I don’t have the cash with
which to indulge?”

Lee looks down at the face of his beautiful, slightly
corrupt wife and rolls his eyes. “Pushke or not, maybe it really is time you
got a job, Jo.”

“Just a little one, like part-time? Something fun and
fab?” Jodi asks, her eyelids batting playfully.

I’ve got to hand it to Jodi. She has just managed to
deftly sidestep a potentially explosive argument by claiming some sanctioned,
family legacy of deceit. Plus, she secured the okay to work part-time, all
while making it look like it was Lee’s idea.

“Knock yourself out,” Lee says. Then he kisses her on the
forehead and scans the crowd, sighing deeply. “Where’s my buddy Jim?” Spotting
his friend in the dining room, Lee waves him over and pulls him close. “Come
outside with me? I need to smoke a doobie.”

Jimmy fishes for something in his pocket and nods as they
head out the door.

“I’ve got to take some notes on this,” Kat says, shaking
her head disbelievingly. “So that in my next life I can come back as Jodi.”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking out the window to where
Doug is emerging from the limo parked next to Lee’s Porsche. “I think I’d kind
of like to be Doug.”

“So, what you’re saying is…?” I ask Doug as we drive back
from Jodi’s house. The late-afternoon sun is dipping low in the sky and I can’t
help but feel anxious about Monday’s approach.

To think how far I’ve traveled since last Monday, only to
end up right back where I started.

Only I’m not quite the same anymore, am I?

“I’m saying that Tim basically handed me the job. We
Skyped with some head of his production company who was still in her pajamas
out in LA, and Tim made the introductions and was like, ‘Here’s the guy for the
Build a Better Future project,’ and that was basically it. It was insane,” he
says, shaking his head like he’s not sure what just happened to his life.

“Cool,” I say, thinking how much this past week has
changed us both. “So, when do you start?”

“Next month. Lenny said he could actually use his real
accounting skills to help me get a loan until then, to pay back Dorothy. And
then,” he says, glancing over to me while driving, then focusing back on the road
ahead, “once that project wraps, you and I should plan a trip. A long weekend
somewhere, just the two of us, to reconnect.”