Lauren Takes Leave (43 page)

I’m about to do the mental math on that when a screech
comes over the microphone.

“Everyone, if I may have your attention at the front,”
Rabbi Cantor says into the mic. “It’s time to announce the winners!”

The lights flash several times as all the dancers are
called to the center of the room. Jodi’s nervousness is suddenly palpable, at
least to me. She stands straight and confident, holding her partner’s hand,
just like couples do on the real
Dancing with the Stars
. But she is
rolling her ankles around, fidgety. The rabbi takes the cordless mic from its
stand and approaches the dancers, who form a horseshoe around him.

“Let’s give all of these fantastic dancers another round
of applause!” he begins. “Their hard work paid off tenfold tonight. I know that
I myself have not been quite so entertained since Morris and Sylvia
Glickstein’s wedding!” Some cackles come from the far right corner and the
rabbi turns his attention to them. “Remember that klezmer band? Incredible.”

“Get to it, already!” Elaine calls out.

Doug, as bored as Jodi’s relatives, notices a book of
matches on the table bearing the slogan Temple Beth El: Where Judaism Is on
Fire. He slumps over his chair and starts lighting matches, dropping them into
his sweating water goblet right before burning his fingers.

The panel of three judges is introduced: Norman, the
temple president; Rebecca, the director of the preschool; and Rabbi Cantor.
True to reality-TV doctrines, the judges begin to heckle and generally mess
with the minds of all the contestants. The bottom half of Jodi’s face is
smiling while her eyes glow with hatred, as each judge says something slightly
off-color and derogatory to each participant.

“Of course, Mrs. Moncrieff missed her calling, choosing
predictable family life over a scintillating career on the Las Vegas strip,”
Rebecca, the preschool director jokes.

What’s more insulting: being told that your life as a
stay-at-home mother is unfulfilling or that your level of talent would have
qualified you only for
Vegas
?

I imagine Jodi blowing off each judge’s head with nothing
more than the fierce red light emanating from her eye sockets. Bam! Bam! Bam!
Like a scene from
Star Wars: Battle of the Temple of Beth El.

Doug lights another match and lets it burn down. The smell
of sulfur fills our corner. “Find something else to do,” I whisper.

At long last, the award ceremony officially begins, and
Rabbi Cantor once again takes possession of the microphone. “First of all, I
have to say that, thanks to your enthusiastic voting, the temple has set a new
record for fundraising, collecting over ten thousand dollars in one night! This
is unheard of, especially during an economic crisis like the one we are now
experiencing.” He pauses, removes his glasses, and wipes away a tear. Putting
his glasses back on, he takes a deep breath and continues. “Also, I have to say
that it was very difficult to pick a winner. You are all winners tonight, and
so these certificates will reflect that.”

Uh-oh. A sinking feeling develops in the pit of my
stomach.

“What does that mean?” Doug asks. “
All winners
?” We
watch as the charred remains of a paper napkin float down to the table.

“Bad sign!” Kat says, crossing the room and crouching by
my chair. “Very bad!”

“So, the first certificate goes to Morris and his partner,
Svetlana. For the best moves by anyone under—and over—the age of sixty-five!”
The man with the toupee and cane graciously accepts his certificate by kissing
it, then Svetlana.

The crowd goes “Ooh!” and a woman who is presumably his
wife calls out, “No tongue, please, Morris!”

“Next, never to be outdone, is Gary and, again, the lovely
Svetlana. Gary, rumor has it that you signed up for
eighteen
extra dance
sessions. Is that true?”

Gary grins from ear to ear like a schoolboy and nods,
giving a thumbs-up to the rabbi.

“The guy danced
in a chair
,” Lee says, clearly
disgusted.

“You are the most dedicated to the art of the dance!” the
rabbi says. Gary steps toward the rabbi, who shoos him away. “Now, don’t move a
muscle! We’ll bring the certificate right to you!” Good-natured laughter
follows.

This whole awards ceremony is starting to remind me of
Little League. Last spring, Ben won the certificate for Most Punctual Player.
He wanted to know if that meant he had scored the most home runs. Shamefully,
we told him that it had.

It seems unlikely that we can fool Jodi in this way,
though neither Kat nor I is beneath trying.

“And now, for the best dance couple! They showed us how to
swing like the pros. Their combined experience and enthusiasm could not be
matched.”

Kat takes my hand in hers and we squeeze hard.

Rabbi Cantor stalls for maximum drama before announcing
the winners’ names, and I think,
Did he say swing
? That doesn’t sound
like the dance style of Jodi’s choreography, exactly.

“Leslie and Javier, this one’s for you!”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jodi’s jaw drops as we all watch Leslie—sunglass-wearing,
evil beyotch Leslie—claim what should be Jodi’s prize.

“Shalom, people!” Leslie calls to the crowd, pumping her
fist in the air. “God bless you!”

“I thought that the older gentleman was much better than
this fatty,” Great-Aunt Elaine says, to no one in particular. Lee gives her an
odd look. She quickly adds, “But, of course, Jodi was the best!”

“Of course!” Jodi’s children, mother, Lee, Doug, and I
add.

Finally, after the tin man gets his heart, the lion his
courage, and the scarecrow a brain, Jodi is given the award for best costume.
People applaud enthusiastically as she graciously accepts the certificate, waving
the white paper over her head like a surrendering general after battle.

“Yea, mom!” Jodi’s daughters cheer.

She walks toward us with a sad smile on her face, and hugs
her youngest daughter to her chest.

“Oh well…” I begin, “I guess it wouldn’t have been fair to
have just one winner.”

Her flat palm silences me. “Just stop.”

“Okey dokey.” I sink into my seat next to Firestarter.

Kat tries to console her with humor. “It could be worse:
the dance duo of Deborah and Devorah could have tried to hit on you.”

Jodi immediately bursts into tears. “That’s true! They
didn’t even try to hit on me!”

“Nice job, honey,” Lee comments absentmindedly, patting
Jodi on the back. “You’ll always be my superstar.” She pushes past him and goes
to sit with her mother, who immediately begins force-feeding her chocolates.

Lee turns his attention to Doug and leans toward him,
whispering. “All those ballots I bought. What a scam!” He shakes his head in a
combination of disbelief and admiration for the slippery fundraising techniques
of his beloved temple. “They didn’t even count ’em!

“Not to mention the fifty-thousand-dollar donation that
Jodi brought in from Tim and Ruby,” I add. “That should have guaranteed her the
win.”

Doug picks up a lit candle and starts to let the melting
wax drip onto his hand. “Temple fundraising is like voting in Florida.”

Lee doesn’t respond. “I mean, Jodi wasn’t the only one
they fucked over tonight,” he muses.

“Huh?” we ask in unison.

“I think I just bought enough ballots to finance next
year’s trip to Israel.” He waves to the rabbi halfheartedly.

“Did you really buy fifty?” I ask.

“More like five hundred,” Lee says, raising his eyebrows,
seemingly shocked at his own generosity. “At five bucks a pop.”

“Ouch!” Doug and I look down at his hand, now red and
blistered.

Lee, still watching Rabbi Cantor from across the room,
shakes his head sadly. “No kidding, dude. No kidding.”

Doug and I make our good-byes and head to the parking
lot. We are almost to our car when Leslie appears out of nowhere. Alone.
Shrouded in dark glasses and night.

“What do you want?” Doug asks, stepping in front of me as
a human shield from whatever animosity Leslie might hurl my way.

“To apologize,” she says simply.

I’m speechless.

“Really?” Doug asks, incredulous but not unkind.

“Yes.” Leslie removes her glasses and meets my gaze.
Yeegads, she looks even more ghastly than before. Her skin is settling into a
green-and-purple tie-dye design where it isn’t covered in bandages. I try not
to wince in horror and imagined pain. Then she adds, “I—I fell.”

“I
knew
it,” I say. “There was just no way I could
have—”

“Well, hold on there, bimbo,” Leslie says, starting to
sound more like herself. “You still ruined my party and caused me to get six
stitches across my left cheek, basically leaving me for dead on my living room
floor.”

“I
apologized
and I
tried
to help! But you
were so mean and Kat wanted to leave and I was drunk and—”

Leslie cuts me off again. “And, Lauren, I have a serious,
serious
drinking problem, which only exacerbates my bipolar disorder.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“So, sometimes, I’m a major bitch.” She shrugs. “A
rage-aholic, as my team of doctors says.”

I just stare at her.

“I’m working on it, really I am. I mean, for starters, I
found God tonight,” she says, gesturing back toward the temple. She smiles
absentmindedly, probably thinking about her sweet, holy victory on the dance
floor.

“But has
God
found
you
yet?” Doug asks under
his breath. I nudge him on the arm to shut him up.

She snaps back to attention, eyes flashing. “Now,
that’s
the kind of stimuli that could send me right over the edge,” she hisses, teeth
clenched. She’s really trying to control her emotions, I’ll give her that much.
It’s bizarre, like watching the Incredible Hulk as he goes through his transformation.

“Men are such jerks,” I say, trying to defuse her anger by
blatantly dissing Doug.

“Hey!” he says.

“Total Neanderthals,” she agrees, seemingly soothed, at
least for the moment.

“You were saying?” I prod.

“Oh, yes.” She smiles with the half of her face that can
still move freely, clears her throat, and pulls her back up straight. “As part
of my twenty-four-step program, I’m asking for your forgiveness.”

Then she bows her head. Like, in a genuflectionish way.
And awaits my response.

Several days ago, my drunken clumsiness sent her to the
hospital. And less than one hour ago, I entered her home illegally, stole her
goose-necked vanity mirror—among other nonessential items—and locked her cat in
a bathroom. And now the woman is
asking
me
for forgiveness.

“Uh…”

“Of course she forgives you,” Doug says. “Because
everyone
makes mistakes, right?”

I grimace at Doug’s obvious use of irony.

“Right, Lauren?” Doug continues, as Leslie looks on,
somewhat confused. “Whaddaya think? Does
everyone
get a second chance
tonight?”

“I’m a big fan of forgiveness,” I say, looking at Doug.
“You know, across the board. Like, for everybody.”

“So?” Leslie asks. “Are we good here?” She glances from me
to Doug and back again. “I have no idea what the fuck you guys are talking
about, but I’ve got to get back in there and apologize to approximately
twenty-six other people.” She takes a crumpled list out of her décolletage and
scans it for names. “Kat’s next.”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Doug says, looking at me. “As long as
you stay on the straight and narrow.”

“Oh, I will,” Leslie says, putting her bandaged palm up
toward the blackened sky. “It won’t be easy, and I’ve learned some tough
lessons these past few days. But believe me, Doug, it won’t happen again.”

I nod my head in agreement and take my husband’s hands in
mine. “Believe me and Leslie, Doug. It
won’t
happen again.”

I wake up with a serious case of the Sundays. It’s an
illness that has plagued me since my first days as a student teacher more than
fifteen years ago. I thought it would remedy itself in time, or at least lessen
in intensity, but it has never abated. What’s worse is that, in recent months,
it has actually intensified.

If you are a teacher, you know what the Sundays are. Heck,
maybe this illness even translates into different fields of employment, but
having never been anything but a teacher, I wouldn’t know. The Sundays are, in
short, a series of small panic attacks that leave me feeling nauseated,
anxious, and depressed, all at the same time, knowing that Monday is just
around the corner.

Have I graded the quizzes? Have I read the short story
that I’ve assigned to the class? Did I ever get back to the three parents who
were upset with the grades I “gave” their children (since they only “earn” As)?
Sundays are like a wakeful SAT dream: I’m naked, late, and sweating, standing
in front of twenty-five sets of eyeballs that won’t look away.

The only thing worse than Sunday is the entire month of
August, which is like one long Sunday, as I count down the lovely days leading
up to September’s arrival.

I think today may rival any other Sunday on record. An
intense feeling of fear, combined with a despondency I can almost taste, makes
me groan. I pull the duvet up high over my head to block out the faint morning
light seeping through the sides of the bedroom curtains. It seems to be
raining, which only adds to my gloom. Doug stirs next to me.

“Doug,” I whisper. “I think I’ve lost feeling in my toes.”

“You’re fine,” he says, rolling over.

“I’m not fine. I have some kind of stomach bug.”

“Get up and make the kids pancakes,” he mumbles.

“But that’s your job!”

“You owe me. I’m sleeping in.”