Making Angels Laugh

By Karen Woods

Rita's father had been fond of saying, "If you want to make the Holy Angels laugh, just tell them your plans." Now, the widowed Dr. Margarita Zornova's grown sons and medical practice partner have conspired to force Rita to take her first real vacation in thirteen years, starting by sending to her 40th High School reunion, continuing by enticing her into a cruise with two of her sons, their wives, and her elderly mother. Did anyone hear that laughter?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sleeping Beagle Books
• Release date: Aug 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370307241

Karen Woods

Karen Woods writes about the world she grew up in and her beloved Manchester – in all its light and shade – is in every book.

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Making Angels Laugh

A novel by

Karen S. Woods

Copyright 2016 by Karen S. Woods

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Making Angels Laugh is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book may neither be reproduced or distributed any means now known or discovered in the future (beyond that copying that is permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the US Copyright Law and except that quoting of passages done for purposes of reviews of the work by reviewers for the public press), without permission of the publishers.

For permission, email [e-mail]

Cover photo copyright Clarita. Used under license.

The sign of sincere love is to forgive wrongs done to us. It was with such love that the Lord loved the world.

St Mark the Ascetic

Scripture quotations, quotations from the desert fathers, and the selections from the various liturgies of the Orthodox Church are rendered according to the memory of the author.

The quotation from the writings of St. Nikolai Velimirovich comes from Prayers by the Lake, published by The Diocese of New Gracanica and Midwestern America, 2010

Prolog

Margarita Zornova, M.D., Ph.D., picked up her silver letter knife and slit open the glued flap on the large white envelope her practice partner, Janet, had, obviously, left on her desk.

She unfolded the single sheet of paper that was wrapped around both a cruise ship ticket folder and her passport. She read the note which was in Janet’s precise, petite, lovely cursive, "Rita, my dearest friend, I desperately need a long vacation. But then again, so do you, and you’ve been far longer without a real break than I have. You haven’t taken any significant time, for yourself, since before your Andrei passed. Patrick and I had a long vacation only two years ago.

So, conspiring with your sons, their wives, and your mother, I’ve booked a vacation, including a cruise, for you, won’t like some of this. But consider this a prescription for your mental and physical health.

You will fly into Saint Louis tomorrow morning, then drive up for your Township High class reunion. Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me over that, Margarita Aleksandrova! I know you instructed the staff to send your regrets. I sent your acceptance, instead, with a check for the price of your dinner. This is not in the least negotiable.

I know it’s technically not your class, as you graduated early. But still, it is the class with which you started high school. And it’s the class that invited you to the reunion.

I’ve reserved a very nice convertible for you at the airport in Saint Louis. The reservation slip is in the cruise packet. You’ll then drive to that town I know you swore that you’d never again step foot in. But you WILL go to your fortieth high school reunion. That’s not negotiable.

It’s time that you worked some closure with your father’s death. It’s been four decades since he passed and you left that miserable excuse of a town. You can’t run forever. Time for you to face this and put it permanently to rest.

I’ve booked you a room at a local bed and breakfast, two blocks down the street from where the reunion dinner will be held, so you’ll be able to walk there and back, so you can have a glass of wine, or two, with dinner without worrying about driving impaired.

I’ve also ordered flowers from a local florist there for you to pick up earlier in the day both to put on your father’s grave and to wear on your dress for the reunion dinner dance.

Oh, I bought you the dress, shoes, and handbag for that dinner dance, something that will definitely turn heads when you wear it. Elegant and beautiful, but not excessively formal, you’ll be stunning in it. It is a match for the green of your eyes. The dress is draped over your sofa in your cottage, already packed in a hanging travel bag. It’s nothing that you would have ever bought for yourself. Andrei, memory eternal, would have joyfully bought something like this for you, and you would have worn it for him with pleasure. He had outstanding taste, whereas, given your preferences, you’d dress like a nun; in carbon black with nothing showing from your chin to your ankles, and with your head covered whenever you could get by with it. I swear I don’t know why you haven’t just become the nun you once wanted to be, given the rigorous asceticism in your manner of life. Your bishop certainly would approve, given his comments to you when he was here to consecrate the chapel last year.

However, my friend, all that notwithstanding, you will wear that dress, along with the emeralds that Andrei Ivanovich gave you after the birth of your eldest. You will shine like the star you are, sparkle like you never sparkled in high school and show everyone who ever gave you a shred of grief that you’ve made a wonderful life for yourself, a life of successes well beyond anything they’ve have likely done for themselves. The best revenge is success.

Early Saturday morning, you’ll drive back to the Saint Louis airport and take your flight to Fort Lauderdale. You will be met at the airport by your family. The cruise line coach will take you all to your ship for your family vacation.

You will be fourteen days with nothing to do but relax and enjoy yourself with your family. You always wanted to go through the Panama Canal. You’ll do this and much more on this cruise.

Then you can spend several weeks with your grandbabies in California before flying home. The newest set of twins will be here by then. You can come back to work after the twins are baptized.

After you return to the clinic, Patrick and I will take our much needed long vacation. I trust that you understand that you will take your time off, before Patrick and I will take our vacation. I absolutely insist and will not be dissuaded. Period. End of discussion.

All of the details of the trip are in the folder. Have fun. Oh, I checked your passport. It’s still valid for another year. And you’ve had recommended immunizations. I gave them to you with your annual boosters. I know, I’m sneaky.

There is no reason for you not to go. So, don’t be a stubborn ass, Rita, my dear. Your sons want you to go. Your mother wants you to go.

In fact, they are flying into Fort Lauderdale tomorrow, while you are going to St. Louis. Two of your sons, and their wives, traded in all kinds of favors to get the time away from their lives, so don’t you dare even think to disappoint them. They want this for you, and for them. It’s rare and precious when family can spend that much time together.

Surprise.

And happy birthday, my dearest ‘sister’ and friend,

Much Love,

Janet"

She closed her eyes and sighed.

Rita’s high school years had been a horror, almost beyond words, with her being the favorite target for a group of three young bullies. She’d done the best she could to put that time out of her mind and to leave it in the distant past.

Returning to Russian Hill and to Township High was something she had sworn that she would never do. She’d sworn that oath, tearfully, on the smoldering ashes of the parish church after the terrible trio had burnt it down, still another crime in a long list for which the county sheriff, the father of the ringleader, had either turned a blind eye or had actively covered up the boys’ actions.

She sighed heavily and shook her head. Janet meant well arranging this trip. But, the last thing Rita wanted was to take a walk down memory lane, to deal with the people, particularly three boys, now men, who had once made her life a living hell. But it looked as though there was no avoiding it.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe. She’d be able to visit her father’s grave. That would be a good thing. The reunion was just a few hours out of her life. She could endure anything for a few hours.

Surely over the last forty years, since she’d left there, people had matured. They still couldn’t be the same people they were then. Surely…

Somehow, she wasn’t at all convinced.

Chapter One

It had only been a little over one mile’s walk from their home in the area the locals called Russian Hill into town and to the campus belonging to the public school district. Ten year old year Margarita Alexandrova had walked past the old red brick three story building that was the High School, past the running track and football field where the high school football team was scrimmaging, on a strictly unofficial basis.

She stopped for a moment to look at the boys run a play. She had read the rules of the game at her father’s insistence. Yet, she saw little appeal in American football. But maybe that was just because it was so very foreign to her.

A tall boy shouted at her, very unpleasantly, from the field, "Hey, four eyes, what are you looking at?"

An adult man, whom she assumed to be the coach, yelled at him, Get your head in the game, Quinn. You need to get used to pretty girls watching you play.

With a sigh, she turned and walked the rest of the way to the obviously newer grade school building, passing the baseball diamond and an outdoor basketball court, where some children of various ages were playing. Those, too, were games whose rules she had read. On the other side of the school yard there were swings and slides, monkey bars and other climbing toys, tetherballs and other playground equipment, all of which were being used.

Tatiana Antonina, Tanya, one of the girls who lived across the road from Margarita, out on Russian Hill, called out from where she was pushing one of her younger brothers on a swing, Rita!

Margarita walked over to them.

If I’d known you were going to walk into town, we would have waited for you, Tanya said in rapid Russian.

I have to take an examination this morning to place me in school.

Tanya made a pained and disdainful face and said in English, A test in the summer…

The disdain on Tanya’s face was so comical that young Margarita had laughed before answering in Russian, "Da! It is ridiculous. But I do as I am told."

Good luck on your test, Tanya said in English. Who are you supposed to see for that?

Margarita replied also in English, Mrs. Banks. What do you know about her? Should I be concerned?

People like her. She is fair. No trouble with her.

I hope not. I must go, now. She is waiting for me.

How long will you be testing?

I do not know.

Tanya offered, We’re going to walk over to Mama’s restaurant when they’re tired of playing, probably around noon, and get lunch. Then we’ll walk home. If you’re done testing by then, you can join us for lunch and we’ll walk home together.

Thank you. I must meet this teacher and take the examination. We will see how time passes. I must go, now. Mrs. Banks is expecting me.

A few moments later, Margarita knocked on the back door of the yellow brick building that housed the local elementary school.

A lovely young auburn haired woman opened the door and spoke to her. Are you Miss Melnikov?

Yes, madam. I am Margarita Aleksandrova Melnikova. You are Mrs. Banks, I presume.

The young woman smiled. I am. Come on in. How would you like to be called?

The door closed behind her, a hollow sound that echoed in the hallway.

My name is Margarita Aleksandrova. Why would I be called anything else by people who are neither friends nor family?

Mrs. Banks sighed. You will find that American culture is quite informal, at least among peers. Within the Russian community, you will be able to use your name and patronymic. Americans do not generally function this way. Margarita is Margaret in English, and common nicknames for Margaret are Peggy, Marge, or Meg. What would you rather be called?

I shall answer to Rita, if I must accept false friendship with everyone.

The woman smiled at her, but the expression was strained. So, follow me, Rita. We’ll get started on your tests.

Thank you, Madam.

She followed Mrs. Banks down the brightly lit hall.

The test I will give you first will evaluate your skills in English grammar, reading comprehension, arithmetic skills, as well as your knowledge of history and science. You are allotted two hours to complete the test. Don’t worry if you can’t get through it. It’s difficult for most children your age. We’ll grade it according to how much you have completed, at the end of two hours, and the correctness of your answers. Then I’ll have you write a short composition. Once you begin, you may not leave the room until this part of the test is completed. Do you need to use the toilet or get a drink before we begin?

No, Madam, I am in need of neither. I am quite prepared to begin the examination.

Then come with me.

Margarita was shown into the testing room and to a table. Pencils were laid out for her. The test booklet lay there.

Just write your name on the cover page on the line following the word ‘Name’ and then write your answers in the booklet. Follow the instructions given in your booklet. Most of the time you’ll simply circle the letter next to the answer you believe is correct. With this and the essay you’ll write afterwards, I’ll make a determination of your placement in school this fall. Do you understand the directions I have given you?

Yes, Madam.

This is your last chance for bathroom or for a drink of water for the next two hours.

I am in need of neither. Thank you. I am ready to begin.

Very well. Sit and begin. Your time starts now, Mrs. Banks said with a click of a stopwatch.

Margarita wrote her name on the cover of the booklet, then opened the book, and quickly answered the questions, taking no more than thirty seconds on any page, often much less than that. Almost of the questions were multiple choice, even the math questions. This was entirely too easy.

She didn’t look up, but was aware that Mrs. Banks was looking intently at her, and was clearly puzzled. Margarita answered the last question on the last page, then went back to the first page and double checked that she had answered each question. Then she closed the booklet, before putting down her pencil and standing.

Don’t give up. I know it’s hard. You still have time. You’ve only been working for eighteen minutes, Mrs. Banks urged. There is plenty of time to continue working.

Margarita shook her head negatively and sighed. Why should I continue working when I have completed the examination?

You have answered every question on every page? Mrs. Banks asked, clearly not believing her.

I have. This was excessively simplistic. Is this truly the level of education available in American Public Schools? If so, then I am gravely disappointed.

Mrs. Banks looked clearly puzzled. You are certain that you have answered every question in the booklet?

I am finished with this. I need no more time. Please evaluate my responses.

The teacher pressed the stop button on the stopwatch and sighed. Her voice was resigned. Very well, Rita. Have a seat. I’ll grade this since you are certain you need no more time.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Banks looked up from the test booklet. Margarita had watched the teacher the compare the answer key with the booklet, three times. Leaving the booklet and answer key on the desk, the teacher walked over to the table where Margarita sat.

You have a perfect score, Rita, the teacher said in utter disbelief, after taking a seat across from her. I’ve never seen that level of speed and accuracy on this sort of test.

She still remembered the disdain in her own voice. "This evaluation was far too simplistic for me to have scored with less than perfection. I cannot believe you thought I would be challenged by that set of questions."

An average ten-year old would have been profoundly challenged. Particularly a child for whom English is not her native language. That test was sixth grade level. Two grade levels above your chronological age.

I believe my parents told the district of my advanced levels of ability when requesting I be placed in school in the coming term.

Mrs. Banks nodded, Parents often believe their children to be gifted, whether they are or not. However, I’m beginning to understand just how atypical you are. What were the last five books you have read?

"Yesterday afternoon, at your public library, I read The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson," she began. "Along with Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and three American novels; A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, A Farewell to Arms, and An American Tragedy."

Mrs. Banks looked thoughtful, All of those in one afternoon?

Margarita shrugged, I read rapidly. And except for the Dreiser novel which was long enough to be well developed, most of yesterday’s readings were quite short, actually.

What did you think about the Dreiser novel?

I’m still trying to digest it, really, Margarita said on a sigh before continuing. Dreiser used a good deal of imagery and foreshadowing. It seems that almost everything in the book became a symbol of something else, or was used to foreshadow. Girls were electrifying, for example. Basically, I think, the story deals with Clyde’s inadequately formed conscience and moral weakness which led him into sexual sin with Roberta. That then facilitated his conviction of her murder when her death was really an accidental drowning, or, at most, involuntary manslaughter, so his choice to save himself was in vain. I’m not sure what to really think of the work. I need to reflect further on it.

Mrs. Banks smiled, but there was something odd about that smile, as though she couldn’t quite believe this conversation. Dreiser based the novel on an actual murder conviction of a man whose girlfriend drowned in a lake and the execution of that man. Dreiser even gave his protagonist the same initials as the convicted man.

So, that was where some of the richness of the detail came from, Margarita replied, her voice thoughtful. Hmmm, that is interesting. I’m not sure what I think of that.

Do you like novels or poetry better?

That’s like asking if I prefer sculpture or sketches. Both have their places. We’d be a good deal poorer culturally if either were missing.

What did you think of Miss Dickinson?

Of the woman, or of her work? Margarita asked, not quite sure of what the teacher was asking.

Let’s start with the woman, Mrs. Banks said.

It is not my place to judge anyone, living or dead. That is God’s right, not mine. But it seems from her work that Miss Dickinson was an extremely lonely woman with too much time on her hands, too little contact with the world, too little faith in God, too strong of a sense of convention, and far too little imagination to conceive of thwarting conventions even while she clearly seriously chafed under the massive social and economic restrictions Victorian society placed upon so called gently reared women.

Mrs. Banks wore a stunned expression for a brief moment, then smiled slightly. Rita, could you write an essay explaining your view of Miss Dickinson, and bring in examples from her writing to support your views?

Certainly, I am able to do so. I assume you want this essay to be written in English?

Mrs. Banks looked puzzled for a moment. Then she sighed, obviously forced a smile, and asked, What other languages do you write in, Child?

Other than English, I write well in Russian, French, Spanish, and German. I have conversational or reading skills in a few other languages. I am simply not comfortable enough with the grammar and vocabularies of those languages to write anything important in any language, apart from those I have mentioned.

English will do. I will provide paper. And a copy of her poems. You have pencils.

No need for the book. I remember the poems.

Mrs. Banks smiled warily, You have that good of a memory?

I am blessed, or cursed, with an… she searched for the word in English, eidetic memory, or something closely akin thereto. I read quickly and remember almost everything that I’ve ever read.

Mrs. Banks rose from the table, walked back to her desk, and opened the test booklet. What was question twenty-two on the math section of the test?

Margarita sighed, not at all liking her word being questioned, but replied, barely concealing her anger, Three boys decide to pool their money to buy a baseball from the store. John has a quarter. Billy has three nickels. Mike has two dimes and a nickel. A baseball costs sixty cents. Sales tax is five percent. How much change would they receive?

And the answer is?

Two cents, Rita replied.

Mrs. Banks looked at her for a long moment.

Even now with forty-four years having passed, Rita recalled clearly the interior struggle mirrored on the teacher’s face as Mrs. Banks labored to reconcile expectations of an average ten-year old with the reality that was Margarita Aleksandrova Melnikova. After a moment, a long moment, Mrs. Banks said, That is amazing.

No, it is not at all amazing. Not for me, at least. I remember nearly everything I read whether I want to or not… I wish I could forget some of the books I have read.

What, in particular, have you read that you would like to be able to forget? Mrs. Banks asked.

Margarita sighed, heavily as she regretted ever saying anything. "We can start with Mein Kampf."

The surprise in the teacher’s voice was clear and unmistakable, Hitler’s book, the one he wrote while in jail in the 1920s, that laid out his vision for National Socialism and Germany?

I was unaware there was another book by that title, Margarita replied, her voice quiet. Yes, it is Hitler’s manifesto that I would like to purge from my mind.

"Why in the world did you read that?" Mrs. Banks demanded.

My mother believes in using actual documents to teach history. So, while I was studying the Great Patriotic War, what most of the world knows as the Second World War, I read those volumes, and far more.

"Do you remember the name of the translator of Mein Kampf?"

There was no translator, Madam. I read it in German, the 1926 edition. Mama and I found that in a used book store in Bogata.

Bogata, Colombia?

Yes, Madam.

What were you doing in Colombia? the teacher’s voice was incredulous.

Again, Margarita shrugged, Everyone has to be somewhere. Papa and Mama were working in Columbia while we waited for US Immigration permission.

Mrs. Banks brought over a blue paper covered examination book containing blank, college ruled, pages. Write your name on the cover and give your essay a title. Then start your essay about your opinion of Emily Dickinson’s poetry on the first page of the exam booklet. I’d like to see a standard five paragraph essay; opening paragraph, three good paragraphs supporting your arguments, and a strong conclusion. While you are working on that, I’m going to go make a phone call. I want you to talk to Mrs. English, who teaches foreign languages at the High School while I arrange for you to take some more advanced assessments in mathematics, science, history, and English.

I am here to be placed in school. Whatever you wish me to do, I shall attempt to the very best of my ability.

Mrs. Banks smiled. Thank you.

I am simply doing as I am instructed, Margarita replied, clearly puzzled. "This is as much to my advantage