Good Riddance(72)

Still protesting, I said, “Who in the world would put money into a show about a nobody starring the nobody?”

“We’d start small, at festivals.”

“Would it be my life to date or just since I’ve known you?”

“It would begin with Geneva’s taking possession of the yearbook. I’ve been in on that pretty much from the beginning.”

“But she wouldn’t be in it, right?”

“Correct. Just you. Hence the ‘one-woman.’”

I pondered this some more. Airing grievances in public could be therapeutic if I didn’t have stage fright. “Could it include some things about my horrible ex and his horrible mother?”

“Maybe. I couldn’t stop you from improvising.”

“Would I have to use my real name?”

“Hard to avoid in a one-woman show.”

I continued to play the skeptic through Worcester and up I-495. Approaching Lowell, I asked why he wouldn’t use one of his fellow actresses from his show. Or an old girlfriend from Tisch.

“Just a hunch about what would work. And we’d start small. We’d do a staged reading.”

“In front of an audience?”

“Depending on who was interested, but that’s when the potential agents and backers scope it out.”

“You’d better not give up your day job. This sounds like it has the same chances as Geneva’s documentary, i.e., stillborn.”

“Have a little faith. At least wait to read it.”

“How long till you finish?”

“Weeks? Months? Depends on my schedule. But I don’t want you to see it until it’s as polished as I can make it.”

Though pretending I was adjusting the rearview mirror for better visibility, I was stealing a glance at my face. Would these laugh lines be visible from the orchestra seats? Was this head-shot material? I’d never thought of myself as a one-woman anything, but I guess Jeremy the professional knew best.



Our room was small. The registration desk told me it was a “traditional queen,” which sounded grand enough to accommodate nonpartners. It wasn’t. There was a double bed, just one, and a squeeze of a bathroom with a loopy scatter rug that kept the door from closing.

Jeremy said, checking out the nonview from the one window and squeezing past me to appraise the tubless shower, “Fine with me.”

I didn’t admit that it was fine with me, too. But because I’d be sharing this space with someone I was no longer having sex with, I felt it was my duty to ask, “Should we try to get a cot or a separate room?”

“We’re adults,” he said.

“I consider that answer nonresponsive.”

“I was going for that. Can we just play it by ear?”

“Did you bring pajamas?”

“Darn it. I forgot.”

I made myself busy unpacking my toothbrush and toothpaste. We hung up our wedding finery; in gentlemanly fashion, he insisted I get the one padded hanger.



There was a light rain falling, so we did an abbreviated circuit around campus, peeked into the library and church, saw catalogue-worthy students of all descriptions. We had coffee in town, both agreeing to change the subject away from the work in progress to the topic of the upcoming wedding and its potentially awkward moments.

I said, “I’m going to try to be as pleasant as possible to the bride. Clean slate. If she apologizes for making a horrible first impression—”

“She won’t.”

“But if she does, I’m going to be so gracious that you won’t believe it’s me.”

“See. There’s your method acting.”

I noticed that two girls, teenagers easily identified as Exonians by their maroon and white scarves, were gaping at Jeremy. “Even here in the boonies,” I said.

Jeremy gave a nod that said, Yes, I’m him; I’m who you think I am.

One of the two called over, “I love the show. And I voted for it in the Teen Choice Awards.”

“Thank you so much.”

“There’s going to be a third season, right?” asked the other one, who suddenly had no need for her glasses.

“Can we get your autograph?” the first one asked.

Jeremy said, “Sure.” When they were standing next to us, he said, “Let me introduce Daphne Maritch. We’re collaborators.”

Their interest in me, if any, was as my role of photographer with each of their smartphones.

“Wanna go?” Jeremy asked after the fans had returned to their table, autographs signed.

“I’m used to it. It’s fine.” I did wonder how I looked to these girls, hoping the rain hadn’t had a deleterious effect on my hair or the cappuccino on my lip gloss.



Like two professional actors sharing a trailer, we were unselfconscious about getting undressed and dressed. My interpretation of “cocktail attire” had led me to the pale gray chiffon thing, tastefully ruffled, expensive simplicity personified, that I’d worn only once—to my own rehearsal dinner. I’d shopped with my sister, who’d flown in from LA for the wedding and insisted we go to Bergdorf?’s, her treat.

I needed help with the tiny cloth-covered buttons up the back. Jeremy said, “Good thing I’m here. What would you have done otherwise?”