Good Riddance(81)

I stood in front of the picture window and began with “You know how shocked I was when you gave me acting lessons? Remember? I thought you were just feeling sorry for me—no job, no social life”—I smiled at Jeremy—“at that particular time? Getting back to school would give me a purpose in life or at least a reason to leave the apartment.”

“Guilty,” said my father. “But are you going to tell us that it paid off in some way?”

“Shush,” said Kathi. “I think she’s leading up to something.”

As choreographed, Jeremy joined me from the doorway between living room and hallway. “When I suggested acting lessons for Daff? That wasn’t random. I had an ulterior motive.”

The matching looks on both my father’s and Kathi’s faces was guessing-game earnest—eager to hear what might be next. “Did you get an acting job?” my father asked.

I checked with Jeremy. He said, “If all goes well, yes. We have something in the works. There’s a long road ahead. We’re going to start small—a reading and then, if we’re lucky, a festival and even a backer.”

I could see my father was trying not to look deflated. “Were you hoping I was getting a job on Jeremy’s show?” I asked him.

“Not really,” he fibbed.

Kathi said, “So it’s a play?”

I said, “Sort of. It’s a one-woman show partly about my experience with Geneva, the wannabe documentarian.”

“And producer of unnecessary podcasts,” Kathi finished.

“Unnecessary and a lawsuit waiting to happen,” I said. “Which is why we were able to gag her.”

Jeremy said, “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way—”

“I meant, I was petrified of Geneva. She’s just down the hall, and the day she fainted and I called 911, I was able to repossess it and eventually . . . I destroyed the evidence.”

“Evidence? What evidence?” my father asked.

“The yearbook. I destroyed it.”

“This is what your play’s about?” my father asked.

“Well, the plot isn’t ‘I shredded a yearbook.’ It’s more like . . .”

“Daphne’s journey,” said Jeremy.

“Not literally,” I said. “Not from Olde Coach Road to West Fifty-fourth Street, but starting with my bogus marriage, the divorce, the ups and downs with jobs, then to Geneva finding the yearbook and those complications.”

“It sounds to me as if the play is about bullying,” Kathi said.

“Very timely,” said my father. “In fact, it sounds like something that you could perform at high schools.”

I said, “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. We just need to find a venue or an open mic.”

Kathi asked if Jeremy’s connections—his being a real actor—would be of any help.

“Hope so,” he said. “I’m networking.”

“When do we get to see it?” asked my father.

Jeremy said, “That’s exactly why we’re here tonight.”

Preplanned was this semidelicate question: “Dad? Kathi knows about your marriage to Mom? How she might’ve been—?”

“Less than faithful?” Kathi filled in, with an edge in her voice—anger toward the woman who’d hurt her impeccably loyal boyfriend.

“I guess we know the answer to that,” said Jeremy.

“Does your play get into my journey, too?” my dad asked.

“Had to,” I said. “It’s all interwoven with the yearbook and Mom’s obsession with it.”

Jeremy said, “Mr. Maritch—please keep in mind that we put a spin on the events to make them pop from the stage. I was going for . . . well . . . entertainment.”

I said, “Believe me—I started out a nonbeliever. I mean me? A one-woman show? Airing the family’s dirty laundry? How could he? How could I? But that was only till I read it.”

“Anyone need a refill before Daphne begins?” Jeremy asked.

A yes, a no, a thanks, top it off . . . finally, we were ready. I hadn’t memorized much, so I read with an open laptop in the crook of my elbow. Every few lines, I’d look up to check my dad’s face. Was that worry? Disapproval? Queasiness?

He raised his hand when I got to Eugene Palumbo, second-string garbage man. “May I make a suggestion?” he asked.

I said, “Of course.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking: that it’s more believable if this Palumbo guy hung around the dump rather than drove around checking out what people left on the curb. The Pickering landfill has almost a party atmosphere on weekends.”

That’s how I knew he was on board. Jeremy got it, too. And Kathi was smiling. Yes, there was a grimace, but a resigned one, when I introduced Brendan Carswell, now demoted to mere crush.

After about a half hour, I said, “I could go on, but it’s about getting fired from Montessori and my chocolate career, and then the New Leash job. Do you want me to keep reading, or should we run out for dinner?”

My dad said, “If the rest is this enjoyable, I vote to save it for Broadway.” He turned to Kathi. “Do you agree—save some for opening night so it’ll be fresh and new to us?”