Good Riddance(83)

Holly said, “Dad—nice job. It’s a beauty.”

“I think so, too.”

“The ring!”

Thankfully, she didn’t ask where he’d bought it, its weight in carats, or the retailer’s country of origin.

“We picked it out together,” said Kathi.

“Good move,” said Jeremy. “I’m making a note of that.”

I rose, tapped my water glass with my knife, inadvertently catching the attention of strangers at surrounding tables. “Sorry, please carry on,” I told my expanded audience. “But you’re welcome to listen because we just got some thrilling news.”

Glass raised, I said, “Our father and this lovely woman are newly engaged!”

Applause at our table and beyond.

“My sister and I”—Holly identified herself with a wiggle of fingers—“were gathering for another reason, to celebrate what might be a one-woman show—”

Jeremy twirled his finger: Wind it up.

I said, “Okay, just this: Despite the waterworks, I’ve never seen my father happier. And for that, we thank this woman, Kathleen Krauss, who, I should add, specializes in piano lessons for adults—”

“Who gave up the piano as a child but regret that decision,” said my dad.

I heard Jeremy say to Kathi, “Maritch and Maritch Public Relations.”

“Did acting lessons do this to her?” asked Holly.

I said, “I yield my remaining time to the gentleman from New Hampshire.”

My dad didn’t stand up. He took a sip of water. “Daphne . . . Holly. I know this is sudden, but I hope my girls will understand and forgive me when I say I’ve been waiting for something like this my whole life.” He smiled a wobbly smile at Kathi. “We didn’t want to use this dinner as an engagement party. But here we all are—well, not Doug and the boys—but something tells me they’re going to get a text before dessert comes.”

“When’s the wedding?” Holly asked.

“We haven’t gotten that far,” said Kathi.

Holly asked her if she’d ever been married before.

“Holly!” said my dad.

“It’s fine,” said Kathi. “I’d want to know that, too. Nope. He’s the first.”

Jeremy said, “And I want to toast producer Holly Maritch-McMaster, without whom we’d be applying for grants we’d never get.”

Holly said, “I’m getting you two out to LA when this run ends.”

Well, that was nice, but what run—tomorrow’s reading in a windowless fifth-floor room reached by a creaky elevator?

Jeremy added, “Wait’ll you see Daphne in action. She’s gonna kill. Give her a villain, and she lights up the stage.”





Epilogue


I know now: It’s harder than it looks. We didn’t make it to Broadway, or off-Broadway, or extremely-far-off-Broadway, unless you count one night at the Long Beach Playhouse’s New Works Festival, thanks to Holly making herself useful back home.

Kathi and my father traveled to California for the opening. I was lucky that, either with footlights or spotlights—who knows?—blinding me, and the audience in the dark, I couldn’t see my dad’s reaction. Backstage after the show, he told me it had been a very interesting experience and that I’d done a nifty job learning all those lines.

“And the audience loved it,” said Kathi. “People all around us were laughing, and when it was over, I heard nothing but praise.” Unsaid: the fifty friends of Holly and Doug’s who had a free night and a babysitter.

“You okay with it?” I asked my dad.

“Pretty good,” he said. “Maybe next time you won’t ask me to stand up and take a bow.”

“I did that on impulse,” I said. “It’s not in the script.”

“She’s become quite the ad-libber,” said Jeremy.

We never told Geneva about the out-of-town debut. Except for polite exchanges in the hallway and mailroom about nothing, Jeremy and I didn’t engage her, figuring she’d let us know if she ever raised a dollar. I Google her every few weeks to see if she’s producing, directing, or humiliating anyone new, but all there is in her IMDb profile is The Last Matzo Man and her wedding-video website.

My dad and Kathi were married at New York City Hall on the first of September and honeymooned in Paris, a first visit for both. Holly had flown in for the ceremony, insisting that even the simplest civil wedding needed flowers, a trip to Bergdorf?’s, and two maids of honor. What a brick my annoying little sister has turned out to be.

To the bottomless delight of Sammi the dog, her beloved handler and new dad moved into Kathi’s loft upon their return.

I hear from Peter Armstrong regularly only because I’m on his constituent mailing list. There’s no need to respond to or even read these emails with subject lines such as “Stand with Me Against Hate” and “I Need Your Help in My Final Push.” I’d never told him about Dirty Laundry or asked for a contribution. If it ever gets to White Mountains Regional High School, I’ll send him a ticket.

My father above anyone else holds the highest, unrealistic hopes for the eventual success of Dirty Laundry. Or maybe it’s his faith in me and wishful thinking about his acting lessons bearing fruit. He’s careful not to ask if there are any bites, any more festivals soliciting new work, churches or synagogues in search of an excellent night’s entertainment. I usually explain that success comes in many forms; that this one-woman flop, ironically, had brought me back to life.