a gauzy veil and wearing her beautiful long white gown. I figured what the hell. Why not do it right? — and Jeremy looked slick in his white tux with tails. James Renthrow made a smashingly handsome best man, and Karen, mother of the bride, was also matron of honor. Together Dave and I walked Kelly down the damn aisle, holding her between us. When the minister asked who giveth this woman, we both answered, 'Her parents do.'
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Ann Landers.
But there was also plenty of dark. In four months, Karen had lost more weight. Lots of it. Her skin was almost as transparent as Grandma Piedmont's. The latest bout of radiation and chemotherapy had pretty much destroyed her own hair, and the wig she wore didn't do her justice. Knowing now that the reason she had needed to go straight back to Cucamonga in June was because she was in the middle of chemotherapy didn't make me feel any better about some of the things I said back then. But I can't ever take them back any more than Guy Lewis could ever take back his last hurtful remarks to Daphne.
As the reception wound down, Karen and I found ourselves alone for a few minutes with the autumn chill cooling the air around us.
'I thought your friend Alex would be here for the wedding,' she said.
'Alex and I run hot and cold,' I told Karen truthfully. 'We're in a cooling-off period right now. She didn't think it would be a good idea to horn in on the wedding. She thought her being here would make things too complicated.'
Karen nodded. We stood together for some time, watching the guests starting to say their good-byes and wander away. It had been a wonderful day, but suddenly, for no particular reason, I felt terribly sad. I wanted to take Karen in my arms and hold her, I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about everything, but I didn't. Couldn't. It wouldn't have been fair to either one of us, and it sure as hell wouldn't have been fair to Dave.
'Why wouldn't you let anyone tell me about it?' I asked finally. 'How come I had to find out from Jeremy?'
Karen shrugged, the knobby bones of her shoulders clearly visible under the sheer material of her dress. 'You'd already been through so much with your mother,' she said quietly. 'I didn't want you to have to go through it again.'
I did hug her then. I held her because of all the good days we once had together and because of the kids and because, no matter what, we were grandparents. Dave came up about then, his face haggard and questioning, hopeful and worried sick, all at the same time. The hug ended, and I handed her over to him. I couldn't say a word to either one of them right that minute. Dave and I are indeed veterans of the same war. In more ways than one.
Alex tells me that within the next few weeks they should come close to having a solid accounting of the monies that will come to the Seattle Rep on an ongoing basis from the Guy and Daphne Lewis Trust Fund. On the other hand, the Oregon Shakespeare Festival was the primary beneficiary of the Marjorie Connors Trust. Her estate was found to include a surprisingly large amount of cash, most of which, I believe, came from her systematic blackmailing of Daphne Lewis.
In effect, both the Festival and the Seattle Rep are reaping handsome long-term financial gain due to the labor and generosity of Guy Lewis, the much-maligned king of the chemical toilets. It is my sincere hope that the next time Monica and Alex go to war, the theater-development game won't prove quite so deadly.
I talked to Kelly a few days ago. Sunshine is fine and adjusting fairly well to living in town. Kelly is excited about the remodeling they're doing on a house we bought down there. She's managed to walk her way through a complex tangle of zoning rules so that by the time the season starts up again next spring, the remodel should be finished and she'll be able to have a day-care center right there in her own home. She wants to be able to take care of kids for the people who work at the Festival, but she'll also be available for occasional playgoing parents who need a reliable place to park the baby or babies while the grown-ups get a dose of the Bard of Avon.
Ralph has been in and out of Ashland twice in the last two weeks, crossing the t's and dotting the i's on the financing package, changing it over from a bridge loan to a regular mortgage. When I helped Kelly and Jeremy buy the house, the price was more than right because the place was almost in ruins. The transformation since then seems truly miraculous.
One thing that's helping keep costs down is that we've had to hire out only the major electrical and plumbing work. Jeremy and Kelly both have put in plenty of sweat equity by serving as general contractors. Their friends from the Festival, especially Jeremy's sidekick, Romeo, are doing all the finish work themselves. The work crew, the people responsible for the physical labor, will move in when the work is done. Kelly is keeping track of all their hours. They'll be credited with a dollar amount off their rent once they all move in. They'll also be using Marjorie Connors' system of sharing chores. It's a good deal for everyone involved, including the major investor.
Ralph tells me that between donating dollars for ex-gang member scholars and running a hostel for impoverished actors, my investments may be becoming a bit too diversified, but he told me I didn't need to start worrying about money quite yet. I had to write a sizable check for the difference between the insurance settlement and the purchase price on my new, special-order Guardred 928. I wrote it, and the check didn't bounce, so I guess financially I'm still okay.
I took Gordon Fraymore's suggestion. The key to the old 928 is framed in a shadow box lined with red velvet. A guy at a place called Ace Frames over in Kirkland fixed it up for me. I keep it on the table beside my leather recliner.
The last time Ralph was in Ashland, I asked him if anyone down there had heard from Tanya Dunseth. He said no. Over Fourth of July weekend, she took Amber, the few clothes she had left, and her diaper bag, and disappeared. Someone said they saw her out on the freeway, hitchhiking with the baby, heading for California. A search of Marjorie Connors' Suburban had provided enough information about the blackmail of Daphne Lewis to prove that Marjorie had acted alone. Consequently, when Tanya disappeared, no one bothered to go after her because by then it was clear that other than using fake I.D. she had broken no law.
Ralph and I have talked about Tanya several times since, wondering if we should make some attempt to find her. Martin Shore's first wife, Tanya's mother, died years ago. As her father's only child and heir, Tanya is due a small inheritance from his estate. The problem is, Tanya obviously has no interest in Martin Shore's money. She probably regards it as dirty, and I can't say that I blame her.
So Ralph and I continually debate the issue. Usually, we're in agreement that tracking Tanya down would be a bad idea-the wrong thing to do. Occasionally, one or the other of us wavers; then it's up to the other one to hold the line and talk him out of it. So far we've always decided against it.
I wonder sometimes where Tanya is and whether or not she's all right. Knowing what we know now, I believe it's fair to assume that Tanya Dunseth is certifiably crazy. She has spun some very complex webs as a device to shut out the terrible truth of her pathetic upbringing. Roger Tompkins called them 'wheels within wheels.' They're so confusing, I'm sure Tanya no longer has any idea what's truth and what's fiction. So yes, she probably is crazy, but she's certainly not a danger either to herself or to anyone else, including her daughter.
I imagine she's settled in someplace far away where she has reinvented herself and where she has written a brand-new set of roles for Tanya and Amber, although those most likely are not the names they go by anymore. And the part she's playing-the one for which she's best suited-is, no doubt, the one she created for herself without any role model in her own life-that of a good mother and parent.
So what if she's crazy, maybe even a little more so than most? God knows she has far more cause to be crazy. She's had far more to overcome.
And every time I think about poor Tanya Dunseth, I try to send a good show-business thought in her direction, wherever she may be.
'Go with God, Tanya Dunseth,' I say to myself. 'Break a leg.'
