J. Jance: Failure to appear

Married people do it all the time. They go to plays or parties or some other event so angry they barely speak to one another. I know I did it with Karen, but this was my first experience of that kind with a date. Even though she wasn't necessarily mad at me, Alexis Downey was so upset that she wasn't talking to anybody, me included.

As we waited for the play to start, I disregarded my own wise counsel and made a few feeble attempts at conversation. Alex rebuffed each one so totally that I gave up and kept quiet. When the play started, I watched. Alex continued to stew. I'm surprised the people seated behind us could see the stage with all the smoke that must have been roiling out her ears.

I guess I expected the words in a 1960s version of Romeo to be changed and updated, but as far as I could tell, the dialogue remained much as Shakespeare wrote it. The difference lay in the costuming and in what Dinky Holloway had referred to as "stage business"-the people and actions that come and go onstage around the principal actors, like background music in a movie.

Maybe everyone else found it perfectly delightful. Not me. I'm old-fashioned. If I'm going to endure Shakespeare, I want all the robes, capes, and costumes that make it look like Shakespeare. The priest who paraded around looking like a sanctimonious, Bible-toting Baptist minister didn't set well with me. The Capulet party that Romeo and his motorcycle-riding buddies crashed turned out to be an old-fashioned ice-cream social. Those thuggish young men with packs of Camels rolled in their T-shirt sleeves and their slicked-back ducktails might have stepped right out of my Ballard High School yearbook.

Despite Guy Lewis' rave review, I didn't find Juliet all that terrific, but then I'm not partial to redheads. Right about then it stood to reason that a daughter who was headstrong and stubborn and who didn't listen to her daddy wouldn't rate high on my list of current favorites.

Of all the characters in the play, I sympathized most with old man Capulet, who, despite his white suit, straw hat, and good-old-boy mannerisms, was still, by God, a father trying to convince his strong-willed daughter to listen to reason. The Bard didn't name his creation The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet because she shapes up and pays attention.

I don't believe it was an innocent fluke of casting that caused Dinky Holloway's Juliet, played by Tanya Dunseth, to be a red-haired beauty with translucently pale skin, while Romeo, played by a handsome young actor named James Renthrow, was exceedingly dark. I'd call James Renthrow an African-American, except the playbill says he's from Jamaica. In deference to fully accurate cultural diversity, I don't believe the term, "African-American" correctly applies to Jamaicans.

I will say that Dinky Holloway was doing her bit for the arts community in showcasing William Shakespeare's immortal story in a "context designed to challenge the sensibilities of the audience." That's also a quote from the playbill. It seemed to me that Romeo and Juliet had enough problems to begin with without adding race relations into the already explosive mix, but then maybe that's just the father in me talking.

During intermission, in an effort to pick up my end of the evening's flagging conversation, I unwisely asked Alex how Dinky would, in these politically correct times, stage something like Othello, for instance? The question provoked an immediate firefight between Alex and me, much to the amusement of people seated around us. Our neighbors may have enjoyed the fireworks, but I was more than happy when action resumed onstage. I spent the next act worried that we'd still be at each other's throats once the play was over.

I shouldn't have. Alex isn't one to pack grudges. Our intermission flare-up served to relieve the tension. By the final curtain, all was forgiven.

We left the theater in a throng of people. Juliet finished earlier than Henry. Outside, the noisy clang of staged swordplay told us the Elizabethan's production was still in full swing.

"What now?" I asked, shivering in the surprising cold. "Head home, or crash the party?"

"Are you kidding?" Alexis demanded. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. I want to know exactly what that woman is up to. The party won't start until after Henry. If you want to, we can go over to the Members' Lounge and warm up. Dinky gave us a pass."

Dinky again, but given the chill outdoor temperature, the option of waiting inside made sense. We dodged across the street through a flock of waiting tour buses and hotel shuttles. Alex led the way to the side, basement entrance of what looked like an old house. Inside, a vestibule opened into a furnished sitting room where a somewhat weary hostess presided over a small bar. She offered us our choice of beer, wine, coffee, or soft drinks. I took a soda. Alex chose wine.

"What time does Henry get out?" Alex asked.

She, too, had slipped into Ashland's contagious one-word-title syndrome. From reading the playbill, I knew the full title was actually King Henry VI, Part Two, but then, who's counting?

Glancing at her watch, the hostess shrugged. "Ten minutes or so," she said.

Alex and I retreated to a bench seat that occupied one whole wall beneath a row of old-fashioned double-hung windows. Setting aside her wine, she fixed her lipstick and dabbed powder on her nose. She reminded me of a soldier gearing up for battle.

"How did it go with Kelly?" Alex asked, snapping shut the lid of her compact.

That was one topic I didn't want to touch. "Can't we discuss something else?"

Alex retrieved her wine and eyed me shrewdly over the rim of it. "That well, huh?"

"Worse. I'd much rather make predictions about the party."

"In other words, focus on my problems instead of yours?"

"Right."

Alex gave me a quick smile that was more a reprieve than a pardon. She'd humor me and let me off the hook temporarily, but eventually I would owe her a full blow-by-blow account. I went for the deferment, thinking that later I'd be better able to talk about Kelly Beaumont and Jeremy Todd Cartwright III.

Leaning back against the window casing, Alex sipped her wine, studying faces as people began to filter into the Members' Lounge. "What do you want to know?" she asked.

"Who all is coming to the party besides Guy Lewis? Who's this mysterious ‘she'? Whenever you mention her, sparks fly."

"Monica Davenport," Alex answered, lowering her voice. "She was my immediate predecessor as director of development at the Rep. Monica's down here now, working for the Festival in the same capacity. She and the T.W. were good pals back home in Seattle. In fact, I think Guy Lewis met Daphne at one of Monica's fundraisers."

"T. W?" I asked, not quite comprehending and thinking I must have missed something. "What's a T. W?"

Exasperated by my stupidity, Alex rolled her eyes. "Surely, you know about trophy wives," she answered. "I thought every middle-aged man in America wanted one."

"I don't speak initials," I returned. "Too subtle. Men are usually a little more explicit. Further more, I have it on good authority that T.W. s, as you call them, can be quite troublesome."

"Really." Alex grinned. "Well, Daphne Lewis fits the T.W. profile-twenty years younger than Guy if she's a day. According to my sources, she's a fast worker. The previous Mrs. Lewis moved out of the house one day, and Daphne moved in the next."

It felt weird. Hours earlier I had heard Guy Lewis' slightly different version of this same story. Unlike Alex, I knew life with the second Mrs. Lewis wasn't all sweetness and light.

"I never met Maggie Lewis," Alex continued. "I've heard she was tough as nails and put together like a Mack truck. You may have noticed, Daphne is definitely made of finer stuff."