2 February
Dearest Log,
A fortnight and a half have elapsed since my Hedy, with a murder charge looming over her head like a comically oversized anvil fast descending upon some hapless figure in an animated short, fled for parts unknown. She left without bidding me adieu and I have yet to hear the proverbial peep from her, presumably so that she may preserve my safety.
But the show, as they say, must, demonstrably, go on. This afternoon I braved blizzardous conditions to arrive at the studios of ABC-7 in order to tape “He Said, She Said,” the biweekly segment Hedy and I customarily contribute to 190 North, that televisual cornucopia of culture and lifestyle hosted by the always luminous Janet Davies. Hedy being tragically indisposed, the “She” spot was filled by some reviewer whose visage I had never encountered before and whose work evidently appears in the pages of the Chicago Reader, that repository of “indie” music analysis and TIF-bashing. Gazing upon this shoddy replacement--who, by the by, happens to be male, thus rendering the segment’s moniker misnomerous--I couldn’t help feeling like the moody Dane of Shakespeare’s justly vaunted but linguistically inaccessible drama, when the logorrheic prince feels compelled to measure the late king, his father, against an unworthy successor, the regicidal Claudius. Or, to put it in special lyrics adapted to an old gospel tune beloved of African-American churchgoers, “If we ever needed La Weiss before, we sure do need her now!”
Before and after the taping, this chap had all manner of prying queries to make about my wife and her case: did I think she had left the country? had they recovered the serving tray used to bonk Mary on the head and the piece of tutu elastic used to strangle her? had Hedy ever mentioned him and, if so, in what context? This line of questioning seemed to me in exceedingly poor taste, and I expected Janet to intervene in some way, but she seemed to have as strangely keen an interest in the exchange as my nosy interlocutor. I suppose unseemly curiosity is to be expected in circumstances such as these, and that my duty is to maintain a strong front, playing the steadfast Tammy Wynette to Hedy’s George Jones.
I must, however, confess a shameful secret. In the innermost recesses of my heart, I feel much like the lead nun, first played by the prodigiously gifted Cherry Jones, in John Patrick Shanley’s gordian knot of a drama, Doubt, when she admits to her younger habit-clad colleague that she harbors the titular emotion in regard to the guilt of her priestly nemesis. Unfortunately, I have the feeling in reverse--for it is not that I fear that my wife might be innocent, but that--it must be said--she might actually be guilty. In short, I have doubts, dear Log. I have such doubts.
ELSEWHERE:
My review of City Lit Theatre's Volpone (minus one parenthetical correction) is in this week's Time Out Chicago.
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