The Sterlings were long, but probably not as long as the Tonys or the Oscars. It helped that I had seen quite a few of the shows over the course of the year, so it was more interesting to hear the results of the nominations and see the actors speaking their own words instead of those of the playwright.
Both Marty Chan, whose wife was up for an award in stage management, and Trevor Schmidt, who had two directorial nominations and a design nod, were live-tweeting the show. Morgana Creely, the photographer hired for the Freewill Shakespeare Festival’s archival scrapbook, had been covering the room, taking group photos and candids, but was now set up near the lip of the stage to cover the award action.
The new play Sterling went to Stewart Lemoine, who must have a shelf full of them, and Taryn Creighton took the directorial Sterling for her eye-popping and populist Major Barbara, staged in an empty warehouse next to an actual soup kitchen, which I recalled loving. I was more than ready to leave, with no desire to attend the after-show dance. I suppose it was lucky for me that Denise and Kieran were on the outs, as she seemed ready to pack it in, too. Of course, if they had been a duo, she likely wouldn’t have needed a date to the event in the first place, so it was all academic.
After all the noise and bustle of the evening, Denise didn’t bother to turn on the stereo in her car, which was unusual. She normally was trying to school me on some new band or an old favourite. Silence was fine by me, and we drove down the Whitemud Freeway in relative quiet. It wasn’t till she was turning onto my street, near the medical sciences buildings, that Denise spoke.
“On the whole, that was less awkward than I had imagined it could be, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant.”
“I was rooting for Kendra Connor.”
“I didn’t mean the awards.”
“I know. I was just trying to be funny. Sorry. I think you handled yourself magnificently, if you want to know.”
Denise pulled into one of the stalls behind the Garneau Cinema, from where it was close enough for me to walk, allowing us to sit in the car and continue our chat.
“I think I can manage it, you know. When I wake up in the morning, as I put on my makeup and button my blouse, I think, I can handle whatever the day is going to throw at me. But every day, more people have heard rumours, or maybe I just run into different folks, and I have to see that look in their eyes, and it’s all I can do to stand upright.”
“I know exactly what you mean, except that, of course, you know more people than I do.”
Denise laughed. I took this as a good sign.
“But it’s going to be okay,” I continued. “Steve will be back soon, and Iain will stumble across something that doesn’t make sense to him. Meanwhile, you make sure you have documented lists of wherever you are, and proof that you are there. It would help if you could travel with a nun and a copy of the day’s newspaper at all times, just in case. Alibis R Us, you know!”
Denise laughed again and I knew I could safely leave her to survive the night. It was just all the tomorrows and tomorrows I was worried about. If Detective Gladue was so intent on pinning Eleanor’s murder on Denise, the Edmonton theatre community wasn’t going to object. Something had to give. Someone had to stand up for Denise, before she broke under the weight of standing alone.
And I supposed that someone was going to have to be me.
Steve wasn’t going to like this one bit.