Pushing Upward (24 page)

While Emma sat contemplating her breakfast on a tray on her lap, I ran back to Josef's room and pulled out my Three Dog Night album. I rushed back, placed the record on her old record player, and out boomed “Joy to the World.” I pushed the coffee table and chairs and ottoman to the side, and before Emma had a chance to finish her first bite, I asked: “May I have this dance?”

She smiled, slid the tray onto her side table, and lifted herself slowly from the high-back. I extended a gentlemanly arm, and we danced around the room. God, we must have looked ridiculous, this beanpole towering over this tiny woman. Neither one of us was quite sure who was leading, and neither one of us really caring.

When the song was over, I bowed from the waist, thanked her, and helped her back to her chair. Both of us out of breath, we sat in our respective seats trying to regain our composure.

“It's about time you received a decent part. Now you can show people what you can do. You have no more excuses.”

I sat there smiling, speechless.

Emma reached for her breakfast tray, unfurled her napkin, and removed her glasses. “You've waited a long time for this, Sandra. Emotional perspective is very important now. You must do your best to stay centered.”

“I know, I know,” I said, as I got down on the floor to ground my excitement and begin my morning warm-ups. I had no idea what I was going to do for the rest of the day. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough for me. My head was swimming with all kinds of thoughts, mostly about the fact that I'd actually gotten both parts … and the director.

Chapter 21

Water flows to unite with water….
Thus every member finds that his true interest
lies in holding together …

To be in a play whose characters finally had some substance, to take part in a well-written script, professionally directed … and work with seasoned actors who were as committed to the acting process as I was … well, all I could think of was,
If this is my truck, I'm taking the brakes off—'cause I'm ready for the ride.

The first day of rehearsal was always my favorite. It was when all the cast members sat around and read the script out loud. In a relaxed ambience, we listened to each other's voices, sensed each other's style and tempo, and got a glimpse of who the characters were, even though they'd not yet taken form. Anticipation filled the cavernous space as we gathered round, excited for the process to begin. The eager cast pulled the old, beat-up metal chairs around the table and sat down. One by one, we introduced ourselves: Marlene Kennedy; Bob Driscoll; Frank Geraldi; Sandra Billings; Bill Fleishman. Each of us gave a short synopsis of our professional past. Including the director.

“Hi, my name is Allen Cahill. I'll be your director.” There was applause from the cast, who obviously knew him from his TV work directing cop shows and sitcoms. He had recently played a role in a Robert Altman film, not yet titled. He went on to discuss the play—and how Clifford Thorne, the author, was able to capture the essence of czarist Russia and turn the play into a contemporary “dramedy” (drama-comedy). As he spoke, his eyes roamed from one person to the next. Until those flashing dark eyes journeyed over to me. And then, well, I tried to listen, I tried to be alert, but I couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. I sat there watching his lips and the way his mustache moved when he spoke. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic beating of my heart.

So what if he was twenty years my senior! Who was going to judge me? This was Hollywood. My body trembled with fear and delight.

We read the play from beginning to end. Then our director called a lunch break.

Everyone took off to nearby restaurants. Bill Fleishman invited me to go, and I would have, had I been able to sense my legs or stand steadily on my feet. I was emotionally spent, and felt way too exposed. I thanked him for the invitation and told him I'd brought my lunch—which I had. I waited until everyone left, and climbed off the stage. I looked around the auditorium for the perfect seat and found it, in the back row. I was happy for the silence and opened my bag lunch.

I couldn't eat. I stared at the red velvet seats, thinking of all the bodies that had sat there over the years. I glanced up and saw the sparkling chandeliers, with a few missing crystals. The floor was black, but you could see the scuff marks from the soles of recent patrons. I closed my eyes to take it all in and heard two feet walking leisurely up the aisle. I opened my eyes slightly and saw a pair of men's shoes come into the light, then trouser cuffs and wrinkled khaki pant legs, held up by a red leather belt. And as the steps came closer, my heart started leaping like a cricket hopping from one piece of grass to another.

Mr. Cahill came closer. He was holding a bag lunch, too.

“May I sit down, or would you prefer to be alone?”

“Please, have a seat,” I replied.

He smelled of baby powder when he sat beside me. I wondered if this was his signature scent.

“What did
you
bring for lunch?” he asked.

“Tuna fish. It's awful. I was out of celery and onions. It's no good without the crunch, you know?”

“I know. The crunch.”

We both looked at each other, but I quickly looked away.

“You're quite a committed actress.”

“Because I like crunchy salad?”

“No.” He laughed. “Because your audition was terrific. Jerry told me you were talented, but, I must say, you impressed a lot of people that day … I don't want to give you a swollen head or anything.”

“It's okay, my head's been deflated for years.” I took a bite out of my sandwich, wanting to look at him, but afraid he'd see … too much desire. “It's amazing Jerry recommended me. I mean, he'd never even seen me perform.”

“He has good instincts. It's what makes him a good writer. I've read his work, which is why I trusted the guy … hey, I detect a Midwestern accent.”

“Michigan. And you?”

“San Diego. But I've been in L.A. for twenty-three years.”

I looked him in the eye this time. “Have you been a director long?”

He held my gaze for a second and then dug for more chips. “Not long enough in the theater. Too long directing TV. If I had my choice, I'd be directing theater most of the time, and a film once a year.”

“If I had
my
choice, I'd just be
working.
”

I wanted our conversation to continue through rehearsal, and for the rest of the night. I wanted to be lifted into his arms and carried home to his bedroom—to be seduced, ravished, my clothes torn off. I wanted to feel his body pressed to mine, feel the sweat from our heat. And at the end of our lovemaking, I imagined myself lying beside him, breathing in his baby-powder scent, while my head lay pillowed on his chest.
How many women has Mr. Cahill had? Is he close to anyone now? Is he just another hairy Greek god, or is there potential for something long-term?
Oh, the thoughts that consumed me, until we returned to the stage!

There was no light in the kitchen when I walked in through the door, only a small reflection from the living room, and the aroma of chicken soup steaming in a pot. The dining-room table was set for one. I peeked around the corner from the kitchen into the living room and saw Emma sitting in her chair, reading the
New York Times,
looking like she was ready for sleep.

She must have heard me come in. She put down the paper, took off her glasses, and turned in my direction. “A box came today, with a card in your name. Do you know who might have sent it?”

I was afraid to guess. “I have no idea.”

Emma spoke coolly, removed. “Why not open the refrigerator and take out the box.”

I opened the fridge and removed the long box, setting it down on the counter by the sink. Layers of green tissue unfurled before twelve white roses came into view, their petals tightly closed.

“Holy smokes! They're beautiful!” I picked up the card: “‘Dear Sandra, congratulations! I'm glad I gambled.' They're from Jerry Aldridge. What a guy. Oh, damn—ah, sorry, Emma. I forgot to call him. I'll call him from the theater.”

I brought out the vase from under the sink and filled it with cool water, sliding the stems of the sleeping roses down to the bottom of the glass. I placed the bouquet on the dining-room table and looked over at Emma. “What a sweet thing to do.”

She didn't let on if she was pleased or not. “Is Jerry the man from Bert's party?”

“Yes,” I said, still lost in amazement.

I inhaled the scent of the petals and sat down at the table. I couldn't believe my life. How quickly it had gone from no men to two men, from no play to two roles, from being bored out of my mind to getting up every day and going to a theater.

Emma leaned forward, turned to me. “Tell me, dear. How was your first day?”

“Well.” I got up and ladled soup into a bowl, grateful for it steaming on the stove. “Emma, it is
sooo
satisfying to be in a production where I'm finally working with professionals. No prima donnas. You know, actors who need to be told how great they are every second or else they can't perform. Not here. These actors don't just
say
their lines. There's meaning behind them, feeling behind them. And they listen to each other, to the director, to themselves. It used to drive me crazy when actors weren't there—I mean really
there,
you know. You'd be saying your lines, wanting them to react to you, and you knew that all they wanted you to do was finish your lines, so they could say theirs. Boy, that really irked me …”

I sat down near her and told her about the play and the cast, the old theater and the reading. I kept talking to make up for my absence today, and for all the weeks ahead. I talked to make up for the mother she didn't have, the father who was strict and unforgiving. I kept talking about everything that had happened, from the minute I walked into the theater, until the end of the day. I told her everything, except about Allen. I didn't want a lecture. I was too tired. I got up from my seat. “I have to get some sleep. Sweet dreams, Emma.”

Despite my fatigue, I washed my soup bowl in the kitchen, walked into my room, and pulled out the
I Ching.
I needed to know what was going on with Allen, and perhaps with Jerry. I needed to know how I felt, what to do. Not able to decide what, or who, to throw it on, I flipped one of the dimes to be safe.
Heads I cast the coins on Allen, tails on Jerry
.

Heads it was.
Thank God.
I held the dimes in the palm of my hand and thought about the question: Allen
was
the question. I closed my eyes and focused on all the things that attracted me to him. And then I threw the coins.

The hexagram said:

4. Mêng / Youthful Folly

Above: Kên, Keeping Still, Mountain
Below: K'an, The Abysmal, Water

Keeping still is the attribute of the upper trigram; that of the lower is the abyss, danger. Stopping in perplexity on the brink of a dangerous abyss is a symbol of the folly of youth … When the spring gushes forth, it does not know at first where it will go. But its steady flow fills up the deep place blocking its progress, and success is attained.