Pushing Upward (31 page)

“This circle is you,” he said, “and this circle is me. And all these other circles”—he covered the page with a lacework of loopy circles—“are all the other people we
have
ever and
will
ever come in contact with. Now, some of these spheres spinning around will get close to our spheres and hang out for quite a while. Other spheres will come close only for a short time and spin away. Haven't you experienced that already in your life?”

“Yes, but, because you're older—”

“The interesting thing is,” he cut me off, “that we never know how long or short our spheres will come together for—”

“Some psychics know,” I cut
him
off.

“The thing is, I don't know any more about what's going on with our two spheres than you do.” He had the most compassionate eyes, the sweetest fatherly voice. “I don't know what's going to happen the next minute any more than you do.”

“Opening night is too far away,” I said.

“I thought
I
said that.”

We kissed for a long time.

And while we kissed, my mind kept watch, as if I was observing from a distance, circling, hovering. I couldn't settle. I still had my doubts, regardless of his cosmic overview. I wanted to know: Was I just a convenient fling, some young gullible actress gaga over the director? Were there other women in his life? Was he involved with anyone else? I didn't want to wait to see how long our spheres would be close; I wanted to know, now. I didn't want to seem unsophisticated and ruin the mood because of my impatience. So I refrained from speaking, and kept on kissing him and touching his face and running my fingers through his thick black hair. I melted as his hands caressed my neck and my breasts. And the more I let go of my thoughts, the more I let go of my fears about him, about Emma, about the world, one after the other after the other.

We lay there on the lounge chair, holding each other in the sweet, warm night. Content in the silence, we could easily have fallen asleep. I didn't want to leave, ever. But there was rehearsal tomorrow. And hopefully Emma would still be speaking to me, waiting for my return.

Arm in arm, propping each other up from the gravity of life, from the intoxication of lips and tongues and the touching of each other's skin, Allen and I managed to make our way back to the door, dragged our bodies to the car. There was nothing to say, so we were silent as he drove me back to the city below. I found a good jazz station on his radio and melted even more as we listened to John Coltrane's
A Love Supreme.
When we reached Emma's building, we kissed again. It was impossible to leave.

“Good night, Mr. Cahill.”

“Good night, Miss Billings.”

Chapter 27

The bed is split up to the skin.
Those who persevere are destroyed.
Misfortune.

Ever since the night I was introduced to Jackson and Sharleen—the night Emma had made it known to me she didn't want me around—Emma was no longer the same person I'd met when I'd moved in over ten months ago. She had changed. Instead of smiling and acknowledging me, she walked around the apartment as if I hardly existed. She spoke only when necessary. Like if she needed something from the store or if she couldn't reach something on a shelf. I might as well have been a ghost or some unwanted guest for an overnight stay. She no longer asked questions about my day or inquired into the details of rehearsals. The farmers' market no longer enticed her. Just to test the water, I'd ask her if she'd like to go with me to pick up a few things at the store, but she'd say, “I have no interest in traveling.” Her only desire was to stay home.

Screaming and yelling was something I could relate to. It was woven into the fabric of my family. It was just how we communicated. I hated to holler, but at least I knew where people stood. Silence scared the shit out of me.

I tried to imagine where Emma's behavior might be coming from. Why was she acting this way to me—and why now, when my life was at a crossroads?

The day before opening night, I felt this strong sense of urgency, almost dread. I knew I had to do something. I looked at the bedside clock. Eight o'clock. I had an hour to get to the theater. I reached under the bed and pulled out the
I Ching,
opened the silk pouch, and poured out the three dimes. Yes, I had sworn never to throw the coins again, but I needed answers that no one else could provide.

I pulled the notepad out from under the bed and hunted around for the pen, which I found hidden under a pair of jeans. Fist tight, eyes closed, I asked the oracle:
Should I move out of Emma's?
I threw the coins six times, praying that the answer would relieve me in some way. This was the
I Ching
's response:

23. Po / Splitting Apart

Above: Kên, Keeping Still, Mountain
Below: K'un, The Receptive, Earth

This pictures a time when inferior people are pushing forward and are about to crowd out the few remaining strong and superior men. Under these circumstances, which are due to the time, it is not favorable for the superior man to undertake anything.

Oh great, this was all I needed to hear.

The right behavior in such adverse times is to be deduced from the images and their attributes.

Did it have to be so obscure?

The lower trigram stands for the earth, whose attributes are docility and devotion. The upper trigram stands for the mountain, whose attribute is stillness. This suggests that one should submit to the bad time and remain quiet.

I was so tired of remaining docile and silent. When would it be my turn to have my voice heard? When would I get the chance to take some action?

For it is a question not of man's doing but of time conditions … It is impossible to counteract these conditions of the time. Hence it is not cowardice but wisdom to submit and avoid action.

How could I avoid action, remain quiet, when I was ready to bust through these walls? How could I listen to the
I Ching
when it hadn't been right about Allen? When so many signs were pointing to
LEAVE
. How could I continue to be tossed around by these coins?

I pushed the book aside, jumped out of bed, and threw on some clothes. I began to search the room for Bella's gift: the little blue telephone book she'd given me before I'd left Michigan. The book that'd been through every job, every move, every person I'd met since moving to L.A. I rummaged through every drawer before I found it at the back of my underwear drawer and put it in my purse. Then I walked into the living room.

Emma was sitting silently in her chair. I walked to the door, stopped, just in case she'd decide to look up, break her silence, say something to me. But there was nothing.

I left without a word, without a wave, without the slightest sign of good-bye.

The mood at the theater was hectic, frenetic. How could it be anything else? It was the day before opening night. Stagehands were busy fitting new curtains and removing old chairs. Carpet cleaners sucked up dust from old seats, and mops slopped around the aisles. People I'd never seen before were everywhere, making decisions, critiquing the lights and the curtains. All the cast was onstage while Allen went over last-minute notes. I tried to listen as he gave them, but everything seemed surreal. I was there, but I wasn't. I watched as the actors went over their blocking. I tried to remember lines and move to places where the character was supposed to go, but I kept flubbing my lines, and Allen had to stop the scene twice. We started again, but I forgot more lines. Allen's eyes were throwing bullets. I got it together for a short time when I caught his expression, and then turned, almost on cue, and tripped over the ottoman. By the time the scene was over, the entire cast was ready to pulverize me.

Bill and Marlene came up to me afterward. “What's going on with you? Are you on drugs?” Bill asked, only half-joking.

“If only I were. I'm going through a little rift. But it's about to change, soon. I promise.” They may have heard me say the words, but they didn't believe me.

Allen waited until the break to invite me into his office. I followed him, knowing I was in for a scolding.

“Have a chair,” he suggested. I grudgingly sat. He pulled his chair out from behind his desk and wheeled it over to sit by me. I watched his brain search for words and, at the same time, try to subdue his anger. “What the hell is going on with you? I've never seen you like this—forgetting lines, tripping over furniture, missing cues.”

“I know, I know,” I told him. “I'm a mess. I'll be fine … soon.”

“How soon?” He was no longer subdued.

“Soon. Promise.” I crossed my heart.

“Sandra.” He pulled his chair closer and took my hand. “Why aren't you trusting me?” He sat there searching my face with those compassionate eyes of his.

“This has nothing to do with you. I'm working out some issues with Emma. The woman I live with.”

“I'm here; you know that.” He paused, hesitating, wondering if he should say more. And then he did: “The last thing I want to do is call in an understudy.”

I could feel my face turn white, and then red, and then redder. I sat stock-still on the chair, afraid to move, afraid to speak, to breathe.

“If you need a half hour to chill, it's yours.” He gave me a hug and left me alone in his office.

The door closed behind him. I sat there, numb, and then lunged for the telephone. No, I couldn't use his phone. I darted out of the office and headed for the phone booth on the other side of the stage.

Once inside the narrow, glassed-in cage, I opened Bella's book. The phone book I'd opened on so many occasions, but never thought I'd need again so soon, at least not for this. I went through the alphabet:
B
,
F
,
M
, no … I came to the letter
R
. Rachel's name popped out at me. Was she back from South America? I dialed her new number. The answering machine said she and Armando were out of the country and to please leave your name and number.

I left her a cryptic message: “Hi, Rache. It's Sandra. I don't know if you're back, but I wanted to know if I could stay at your place. It's a long story. Call me at the Windmill Theater. And opening night is tomorrow night, if you
are
back.”

Staying at Jerry's was not even a consideration, but I wanted to call him, just to listen to his voice. Maybe he'd have some advice for me, a mental Band-Aid to put on my wound. But
his
machine said cheerily that he wouldn't be back until Thursday.

That's when I started to sweat. There had to be someone I could stay with! I flipped through more pages.
Ahh,
Francesca from acting class. It was a long shot, but I tried. Her line was busy. I wasn't surprised. Francesca was always talking … about everybody. She was a beautiful model who'd once tried to fix me up with a celebrity she knew. She didn't tell me until afterward that the celebrity was married. When I found out, I turned her and the celebrity down. I decided to pass on Francesca.