Pushing Upward (32 page)

I wouldn't dare call Larry. It'd be too humiliating. He would totally get off on playing the noble prince, saving his old girlfriend, albeit now in distress.

Flipping through the pages, I stopped at
Schreiber.
Of course, Calvin! He was conservative, shy, and very generous. I met him in acting class. He let me borrow his tape recorder for an unlimited time. He wasn't taking the class to be an actor—he wanted to improve his presentation skills. He lectured around the world on cutting-edge computer chips and actually earned a living (something no one else in the class was doing). He had a little crush on me, but he knew it was platonic on my end. I wasn't physically attracted to him. I
was,
however, hungry, and he often treated me to dinner. Calvin wouldn't mind. His machine said he could be reached at work. So I called him at his office.

“Hi, Calvin, it's Sandra Billings. How are you?”

I could tell he was happy to hear from me. “Aren't you a star yet, Sandra Billings?” I giggled. “Where are you living? What's goin' on?”

I relaxed for a second, just hearing his questions, knowing he still cared. “Calvin, I need your help. I need a place to stay. Not for long. I'm in a situation … and I was wondering …”

“Sandra, you got it. Sure, use my place. I'm leaving for Europe tomorrow. I'll be gone most of the month. You can move in tomorrow.”

“I knew there was a God,” I told him.

“I always told you I was God, Sandra. You never believed me. Listen, I've moved. But I'm still in Beverly Hills. Here's the address.” I wrote it down. “I'll leave a key with the doorman. His name is Mike. There's plenty of food. You better eat it or it'll go bad by the time I get back.”

“Thanks, Calvin. I really appreciate this.”

“Take it easy, Sandra. Everything will work out. When I come back, I'll help you find a place to live. Unless I can talk you into staying.”

“Calvin. This is such a rescue … have a great trip. 'Bye, and thanks.”

I fell back against the glass side of the booth and closed my eyes; the search was over. I could breathe easier now. But this was no time to dwell on achievements. It was ten after one. I had to boogie back to the stage. Rehearsal had started at one.

I flew back to the stage, and heard someone say something about a dress rehearsal as the cast scurried away.

“Did you call a
dress rehearsal?
” I asked Allen, almost bumping into him, out of breath.

“Actually, I did. Just clothes, no makeup,” he said with a trace of annoyance.

“The costumes are finally ready?” Still catching my breath. Still anxious, but relieved.

“They're in the dressing rooms. I won't ask why you were late.”

“Good.”

“Go get dressed and try on the wigs. I'd like to see how they look.”

“Okay, okay.” I looked around to see if anyone was close, nudged him kiddingly, and said, “Don't be so pushy.”

He looked around, too, obviously wanting to cover his next move, which was to lean into me. Close. I inhaled his potent aftershave, which was so intoxicating. It had a Western scent, as if he'd just stepped off his horse; it lassoed my senses, daring me to come even closer. I wondered what had happened to the baby powder. But there was no time to ask.

“I'd better get that costume on.”

“Wait a minute. I'm the director. You take orders from me. It's written in the contract.”

“There was never a contract, and if there was, I never signed it. I'm going to call my lawyer.” I turned away toward the dressing room, but Allen grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him.

“This will only take a minute.”

“Not if you move one inch closer it won't …”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“I'm much better now.”

“Opening night is too far away,” he said with intensity.

“I hope the costumes fit. I'd better go try them on.” I started away again, but he once more pulled me back.

“Do you know, your eyes sparkle and your lip goes up on the left when you get upset. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn't. Did you know your …”

He looked around, and then we kissed. I broke away, ran back to my dressing room, pulled off my jeans, tried on the intern's costume, put on the wig, looked in the mirror, and went into shock. Oh my God, you could see, plain as day, that I wasn't wearing any underwear. Which meant everyone
else
could see that I wasn't wearing underwear.

I pulled open the door, rushed over to Marlene's dressing room to ask her if she had a slip. She wasn't there. I ran to the stage, where the entire cast was waiting for me. Embarrassed beyond comprehension, I yelled from behind the curtain, “I'm sorry. I can't come out. I have no slip, and the lights are too bright. You can see right through my legs.”

“What are you talking about?” Allen yelled back.

“I'm not coming out—you'll be able to see my you-know-what.”

I could hear everyone laugh.

“I'm not coming out unless I have a slip.”

I wasn't being a prima donna. I was mortified. I didn't want people looking at my privates while I rehearsed. “I'm going back to my dressing room to put my jeans back on. I'll be right back.”

I ran to my dressing room, zipped myself back into my jeans, and ran back to the stage.

When I returned, I couldn't believe what they had done. The entire cast
and
crew had pulled down their trousers and were mooning me, butts high in the air.

“Sandra, it's not a big deal. It's not like anyone here hasn't seen a naked body before.”

I laughed so hard that I dropped to my knees. I laughed so hard I cried. The more I laughed, the more I cried, the more I could feel the tension release from my body and all the knots in my neck and the tightness in my shoulders, the headache surrounding my temples, drop away. Still, I didn't want to move.

“I don't care,” I managed to squeak out, still on the floor, trying to get the words out between the laughter and the tears. “You can all rehearse naked if you want. I'm not wearing that dress without a slip.”

The stage manager returned after a few minutes of scrounging around the costume room and handed me a slip for which I expressed profound appreciation and took back to my dressing room to put on. When I returned to the stage, the bare-assed cast had zipped their trousers back up, and rehearsal resumed as normal. Well, as normal as could be expected.

It wasn't until I was walking home that I began to think about the conversation I wasn't looking forward to having. What would I say? How would I start? How would Emma take the news?

Thank goodness she was on the phone when I came in. I was able to walk through the living room and into the bedroom without having to say a word. I assumed she was talking to Bert, or Zelda. I wasn't sure. All I heard was, “Just to the bank and the post office; that's all I need. Thank you—see you in the morning.”

I still had no idea.

The next thing I heard were pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. I waited a few minutes, trying to think about what I was going to say, but I knew it was a waste of time.
I'm just going to have to trust,
I told myself,
that whatever comes out of my mouth is what I am supposed to say.

“Would you like me to make something for dinner?” I asked, testing the water.

“No, I'm just going to heat up some soup. Thank you.”

I watched Emma walk to the freezer and take out a frozen plastic container and hold it under the hot water. Every movement was so clear, so definite. I found myself watching her move with a kind of silence that no longer frightened me, a silence in which every simple gesture had significance—as if I might not see her defrost anything again.

I sat at the table while she opened the drawer and took out a gold spoon. I didn't care if she saw me staring or not. I sat there, munching on a carrot while she sipped on her soup, knowing I might not see her sipping soup again.

She finished her soup, washed out her bowl. And then walked with utter self-possession over to her green throne, sat down, and turned on the TV. I followed her over and sat in my chair, staring at the TV, too, while I gathered the courage to speak. Finally, with every ounce of bravery I could muster, I said, “Emma, we need to talk.”

She ignored me at first. Then she surprised me by turning off the TV with the remote. She must have heard it in my voice that this was not going to be a talk about the weather or dinner. She removed her bifocals and stared straight ahead. She knew something was coming.

“I think I need to move out.”

She didn't respond. I waited to hear her say, “Are you crazy? What in God's name are you doing that for?” But she didn't say a word.

I waited some more. “Did you hear me, Emma?”

“When did you decide to do this?”

“Yesterday,” I said, “or maybe today.” My teeth were chattering.

“I see. Where will you be going?”

“A friend's house,” I said defiantly.
Why does she care where I'm going?

Another pause, only this time she shifted position in her chair. I couldn't read her, though, and found myself stumbling for the words. “I thought you
wanted
me to move out.”

“What made you think that?”

Her voice was devoid of any emotion. I couldn't tell what she thought.

“Sharleen, for one. And you've been so quiet, not wanting to talk. It just seemed pretty clear that you didn't want me here.”

Again … no response.

“I know you need help around the house and don't want to be alone all day, and I've been so busy. I don't know what else to do. I haven't been able to focus on rehearsals, and if I don't get it together …” I'd hoped that she would stop me and tell me to shut up and go to my room and that I was being silly.

Instead, she asked, “You've made up your mind?”

“I-I guess I have. Sharleen's planning to stay here, so you're not alone, right?” Tears were coursing down my cheeks. “That's what you were planning all along, right?”

Another pause. “When are you thinking about leaving?”

“Tomorrow.” The word just came out of my mouth.

She looked surprised. “So soon? You found a place so soon?”

“Yes, I told you, a friend's apartment.”

“The director's?”

“No, not Allen's.”

She looked relieved. She sat back. Before she could turn the TV on again, I spoke, praying that I wouldn't burst into tears again.

“Emma, opening night is tomorrow night, and I want to reserve seats for you and Sharleen, and Bert. I thought Bert could drive you, and then Sharleen could come back with you. You are planning to come to opening night, aren't you?”

She paused even longer this time. Then she turned to me, and I thought I'd fall off my chair. There was so much intensity and, at the same time, love and compassion in her eyes. “I will arrange it with Bert. I would like to see the show.” There was even a minuscule smile that followed her words. That was it.

That was all I needed to know. She didn't hate me, and she was coming to opening night.

Emma leaned back in her chair and reached for her bifocals. She sat back in her magnificent high-back, pressed the ON button on the remote, and pretended to watch TV. I sat there, too, pretending to watch TV with her, hoping I hadn't made a mistake.

Chapter 28

Thunder and lightning:
the image of B
ITING
T
HROUGH
.

Morning came too soon. I wasn't ready to open my eyes or experience the sun quite yet. I would have preferred to lie there and pretend that everything was fine. But I knew better.

My eyelids felt like weighted shades. My body, a beached whale. I lay motionless on the bed, wondering what time it was, unwilling to find out the answer. Instead, I looked over at the painting of the pale beach and the brilliant orange-and-blue sky and tried to lose myself in its calmness, but this was not a morning for refuge or reprieve. I had wanted to get up before eight, before Emma's alarm clock went off. That way I could pack my things and sneak out of the apartment without having to face her or talk. I lay there, debating whether to look at the clock or not. I looked. Holy shit! It was nine-thirty!