Pushing Upward

by Andrea Adler

  Life was intense at the Windmill Theater. But we all knew the sacrifices we made today would lead to our growth as actors, future opportunities, and a deep feeling of satisfaction. At least these were my objectives. Still, the cast of The Turning of the Century complained about having to come in early and leave late. They missed their families. Free time. A life. I missed the possibility of sitting on a couch with Allen in front of a fireplace, drinking wine and watching the sunset, taking long walks and holding hands, dancing beneath the stars. Just holding him and being held would be enough.

  To top things off, an incident occurred that really set us back. Bob Driscoll, the man Bill and I thought couldn’t act worth beans, the man Allen thought was slowing the production down, was fired. The cast had to take turns filling in for his role while Allen looked for a replacement. After interviewing several actors, he hired Kevin Hawthorne, a Broadway understudy who was, luckily for us, a quick study.

  It was now a Friday, and we were all looking forward to a relaxing, replenishing weekend. I was looking forward to having dinner with Allen. It was our scheduled date night. But before leaving the theater, he made an announcement: “I was going to call a rehearsal for tomorrow. But I have to go to New York. You’ve got a two-day respite. Just don’t make any plans for the following weekends; we’re going to need them before opening night. See you Monday at nine.”

  At least we had these two days to relax. Everyone said their good-byes and took off. I went to my dressing room to prepare for our dinner date. The one Allen had promised the night he walked me home. Although he had postponed it once already, I was anticipating being with him tonight—big-time.

  I was prepping—brushing my hair, sprucing up my makeup, and studying the newly formed zit on the side of my nose—when there was a knock on the door.

  “May I come in?” Allen asked in a hushed voice outside the door.

  “The door’s open,” I stage-whispered loudly back.

  He stepped inside, came over to the dressing table, and sat down on the edge of it. “I know we were supposed to have dinner tonight. And I feel awful that I have to postpone this again. I wish this meeting hadn’t come up, but I have to leave tonight.”

  “That’s fine.” I was feeling cocky. I put down the brush and stood up to reach for my jacket.

  He grabbed my arm, gently. “Look at me. I’m as disappointed as you are. You have no idea how much I wanted to be with you tonight. Can we make it next week?”

  I couldn’t look at him. I turned my head from side to side to avoid his eyes. I didn’t want him to see how disappointed I was. I wanted him to blow off his meeting, spend the night, the weekend, the rest of his life, with me. Tears were standing in my eyes, unbidden. I walked toward the door, opened it. “You don’t want to be late for your flight, do you?”

  He met me at the door. “If I didn’t have to go, I wouldn’t. This may be an offer to direct a film that I have been waiting a year to negotiate. I can’t miss this, no matter how much I want to be with you. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  He turned off the light and pulled me close. We kissed.

  “Believe me,” he said, “There isn’t anyone else I want to be with.”

  We kissed again.

  “I believe you.”

  The jolt of disappointment, after the anticipation of being with Allen, left me hollow. As I got into my Fiat, I wondered why my life had to filled with these severe ups and downs that were so devastating and exhausting. I’m constantly riding on this emotional roller coaster and can’t seem to get off. I just wish the ride wasn’t so intense.

  It was also intense at home. It felt like I hadn’t seen Emma in I couldn’t say how long. I’d come home after she’d retired for the night and leave before she got up. I had no time to clean or cook, sit with her and talk, share a smile, or laugh at her sardonic comments. We used to spend hours together, and now I was rushing in and out, treating her apartment like a hotel. We hardly spoke anymore. There was a chasm opening up between us. But what could I do? My life was moving incredibly fast. Time to share it just wasn’t there. When I was home, I was memorizing lines, not just for one character, but for two. Exercising, eating, sleeping. I hadn’t even told her about Allen. Not that I really wanted to. Because I knew how she’d respond. Emma seemed to be crawling into a shell, getting quieter and quieter. Once again I was at a precipice, and not quite sure how to proceed.

  On my way home, I pulled into Renée’s Deli. I thought I’d surprise Emma with a deli dinner we could both enjoy: some turkey, salad greens, and a few slices of Monterey Jack. Hoping the small gesture might soothe the wound of our distance and make up for the time I’d been away. There was a bouquet of flowers sitting by the counter in a bucket. I bought them, too.

  Bearing gifts of food and good news—the weekend off—I burst into the apartment, where I saw Emma sitting in her chair, on the phone; I couldn’t make out with whom. It wasn’t Bert or Zelda. I could tell by the way she responded. As I unwrapped the food and got the mustard and mayo out of the fridge, I listened from the kitchen, to get a hint of who might be on the other end of the line.

  She cut the conversation short: “It was wonderful to hear from you, Jackson. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good-bye.”

  Who is Jackson?

  “Hi, Emma.” I jumped right in, wanting to set a cheerful tone. “I stopped at the deli and picked up some dinner.”

  “I’ve already eaten, dear.” Her words cut into me, even with the word dear. “Thank you.”

  “Sorry I got here so late …” I went on nervously, hoping she’d forgive me again. “We had a long rehearsal today.”

  My stomach felt queasy from her abrupt response and the unstable ground I was now trying to stand on. I peeled off a few slices of turkey, rolled them into a cone, and dipped them into the mustard jar. The silence, thick with her secrets, made my mouth dry. I poured some juice to wash the turkey down.

  Emma sat in her chair, pretending to read a magazine, pretending nothing was wrong or out of the ordinary. Trying to feel her out and think of something to say, I put the groceries in the fridge, and the flowers in a tall porcelain vase.

  “Oh, Emma, Allen—the director—gave us the weekend off. How about going to a museum tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be going out with my friend Jackson tomorrow.”

  I was glad she was going out, visiting with friends. But again, it was the way she said it. Like a defiant schoolgirl! Something was up. Something was off. I brought the flowers into the dining room and placed them on the table.

  I tried again. “Have I met Jackson?”

  “No. He’s an old friend from New York. His niece is in town. He wanted us to meet.”

  “Well, how about we go to the farmers’ market on Sunday, pick up some groceries?” If only she’d agree, saying that it was a lovely idea.

  “I’ll probably rest on Sunday.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. I was afraid to dig any deeper. I stood there looking at her, hoping she’d open up and declare: “Let’s have a chat. How was your day?”

  It didn’t happen. She stood up, holding on to the arms of the chair. Her shoulders set, she walked toward her bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door.

  Chapter 24

  With the complex of events immediately before one in image form,

  one could follow the courses that promised good fortune

  and avoid those that promised misfortune,

  before the train of events had actually begun.

  I woke up edgy and angry. My eyes were a graphic witness—red and blotchy, with huge, puffy bags. I felt as if I’d wrestled a band of boa constrictors in my sleep. My neck was stiff, and the lower part of my spine ached. But my body was not my concern. There were more pressing things to think about.

  Emma.

  I could only guess that she was mad at me for not being around, not sticking to our agreement. As I reached over to pull the curtains to one side,
let in some light, I knew the one important thing that had to be done today was to clean. Something I hadn’t done in weeks.

  I forced myself out of bed, pulled out a pair of jeans, scooped up a T-shirt from the closet floor, and carried the clothes into the bathroom. I stripped off my pajamas, turned on the shower full force, grabbed the Comet from under the sink, and stepped in. I scrubbed the porcelain tub until the faintest ring had disappeared. I removed the hair from the drain and rinsed the dried, cakey soap from the soap dish. I removed the shower curtain from the rings and bleached the curtain until all the disgusting mold spots were gone, and then, still naked from the shower, I poured Mop & Glo on the bathroom tiles and sponged the floor, wiped down the cabinets, sprayed Windex on the mirrors, and brushed out the toilet.

  I put on my clothes and advanced to the kitchen, where I proceeded to swab the floor until every speck of dirt had vanished, and I tackled the sink until it glistened. I soaked the dish drain and the Rubbermaid pad with bleach until all remnants of dried food disappeared.

  While dusting the living-room chairs and windowsills, wiping away my guilt, I admitted to myself: I hadn’t followed through on my end. Wiping down the window, making sure there were no streaks, I resolved that it was time to make good on my promise. Perspiring, I headed back toward the closet to get the vacuum cleaner. The telephone ring startled me.

  Out of breath, I answered it. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sandra. It’s Jerry. I hope it’s not too early. I wanted to catch you before you made plans for the day.”

  “Oh, I’m still here. Just going through my fan mail before the limo picks me up to get my hair done. How are you?”

  “Great,” he said with a laugh. “Listen, how would you like to go to the marina today? There’s this cute little Italian restaurant …”

  “I would love to go. It’s just that”—I lowered my voice—“I really need to tidy up the place. I haven’t been around much.”

  “I understand.” His voice dropped.

  “Thanks for the invite, Jerry.”

  “Listen, you take care. I’ll give you a call soon.”

  Sigh. I placed the phone back on the table. God, it would’ve been good to get out.

  Emma walked into the living room, diffidently, as if she wanted to be invisible. As if she didn’t want to be noticed or spoken to. So I went on with my chores and just observed, out of the corner of my eyes. She was wearing a dress I hadn’t seen before, a blue cotton print that matched her eyes. She headed straight to the kitchen and made herself some breakfast. Wanting to avoid her, at least until I knew what (if anything) I was going to say, I kept my course in the opposite direction, back to the closet for the vacuum.

  While Emma had her bagel and butter, I vacuumed. While she drank her coffee, I wrapped the vac cord. While she rinsed her dishes, I dusted the coffee table and wiped the dust from the plastic couch cover. Timing my approach, I waited until she’d finished the dishes, thinking furiously of something to say.

  But she just headed for the coat closet to get her sweater. In the foyer she turned and opened the door. Then, without much expression, as she headed out the door, she said, “Have a nice day, dear.”

  I sagged against the wall as Emma, and the tension, left the room. Now what? This was one of those moments I had experienced way too many times. Being stuck, without a clue what to do. Without thought, I lunged for the phone. Jerry! Where did I put his card? I ran to the bedroom, riffled through my purse, and called him back when I found it.

  “Jerry? It’s Sandra. Can we still go today?”

  “Sure! I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  “Cool.”

  I gave him the address and rushed to get ready.

  We spent the morning walking around Marina del Rey, strolling the boardwalk, looking at grand and expensive yachts, admiring the lavish lives of the rich and famous, the well-to-do’s. I could have strolled forever among these boats with this gentle man, slipped the knot from any one of them, and off we could have gone … to the Caribbean or Bali. Boy, was I tempted.

  “I think that’s Bill Bixby’s boat.” Jerry waved to the man standing on the deck—security, we supposed. Jerry called out to him, “Hi, isn’t that Bill Bixby’s boat?”

  We saw the security man frown, trying to think this through. He finally answered, “I’m not supposed to say.”

  Jerry roared, and I joined him. As we quieted, he stared, reading me like a page. “Is everything okay with you?”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I begged. He was my escape, the diversion I needed yet again—from Emma, from guilt, from my mix of feelings about Allen.

  Wanting to lighten my mood, he tried to amuse me: “An Irishman, a midget, a priest, an Italian, and a horse walk into a bar. Bartender says, ‘What is this, some kind of joke?’”

  I groaned. We both escaped by telling each other the worst jokes we knew. We even sang—the most awful songs. It was the freedom I needed. And then, in the spirit of our joy, he put his arm around my waist as we walked along. He held me close, hip to hip. He paused, and I felt myself become afraid because I knew he was going to kiss me.

  “I’m starving.” I blocked the momentum. “Instead of Italian, let’s get some eggs.”

  We strolled toward the nearest restaurant, and I listened to him express his enthusiasm when he spoke about breaking into TV and how excited he was that his script was picked up for a Movie of the Week. We’d covered all the arts before we’d finished our omelets. And as we reached for our jackets, he asked about Allen.

  “How is he doing? I heard a rumor.”

  My arm stopped in midreach, and my breath caught. “Oh, what rumor is that?” I asked innocently.

  “He’s being considered for a blockbuster film. This could really boost his directing career.” He was telling the truth.

  The air in my lungs was released. “Well, he’s a great director. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Was Jerry testing me, and my reaction? He wasn’t the type to play games. So I let it go, and enjoyed the ride home: the breeze, the scenery passing by, and the ease of the afternoon that continued to flow through my heart.

  Before saying good-bye to the man who somehow always brought me back to my center and made me feel safe in my skin, I asked, just to be sure: “You’ll be at opening night, won’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Emma was sitting in her chair reading the New York Times when I returned. I went over and sat down in my chair. The chair I had always sat in, ever since I’d moved in, the chair that sat to the other side of the tiny round table that held Emma’s lamp, her bagel and tea—the table that now separated our lives. We sat in our little worlds, only inches apart, but tonight, it felt more like galaxies.

  “Did you have a nice time with Jackson?” I asked.

  “Yes, we had a lovely day.” That was it. That was all she said.

  Emma put down the paper and removed her bifocals, as if she wanted to tell me something, but changed her mind. Maybe it was all in my mind, but one thing was for sure different now. Whenever we’d talked in the past, she would completely face me, give me her undivided attention. This evening she didn’t turn my way a smidgen. She simply stared straight ahead, as if I wasn’t there.

  I got up and walked into the kitchen, just to stretch the time out, and poured a glass of lemonade. It wasn’t until she’d picked up the newspaper again that I walked back into the living room, sat down, and blurted out the words that I’d been holding back for so long.

  “Look, Emma, I know you’ve been spending a lot of time by yourself. And I feel awful about it. I just don’t know what to do … other than quit the play.”

  She took a lifetime to answer. “I have plenty of people to keep me busy.”

  “It’s not just weekdays that we’re rehearsing. It’s weekends, too.”

  She just listened.

  “I know I haven’t been cleaning or cooking very much.”

  “You
have a play to work on, Sandra. You should focus on that.”

  “You have no idea, Emma. I have two parts to learn. I have to memorize the lines, the pacing, the blocking—every move. My emotions are all over the place because … I also have a major crush on the director, which I have been wanting to tell you about, and I …”

  Emma shook her head ever so gently, in what looked like disappointment, and picked up the paper again.

  My head was aching; I started massaging my temples. I wanted to yell, but instead asked her calmly, “Please, Emma … tell me why you’re acting so strange and distant? Did I do something, or not do something, that upset you?”

  Emma’s fingers nervously clutched the arms of her high-back; her arms shook as she lifted her body from the chair until her feet were solidly planted on the gold carpet. She stood upright and placed one foot in front of the other as she headed toward her room. She stopped midroute and turned, again as if she wanted to say something to me, but couldn’t. She turned again. “It’s all right, Sandra. I just need to be alone for a while.” And then she entered her room, and closed the door.

  I sat there shivering, confused. I grabbed my purse. I couldn’t breathe. I took the elevator to the garage and got into the Fiat. I turned the key so hard in the ignition that the car made a grinding noise. Pressing down on the accelerator, I nearly backed into the stucco garage wall. I yanked the car into drive, turned the tight corner around the poles, and peeled up the ramp. I left a lot of black rubber on the cement. A couple of old ladies watched with their eyes wide open in amazement.

  I knew where I wanted to go: to the top of Mulholland Drive, the highest point in L.A., with one of the best views of the city. And I wanted to get there fast. I’d go there when I needed to see the world from a loftier perspective—when I couldn’t put all the pieces of my life together in my brain, or when I thought about jumping off someplace tall.