Pushing Upward

by Andrea Adler

  “Oh yeah. There are gallons more.”

  Allen called it an early night, knocking off at six-thirty instead of the usual seven. Everybody scurried off the stage to go home. I felt grateful that I’d been able to release so much tension. The exhaustion was worth it. I’d let it all out, and now I was, thank God, too tired to think. I went to my dressing room to wash my face and chill out, just sit. I could feel my nerves pulsating. I was sweaty, and beat.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I said, as audibly as I could muster.

  Allen walked in with a smile and a silly plastic rose. “You gave yourself quite a workout today. Hungry, my little star?”

  “Oh, I could eat something small, like a buffalo.”

  “How about you let me take you to my place, where we can survey my fridge and see what we can come up with?”

  I accepted the invitation without missing a beat. A restaurant would not have been appealing. Not tonight. I was in no mood to sit in a commercial setting or expose myself to bright lights and strangers. My senses needed pampering and caressing. My body yearned to stretch out on a huge couch with big pillows, and my ears wanted only the sound of classical music and hushed words whispered into them. My eyes needed soft lights, and my nostrils wanted to inhale the fragrance of burning firewood so I could offer all my fears into the fire and watch them blaze up and burn down into ashes. I needed to be with someone who cared, who would listen to my heart and not be afraid to share his.

  I loved sitting next to Allen in his leather bucket seats, watching him take control of the car, the steering wheel. My life, if he wanted to. He must have worked hard for this Porsche and its fancy black seats.

  Allen’s house was tucked away in a cozy cul-de-sac where hundreds of homes cascaded down the slopes and canyons of the Hollywood Hills. As we pulled into his circular driveway, he said, “This is where I replenish myself, away from the world. It’s my private hideaway.”

  So, this was where he’d lived with his wife of seven years—perhaps a few other wives. Although I couldn’t imagine him married. Thank God he now lived here alone. He came around, opened my door, and escorted me to the house. Unlocking the front door, he bent down to scoop up the mail that had fallen through the slot, and we entered his secret retreat.

  Inside, I immediately felt a sense of loneliness, emptiness, as if the house had once been filled with joy, or children laughing and playing, but now had been reduced to silence. The smell of cigar lingered in the air. Down the stairs, the living room was all earthy tones, browns and golds and reds. I was happy to see the brick fireplace and the dark, masculine furniture. Somehow they provided concrete evidence for my feeling that Allen was stable, of the earth, and I could trust him.

  There were photos of his ex-wife and child, another photo of a second ex-wife and children from an earlier marriage. (Bill Fleishman was right.) The photos sat on an impressive mahogany desk, surrounded by pads of paper and a stack of scripts.

  Allen opened the French doors to his deck, to air the place out. While he looked through his mail at the desk, I crossed the room to the deck to look out onto the City of Angels. Standing at the railing, admiring the view from this height, I watched lights winking on one by one, like fireflies, as dusk settled over the valley. I found myself thinking about Emma. What would she say if she saw me tonight standing on Allen Cahill’s deck? Would she smile, or walk away in silence, leaving me behind to guess at her reaction? Why should I care?

  I stood on the solid wood planks of the deck, looking to see if I could locate the Windmill Theater, when Allen’s arms came up from behind me, his hands slowly taking hold of my waist. And then, I don’t know if he turned me around or if I turned myself around, but I will never forget the sweet taste of his mouth and the fullness that sprang from his kiss. How protected I felt. Whatever was going through my mind about Emma completely melted away.

  When the kiss ended, I said, “Mmm … that was a pleasant surprise.”

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  Here I was kissing the man I’d wanted to be alone with since the first minute I’d laid eyes on him, and now that I had the opportunity, I was nervous. Not quite ready for the intimacy.

  “I’m starving—what’s in the refrigerator?” I started to move back inside, toward the kitchen.

  “Wh-where you going?” He gently took hold of my wrist before I got too far and pulled me back close against his chest, supporting my back with his hands. Our eyes close, our lips almost touching.

  “I was going to get something to eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Very.” He kissed my neck.

  “I mean for food.”

  “You were great today,” he said. He kissed my forehead gently. “There was so much passion in your monologue.”

  “I had a lot to work with,” I admitted.

  “You always have a lot to work with.”

  “Look, Allen, you have no idea how difficult things are for me. I just think we should wait.”

  “Till when, after dinner? I don’t think I can wait that long.”

  “No, until opening night.”

  “Opening night is three weeks away,” he objected, like a child not getting the candy he wanted now.

  “I have to know that what I’m doing is right. Not out of fear or desperation … I need some clarity. And if we wait, we’ll have something to look forward to and celebrate.”

  “I can think of a lot to celebrate right now.”

  “If we make love tonight”—my words were saying no, but my fingers were entwining themselves in the strands of his black wavy hair—“I’ll be walking around rehearsal like a zombie, and everyone will know, you know, and I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

  “I don’t see that as a problem.”

  “It’s not easy for me to be patient, either.”

  “I think underneath that sweet smile is a very sadistic human being who derives great pleasure out of torturing the male half of the species. I will be patient. Not because I want to. But because”—he kissed my nose—“this way, I get to fantasize more. However, if it were up to me …”

  Inside, the phone rang. Allen broke off the embrace and moved swiftly to pick it up. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. There was a pause. And then his face closed in, his eyes looked down, his voice lowered discreetly.

  “Hi, uh, it’s wonderful to hear from you … I’d love to, but I have a guest over at the house. Of course … can I call you, later … ? Wonderful … talk to you then.”

  We kissed again. “Who was that, Cliff Thorne, calling in all scripts for a rewrite?” I asked jokingly, although seriously wanting to know if this was a call I should be concerned about.

  “No, it was a friend who needed some information. I’ll call them later.”

  He resumed kissing my neck. I stood there with at least four lines of thought fighting for my attention. I was curious about the call. I wanted to tell him about Emma and how difficult living with her had become. But I didn’t want to appear needy and immature.

  Knowing I had to figure this out on my own, I pulled myself away, took his hand, and led him into the kitchen, where we pulled together a salad from remnants of assorted vegetables and warmed up two pieces of leftover chicken. When our plates were full, I took both our dishes out to the deck and waited for him to join me.

  “How about some Mozart?” he called out, looking through his LP collection.

  “Mozart would be wonderful. You must have read my mind.” He put on a Bach suite instead, dimmed the lights inside the house, and joined me with a bottle of Chablis and two glasses. The man was so prepared, so together.

  “Would you like some?” He poured himself a glass and waited for my answer.

  “Sure, I’ll have a little.”

  We sat on the lounge chairs as Allen spoke about the play and drank his Chablis. He talked of his disappointment in directing television and his desire to direct film. He shared his excitement about the film deal h
e was negotiating with the producers in New York. I sat there listening to the modulations of his voice as he articulated his sentences, pronouncing every word as if I were the recipient of all his years of training, watching his lips become wet from the wine and his expressive hands gesturing with abandon.

  I interrupted his soliloquy with yet another one of my adolescent fears: “You know, you’re always going to have the advantage in this relationship.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’re older. You’re more experienced. You’re always going to know things before I do. You’ll always have the edge.”

  “What’s fifteen, twenty years? Not much when you see the whole picture. Let me show you something.” He stood up, walked inside to his desk, and brought back a pencil and a pad of paper. He sat down next to me and drew two circles on the 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.