Every year for the past nine years, I’d told myself, “Just one more year. One more year, and I’ll quit.” The words sounded like the cry of an addict. Maybe I was an addict. The odd thing was, I didn’t even crave stardom. I rarely told anyone other than my mother when I landed great roles. I’d wanted to succeed for myself — and for my mother.
Fifteen minutes after we’d left the train station, Raylene pulled into the driveway of Mom’s homestead, a three-story Colonial that had been built in the early nineteen-hundreds. The exterior of the massive home consisted almost completely of dark-red brick, had thousands of square feet, five bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, a beautifully manicured yard, and was entirely too large for one woman. Well, three women now. Still, Mom should have sold it years ago. Raylene should have made her. The house had been my grandfather’s, but even paid-in-full, the taxes and upkeep had to be a bear. The house was surely worth enough that Mom could sell it, and the business, and retire to sunny Florida or Arizona forever. At least, I assumed that’s what sixty-two-year-olds were supposed to do. The majestic residence was even famous, since a painter had included it in one of his art exhibits about Squirrel Hill. She definitely should have sold it then. Then again, I guess it really wasn’t my business.
Mom loved that the house was walking distance from her shop on Forbes Avenue, not to mention cafés, restaurants, bakeries, and even the Manor, a local movie theater that had been around for more than ninety years. She’d made it clear a hundred times: she was born in Squirrel Hill, and she planned to die in Squirrel Hill.
As soon as I stepped inside the house, my mind was whisked back to my childhood. The sight and scent of the dark cherry-stained wood floors that squeaked beneath my boots reminded me of sliding across the length of the entry hall. Raylene, who was only three years older than I was, and I would roll up the Oriental rug so we could slide the thirty-some feet from the front door to the back door. Until I inadvertently skidded right into the stairs, knocking out my front tooth, which meant no more wood-skating for either of us.
That had been when Raylene had grown up. Even though it hadn’t been her fault — I was normally the one who initiated dangerous games — Mom had blamed her, citing that she was older and should have known better. While Raylene had always been mature, taking care of me while Mom worked. Comforting me over the death of my father, and later Bubbie and Zayde, this was the event that had transformed Raylene from a child who played, to the daughter and sister who was expected to be mature.
“Night,” Raylene called as she headed up to her room on the third floor. The room spanned the length of the entire top floor of the house, but I’d never been jealous. My second-story bedroom had French doors that opened onto a tiled balcony that sat directly over the back porch, so it had been easy to sneak out of the house and shimmy down the wall after curfew.
“Night, sis,” I called back.
She stopped and blew me a kiss, something she’d done my entire life. “Good to have you home, Laina. We’ll get a chance to catch up this weekend. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” I said, surprised by her sincere suggestion. Usually, Raylene was too busy with her job at the bank and hobnobbing with her longtime live-in boyfriend, Russell. Oh … That’s right … she and Russell were trying a trial separation. Mom had shushed me when I asked earlier, but I was sure Raylene would want to talk about what happened.
Mom wrapped her arm around me and squeezed me again. “Come on. Let’s go get some hot tea and have a little girl time.”
Of course, I’d forgotten. Mom and Raylene drank tea, not coffee. I’d have to remember to buy some coffee.
I followed my mother into the bright white kitchen. She’d updated the cabinets, appliances, and fixtures after Zayde had passed, but I nearly laughed as I collapsed into the shiny red vinyl-covered chair that matched the candy-apple-red dinette that dated back to when Bubbie had run the kitchen. My grandmother had also been gone nearly as long as my father had. Zayde had said that she’d lost the will to live after my father — their only child — had died.
“Mom,” I laughed, “you spent twenty thousand dollars on a new kitchen and still have Bubbie’s old table? Last year you said you were going to get a new one.”
Mom set the teakettle over the gas burner, and then plopped down in the chair across from me. “I just didn’t have the heart. But haven’t you heard? Retro is in. That’s why I put in white cabinets. I like the red and white. So much brighter in winter.”
I nodded appreciatively, even though the kitchen had never been dark. Since the room was situated in the back south-west corner of the house and had windows on the side and rear, the kitchen received plenty of morning and afternoon sun. Even the back door was almost completely glass, offering a splendid view of all the flowering trees my grandfather had planted over the years. Not to mention I’d sit here and watch Markus when he mowed the yard. I wondered briefly if Markus was still around. If he’d taken over his parents’ company. If he was married with little baby Markuses running around. My mother and sister probably knew. Squirrel Hill was a tightknit community. But I wouldn’t ask, since Markus was probably angry with me anyway. Angry how I’d left town the day after our one night.
Anxious to avert my mind from thoughts of Markus, I thought about my time in the yard with Zayde, how I loved piddling in the garden with him. How everything he planted was lush and colorful. Unfortunately, I hadn’t inherited Zayde’s green thumb. I couldn’t even keep a potted plant alive in my apartment — Joe’s apartment, I reminded myself. A hint of grief hit my stomach that, other than Joe returning my text to let me know he’d arrived in Chicago, he hadn’t even tried to explain his leaving and why he hadn’t mentioned the possibility to me earlier. After three years, I would have thought that he would have held a hint of love for me.
“So, what brings you back to Pittsburgh?” my mother asked.
Her direct question surprised me. My mother tended to be more subtle with her queries. “You asked me to come back,” I reminded her.
One side of my mother’s face pulled up as she flashed me a knowing smile. “Not that I’m not thrilled, but I asked you to come home for Thanksgiving and, as of this morning, you’d made it sound as though it were impossible. So, what gives?”
The kettle whistled, allowing me a brief stay of execution. I really didn’t want to confess that I’d come home because I wasn’t sure where else to go. That I’d failed at my final audition; my worthless job had gone out of business; and my boyfriend took off without as much as a longing gaze over his shoulder. It wasn’t as though I couldn’t have found someplace to live, though. I could have found something. I wasn’t completely without means. If I were honest with myself, I had wanted to come home. Something in my mother’s voice had made me realize it’d been too long since I’d seen her and my sister.
And I was tired. Coming home was the right decision, the smart choice, as I wouldn’t have to plop down all of my savings on a new place. I’d have time to take the state exam, find a great position, and reconnect with my mother and sister again.
My mother set a cup down in front of me, then took her seat again, waiting for my answer.
I blew on the hot liquid, then chanced a sip, anything to stave off the conversation about my failure. I didn’t want to admit it. Not to myself, and not to my mother.
She lifted an eyebrow, but then she set down her cup and slid a folded section of the newspaper toward me. “The open casting call is Monday, which gives you time to read the book before you audition.”
“Mom, I’m done. I can’t take it anymore.” I dropped my head, ashamed.
She reached her slender hand across the table. “Alaina, this is your life. Don’t give up now. Yes, take the state exam for your teaching certification. Get a job as a teacher if you want to, but never give up on your dream.”
Even though I felt tears building up in my eyes that I wanted to hide, I lifted my head. “You gave up …” I regretted the words as soon as I sai
d them. It hadn’t even been an hour and I’d already started lobbing stones. That had to be a new record. And truthfully, my mother hadn’t given up on a career in acting. She’d left show business because she’d gotten pregnant with Raylene, not because she couldn’t make it. At nineteen, my mother had already performed several lead roles in local productions and had just landed a major role in a movie … when she discovered she was pregnant, and the studio fired her for breach of contract.
Instead of being angry at my ill-mannered remark, my mother simply smiled. “And that’s exactly why I’m telling you not to quit. Would you go to one more audition, please? For me?”
3
The Palace
The line leading to The Palace Theatre wrapped around the block and, as I suspected, hundreds of young women waited in line in front and behind me, each of them scrolling through their phones, oblivious about anyone but themselves.
As soon as a man moved orange cones out of the way, an all-black Town Car with dark tinted windows parallel-parked in a space directly outside the theater.
The driver, a slim giant dressed all in black, hopped out of the car at the same time the back door swung open. A woman my age, but with long brown hair that was swept up into a ponytail, stepped out. She was dressed casually and seemed nervous, even though she was clearly someone important since she had a chauffeur and an assigned parking space right outside the theater. I cocked my head as I suddenly realized how important she was. I flipped over the book my mother had given me. My mother had asked me to get the hardback copy autographed by anyone who was involved in the production. As many people as I could get, she’d requested.
The image of the author, Jana Embers, was on the dust jacket. Even with her hair pulled back and wearing glasses, it was clear it was the same woman. Mom would absolutely die if I got the author’s autograph on the book, but I wouldn’t dare shout out for an autograph while I was standing in line for an audition. As if it mattered. As if I had any chance with all these young women. I should probably just hop the velvet ropes and get the signature. Since it was a first edition, someday it might be worth more than I’d made all last year. At least I could say that my audition had paid off.
While I waited, knowing I’d never in a million years run after anyone for a signature, the chauffeur escorted the woman to the left-hand door, further confirming my belief that she was important. Strange that no one seemed to notice her.
The line moved slowly, like cattle walking across an uneven surface. At least the weather was nice. I had missed Pittsburgh’s weather. No one ever believed me when I tried to explain that there were more usable sunny days in Pittsburgh than most places I’d visited. Even when it was freezing, the sun was usually shining.
Things moved along faster inside. A woman standing within feet of the door called people from the line and directed them to different doors. She didn’t ask me which role I was auditioning for; she just had me sign on the line that matched the number she handed me, and told me to go to the door marked number one. At the door, a man handed me my sides and directed me to one of the remaining empty chairs in the room.
Once seated, I stared around at all the women, listening as they practiced and exercised their vocal cords. My voice was still hoarse from my screaming four nights ago, so I decided I didn’t need to do any more voice exercises.
My scanning of the room stopped when my gaze landed on a woman sitting two rows in front of me. It was her … the lady I assumed was the author. Why in the world would she be in here? Or, was she just an actress who looked like the author, someone who’d been requested to be here, the reason she’d arrived in a chauffeured car.
No, if that were the case, she wouldn’t be sitting in this room like all the rest of us. I watched as she listened intently to her neighbor, nodding politely, but then she turned her head away and buried her face into her sides, but not before I saw her cheeks blush scarlet. What was she doing?
The monitor called out a name, and the woman jumped up. I hadn’t heard the name the monitor called, but I knew it wasn’t Jana Embers; I would have heard that, since I had been listening for her name to confirm my suspicion. I was suddenly glad that my pride had kept me from asking her for an autograph. How silly I would have looked mistaking another actress for the author and asking her for an autograph.
Hours later, the monitor finally called my name and number. I started in response. I was pretty sure I had fallen asleep. After I’d read the lines a hundred times, of course. The only good thing about being near the back was that I had longer to study. Then again, the reader and casting director were probably asleep by now, too.
Regardless, this was my last chance. Really, this time. No matter what my mom said, I couldn’t put myself through the adrenaline rush of performing, and then the let down as each hour passed without a call to come back.
The script was great, though. I’d enjoyed this scene in the book. The main character had been borderline depressed after her husband cheated on her. She’d taken up a few pastimes that she’d found online for free. One of them happened to be a self-defense course. She’d been late for class and had tried to back out, but the trainer kept her behind, insisting she work out her anger, and she had. It was a great scene … one I could imagine. I’d never been married, but men had cheated on me. And even though Joe hadn’t cheated on me, he had unceremoniously dumped me for something better: a job in another state.
As soon as I read off my lines, the reader looked up at the man behind the desk. The man behind the desk, the casting director, I assumed, pointed to the opposite door than the one I came in. Many of the other girls had come back through the first door.
I was getting a chance to personally perform for Howard Edwards the Second, the director and producer of HELL productions, the man who made multi-million-dollar-budget productions. I’d heard the women whispering that he was watching the auditions today.
My heart pounded faster in my chest, so fast I could feel it throb all the way up to my temples. My hands broke out in a sweat as I turned to follow the reader.
I stood like a statue, careful not to lock my knees, though. I could just imagine doing something stupid like passing out. The papers in my hand shook as I took in the opulent theater that dated back to the 1920s, to the days of vaudeville and silent motion pictures. I was on the same stage where great performers in theater and music had stood. With its French Renaissance décor in rich reds and brushed golds, marble balustrade, spiral staircase, and black-and-white tiled floors, The Palace Theatre rivaled some of the most beautiful theaters I’d ever been in.
The reader motioned for me to step forward, but then I saw him. Howard Edwards the Second stood, his gaze connecting with several individuals, one of which was a tall blonde who exuded authority simply by the way she stood. That and her thousand-dollar pantsuit. I also couldn’t help but notice how good-looking and trim Howard was, way better looking than the pictures the tabloids posted of him. Then again, rag mags usually tried to make famous people look bad, as it sold papers when they wrote, “Look how such-and-such looks on the beach.” Well, except when People magazine announced him as one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors. Even I couldn’t resist thumbing through the copy of that issue while standing in line at the grocery store.
Howard made eye contact with everyone in the room but me, then announced, “Have callbacks here tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp!” He took the hand of the woman whom I’d thought was the author and escorted her out a side door.
“What?” I growled, my temples throbbing with anger now, not excitement. As hoarse as my voice was, especially after I’d used every ounce of energy I had left in me to perform the scene in the previous room, I didn’t think anything came out, though. Was I considered a “callback?” I hadn’t performed for him yet. The reader brushed by me, back into the other room.
Not knowing what else to do, I followed the reader back into the room where I’d first auditioned. No way was I giving up. Just because Mr. Edwards w
as too tired and too rude to stay for a couple more minutes and hear my audition didn’t mean I hadn’t made callbacks. I’d made it this far, so they must have seen something in my performance.
I stood behind the reader, unwilling to leave until I had an answer. My arms were crossed, so I quickly dropped them. “Sir?”
My voice must have taken him by surprise. He jumped, then turned. “Oh, yes, Ms. Ackerman. Be back at ten a.m. tomorrow.”
Tears rushed to my eyes at the fact that I made callbacks for a major motion picture. I immediately darted out of the room, afraid that he might see the silly display of emotion and change his mind.
The entire way to my mother’s old Ford Taurus, I kept my head down, anxious not to make eye contact with anyone. Afraid that I’d burst into tears or a happy dance, I wasn’t sure which.
I opened the door and fell back into the seat, my eyelids falling shut as I sent up a prayer of thanks. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I lifted both my fists and shook them, then pressed them to my mouth. “Well, thank you for the reader and the casting director. And if you’re not too busy, maybe you could teach Mr. Edwards some manners tonight. Teach him it’s rude to walk out on a performer.”
4
An Old Friend
It wasn’t the first time I’d made callbacks, obviously, but it was always exciting. And this was the first time I’d ever auditioned for a major motion picture. I imagined it felt a lot like advancing to the final round on Jeopardy.
“You’ve got twenty years, Alaina, how many of those are you going to risk?” Alex Trebek would ask.
“All twenty, Alex!” If I don’t get this part, I would officially move home to Pittsburgh, I decided.
But I wouldn’t make that promise to my mother yet. I’d simply tell her that I made the callback list. That would make her happy.
[What's Luck Got To Do With It 02.0] Down on Her Luck Page 3
