by Andrea Adler
“We need to drain the mix, form small balls, and then flatten them with the spatula once they’re in the skillet,” Emma said, a note of compassion in her voice. Understanding, and probably not for the first time, that I might be more fragile than she was. “Be careful not to drain out too much moisture, otherwise the pancake will be too dry,” she added.
I watched Emma’s hands dive into the batter, add a little flour, and cup the mixture with her thin, veined fingers as she squeezed out the excess liquid and placed the drained mix in the oiled skillet. They weren’t my mother’s hands; they were Emma’s. But at least they were here, guiding me, showing me not only how to make this dish, but how to drop my fear and nervousness with respect to this alien room called the kitchen and accept the possibility of intimacy, even if it was with a semi-stranger.
“Should we taste one?” Emma asked, excitedly.
“One? Let’s taste ten!”
“Taste as many as you like. It’ll be a few minutes before Zelda’s here. I must warn you, Zelda is going through an awful time. She is about to get a divorce.”
“That’s too bad. Have you known Zelda long?”
“I have known Zelda and Max, her husband, for many years. We met in Berlin when we were young. She has been a dear friend. I am worried about her. She is being very self-destructive, drinking too much, and medicating herself.”
“I’m sorry to hear about her marriage. I think I’ll leave you ladies to gossip on your own. I’m going for a long walk and then meeting some friends at Schwab’s to see if I can get discovered. Lana Turner supposedly got discovered there. Why not me?”
Both our hands reached for the refrigerator door at the same time. Her soft hand taking hold of mine brought shivers to my skin. Our eyes met, and the woman from the newspaper ad smiled. My eyes filled with tears. I had never experienced this kind of patience, this sweetness, anywhere, from anyone.
Chapter 9
The light has sunk into the earth….
He veils his light, yet still shines.
Coming to consciousness the next morning, I swam up through layers of memory:
I’m twelve. It’s two in the morning, and I hear someone sobbing. I don’t know where the cries are coming from. So I get up from my bed and walk softly down the stairs. As I reach the bottom step, I hear the tinkling of silverware, and sobs from the kitchen. I walk closer and see my mother in her pink nightgown at the table eating a bowl of cereal and three English muffins. She always eats when she can’t sleep.
A newly lit cigarette is sitting in the ashtray. Six cigarette butts lie shriveled next to it. Her hair, thin and lifeless from all the dyeing, stands straight up on one side. And one can see, from any direction, the half inch of grayed new hair growth, springing from her roots.
“Hey, Mom, why are you crying?”
She’s surprised I’m there. As she turns toward me, I see that her forehead is cut above her eyebrow in a half-moon, and bleeding.
“What happened to your face?”
“Your father hit me. It’s nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘It’s nothing’?”
“He does it accidentally when he’s asleep. It’s that stupid watch he won’t take off before he goes to bed.”
My mom lies all the time. But she is telling the truth this time. My father has so much pent-up anger; I guess he’s able to unconsciously let it go in his sleep.
Masterful at changing the subject when she doesn’t want to talk about something, she asks, “Why can’t you and your brother get along?”
“Because he’s a jerk, Mom. That’s why.”
I think about the fight Steven and I had gotten into the day before because he hid my history book, knowing I had a test. I wanted to kill him, and almost scratched his eyes out. Mom defended him before she even heard my side of the story. So, part of me feels sorry for the fact that she’s crying, and another part doesn’t.
I’ve seen her cry lots of times, but not like this. And I always ask what’s wrong. But she never wants to talk about it. Only this time, at 2:25 A.M., for some reason, she decides to tell me.
“I miss my mother, so much. I don’t know why she had to kill herself! Why she had to take those pills. I thought they were going to make her better, but they killed her. Didn’t her family mean anything to her? Didn’t she think I needed her?”
I don’t know what to do. It’s scary to see her like this. All I can think to say is, “You didn’t know, Mom … It’s—it’s not your fault.” I rubbed her shoulder, wishing I could remove her pain. But she just sat there sobbing. I sat with her as long as I could. I didn’t know what else to do.
“I gotta go back to bed, Mom. I have school tomorrow.”
“Can I have a hug?” she asks, as if she were the twelve-year-old.
I give her a big, long one. And then I leave, because there’s nothing more I can do for the woman whose mother killed herself—for the woman who is killing herself now—except feel sorry for her. And I can do that from anywhere.
I stopped at a pay phone on my way to the Screen Actors Guild that morning and placed a call to my mother, collect. She rarely accepted, but she did today. After a few months at Emma’s, I was hoping I’d be able to distance myself from Estelle Billings, not fall into the usual emotional web and react. Stop questioning why she had allowed my father to drink himself into a stupor every night and whip us, why she’d turned her head when Steven terrorized me, and why her social life was more important than her children. At least I would give it a try. Besides, I was in a good mood.
“Hi, Mom.”
She sounded preoccupied. “Sandra, is that you? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted …”
I heard noise in the background. She must have been having one of her bridge games, because she yelled to someone in the room: “This’ll just be a minute.” Then she returned to the phone. “Sandra, this is not a good time. I’ve got a tournament here. What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to tell you that I moved in with an elderly lady. She’s really nice. We made potato pancakes yesterday, and … I thought of you.”
“Is she paying you?”
“Why should she pay me?” I snapped back.
“Are you taking care of her? Is she an invalid?”
“No.”
“Then, why are you there?”
There were a thousand reasons why I was there, but I didn’t voice any of them.
“I hope you didn’t call for money, because we don’t have any to spare, and your father would kill me if he knew I accepted this call.”
“I didn’t call for money, Mom.”
“You’re working, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re working.”
I should have said yes. But I told her that I needed a break, and wanted to start auditioning.
“For God’s sake, Sandra—that was high school. Anne Frank? Can you forget that? What have you acted in? What have they paid you for? Can you please give us some peace of mind and go back to school and get a degree, or at least get a job? First you say hateful things to us …”
“Mom, I said I was sorry. I took it back.”
“You say these hateful things, and leave us with all that ugliness—you can’t just erase it, you know, and then walk away. Can you at least give me the gift of not having to worry about you?”
“I’m fine. I just called to tell you—”
“Call next week. Not collect. I have to go. These women are waiting.”
She hung up. So did I.
Chapter 10
One must not expect perseverance too soon.
I had driven by the blue stucco structure thousands of times, but I’d never dared to enter. It seemed impenetrable … the Screen Actors Guild carried a lot of weight. Not just in my eyes, but in the eyes of every actor living in L.A. and New York. The Guild became either a protective shield or an iron wall impossible to break through. The drill was, you couldn’t get into a film or a TV show without having your
SAG card and an agent. Most agents would not sign actors unless they had their SAG card, and the only auditions available without a SAG card were those that were posted “non-union.” The problem was, non-union plays were not highly regarded by the reviewers—which meant that the reviewers rarely showed up. Therefore, no matter how talented you were, if it wasn’t a union production, your work would most likely not be seen or written up. It was a vicious circle, a conundrum I was determined to break through.
Entering the Guild today was like walking into a Fellini film. Midgets and clowns walked in one direction; a couple in formal wear, and on stilts, walked in another. Magnificent female bodies sculpted to perfection slithered by me, while young children dragged by their mothers screamed to leave. I moved past the performers, until I found the bulletin board where posters and flyers announced upcoming auditions. The board was stuffed—one flyer on top of the other. There were auditions for fifty-year-old fat men, one-legged teenagers, five-year-old redheads. Not one flyer called for a twenty-one-year-old female.
After scouring the board to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I decided to go to the information desk and question the white-haired man sitting behind it. “Are all the postings listed on this board?” I asked him.
“Most of the professional auditions are not publicly announced. They are found through an agent,” he explained.
“If you have an agent,” I replied sharply. “Do you have a list of agents?”
“Yes, we do,” he said, “but we only give it out to members.”
“I see. And how is a nonmember supposed to become a member without this list?”
“I receive no pleasure in saying I can’t give you this list. I go through this several times a day.”
“Well, then”—I switched quickly from brazen to demure—“can’t you break the mold, this one time, and give me the list?” I smiled and pouted like I used to for my father, when I wanted my way. “You could liberate yourself. A burden would be removed from your heart, and you’d be helping someone launch an entire career. When I’m rich and famous, standing on that stage receiving my Oscar, I’ll say, ‘I have many people to thank for this award, but one very special man …’ What’s your name?”
“Kenny McBride.” He winked.
“‘… If it weren’t for Kenny McBride, I wouldn’t be here tonight accepting this great award. It’s all because of Kenny, the man from the Screen Actors Guild.’” I bowed. He applauded.
“Thank you, thank you,” I said to my fan. “Now, wouldn’t it be grand to hear your name announced on national television?”
The old man, I would bet once an actor himself, smiled but made no comment. I could see his mind spinning: Should I? She’s such a nice girl. Who would know? He turned his head to see if anyone was looking. No one was around. Go for it! I yelled silently. His hand reached for the handle of the file cabinet. He’s going to pull out the list. I know it. He knows how unfair the system is. His hand was poised over the file. Yes, yes. But he stopped midway and placed his hand helplessly in his lap. The old man, stuck behind the desk, said, “I can’t help you.”
“Oh God,” I said under my breath, then louder, “I understand, you have rules. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble or lose your job or anything.”
I exited the double doors, annoyed that my charm hadn’t worked. No wonder actors play violent, explosive roles; end up in jail; or drink themselves into oblivion. Look what they have to go through—just to get a SAG card.
I needed a long walk down Hollywood Boulevard to help me cool down from yet another of life’s injustices. I started slow and began to walk faster and faster. I thought that the faster I walked, the more steam I would blow off. But the rage only intensified when I passed store windows displaying new dresses and accessories I couldn’t afford. I stopped at a window and eyeballed a peach-colored blouse, knowing how fabulous the color would look on me. But all I could think about was my car-insurance payment due next week—where my first unemployment check would go.
Feeling very dejected now, I headed back. A block before my car, I stopped in a bodega, hoping to find some magazines that catalogued non-Equity listings of local auditions, anything that would give me a clue as to where auditions might be held. But there was nothing. Zippo. The nice Indian storekeeper behind the counter, gold teeth glittering, asked if I needed any help. Too bad he hadn’t been warned. The girl standing before him was looking for a fight.
“I’m looking for Variety magazine.” He gave me a blank stare. Speaking very slowly, I asked him again: “Do—you—have—any—Variety—magazines?”
“We run out of that magazine five minutes after they deliver it. Every day this happens, every day,” he replied.
“Oh, great!” I retorted, hardly able to restrain myself. I walked over to the candy counter, hoping to find a Heath bar.
“How about Heath bars, do you have any of those?” He ignored me, and walked toward another customer.
“Hello! Are you listening?” Obviously not! I was a waste of his time. Wanting to debate anything with anyone, needing to win something from someone, I kept at him: “Do you have any macadamia nuts or peanut butter and jelly in a jar? How about Jiffy Pop? Do you have Jiffy Pop?”
He continued to ignore me, so I went over to him, interrupting his conversation with a customer, and asked point-blank: “Exactly what time does Variety get here? In the morning or the afternoon?”
“It comes different times, different days. I cannot tell you what time, and you are being very rude.”
“I’m being rude? I came in here wanting to buy candy, magazines, nuts … but your store didn’t have one thing I needed. I think that’s pretty rude.”
I turned to leave, but I wasn’t done. I decided to buy some Mars bars, a bag of chips, and a pint of vanilla ice cream. Returning to my Fiat, I pushed the seat back as far as it could go, and made myself comfortable in my blue bubble of protection. I turned on my favorite jazz station and chomped on the potato chips first. Munching away, I looked out the window. Everyone seemed so content, laughing, gossiping, sharing secrets, bumping hips as they sashayed into the store to buy their goodies.
I opened the Mars bar next. Gee, what would it be like to be married and have someone around all the time to listen to my problems, my stupid jokes? Someone who would hold me and make the world go away …
I opened the container of half-melted ice cream. When the plastic spoon hit the bottom of the pint and not a lick was left, I poured the last remains of chip crumbs into my mouth, squashed the bag into a nice tight ball, and fixed my mascara in the rearview mirror. Then I picked up the empty wrappers and carried them out to the big black Dumpster. Returning to the bodega, I asked the proprietor if there was a public restroom on the premises. Indignantly, he handed me a key attached to a long wooden paddle and told me curtly that the bathroom was outside, around the side of the building.
Once inside the bathroom, with its atrocious reek of urine and pine cleaner, sickly sweet, I felt peculiarly safe. The rusty sink, graffiti-scrawled walls, and crumpled paper towels grossed me out. But at least I could be alone, do what I needed to do. I locked the door and began the ritual of wiping off the toilet seat, rolling out about fifty toilet-paper squares, and laying them on the tile floor to protect my knees from the caked dirt. When everything was nice and neat, I knelt down before the bowl, stuck my finger down my throat, and vomited as much as I could. And then I did it again and again. On the third purge, I nicked my upper palate with my fingernail. Blood appeared on my finger. Not much, but enough to warrant pulling myself up to the sink and turning on the faucet. I cupped my hand and drank some of the iron-colored water from the rusty tap in hopes of easing the sting.
The pain subsided. I felt dehydrated and couldn’t wait to guzzle down some decent liquid. Ahh, a fresh start. A new body! After gathering all the toilet paper from the floor and stuffing it into the already-stuffed garbage can, I stepped over to the sink again, reached for the pink syrupy soap, and w
ashed my hands. I thought about what Rachel said about using food to escape emotions. But the act was over.
Before unlocking the door, I reached inside my purse and wrote the words I’m sorry with lipstick on the mirror, and I then returned the key. I told the Indian man there was no more toilet paper. So he’d go inside, read the message, and forgive me.
Then I drove to Rachel’s apartment to cry or scream or just sit on her couch and watch her chew gum. But when I got to her street, her car was nowhere in sight. Feeling raw, worn-out, and bleary-eyed, I had nothing else to do but go home, crawl under the covers, and throw the I Ching.
Chapter 11
Restlessness as an enduring condition brings misfortune.
I was too agitated to hear any clear answers from the I Ching when I returned from my binge-and-purge session. So, first thing the next morning, I brought out my pad and silk pouch and threw the coins. The question was: How do I stop this debilitating habit? The answer:
5. Hsü /Waiting (Nourishment)
Above: K’an, The Abysmal, Water
Below: Ch’ien, The Creative, Heaven
All beings have need of nourishment … But the gift of food comes in its own time, and for this one must wait.
“Gift” of food. The way I use it, it’s a curse. And I’m tired of waiting. That’s all I do.
This hexagram shows the clouds in the heavens, giving rain to refresh all that grows and to provide mankind with food and drink. The rain will come in its own time. We cannot make it come; we have to wait for it …
Strength in the face of danger does not plunge ahead but bides its time, whereas weakness in the face of danger grows agitated and has not the patience to wait …
