Pushing Upward

by Andrea Adler

  “Bert never could have a small celebration,” Emma said, shaking her head.

  Gazing out the window, I had never seen so much wealth gathered in one place. Jaguars, BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes, Maseratis, limousines—all positioned in a regimental line, chrome dazzling under the floodlights, purring at idle along Bert’s immense circular driveway. It was hard to believe people made enough money to buy these cars when it took me two months of obsessive budgeting to afford windshield wipers.

  Emma and I sat in the Fiat as we waited for the cars to edge forward in line. Listening to drunken laughter, we viewed the colorful show from our windows: the house all aglow with orange and black lights, guests dressed in expensive ornate costumes, parking attendants in outlandish masks. Two attendants opened our doors and escorted us out. One of them drove away with my car, no doubt to some faraway alleyway to hide the old clunker from the opulent scene.

  We strolled like movie stars up the red carpet neatly rolled out down the grand staircase. The closer Emma and I approached the massive double doors, the louder the music screamed through the windows, the more pulsating orange and black lights shouted for attention. A tall man wearing a turquoise velvet suit and a black satin top hat opened the formidable doors as we stepped into the foyer. Between spiderwebs and skeletons rode witches on broomsticks; frightful papier-mâché faces leered, swinging from long wooden poles. Audiotapes of canned torture blared through the thick clouds of smoke permeating the marble entryway, ushering us into Bert’s mansion.

  The living room was packed with guests: Zorro and Mozart, Charlie Chaplin, cowboys and Indians, goblins and go-go dancers, and … yes, that was Greta Garbo dancing seductively, snuggling close to Abe Lincoln, out on the parquet dance floor. Charming men wearing black tuxedos carried trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Through an onslaught of tobacco funk, you could barely make out the food set on tables draped with cobwebs of glitter and spun silk. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BERT! was spelled out in neon lights that stretched from one end of the living room to the other.

  Emma must have experienced Bert’s lavish parties in the past; she’d spent longer than usual preparing, adorning her face with powder, rouge, lipstick, and eye shadow. Wearing her blue chiffon party dress, she looked like Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.

  I, on the other hand, wore a simple pale-rose ankle-length skirt with brown boots and a sweater to match. I wasn’t interested in dressing up. I wanted to feel safe in my own clothes. My own clothes allowed me to feel the subtle vibrations in the room more precisely, feel the fake quality in the air, and safeguard myself from the phony smiles. This was not a party where close friends gathered to share the joy of a newborn child. This was a room filled with hungry vultures hovering over their prey, where not even expensive costumes could disguise the fabrication.

  “Do you see the birthday boy?” I asked Emma.

  “Only smoke and the tops of people’s headdresses,” she replied, looking around.

  I looked around, too, trying to see if I could guess which costumed figure might be Bert. Suddenly, Clark Gable startled us with an enthusiastic “Emma! You look fabulous. I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Jack, dear. It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

  “Exceedingly jubilant! How are you doing?”

  Jack was fortyish and jumpy in his double-breasted suit, wing-tip shoes, and toupee. His speech was staccato, and his body trembled, as if he’d survived a recent earthquake with a few persistent tremors. His impersonation of Clark Gable was pretty impressive, but he’d spent way too much time roasting his body with aluminum foil on a poolside deck.

  “I’m feeling old and fine, dear …”

  “And who’s this lovely angel on your right?”

  “This is Sandra. Sandra, this is Jack Hanley.”

  Clark Gable didn’t smile or shake my hand, although I had extended it. He just looked intensely into my eyes. “You’re a Virgo. September 18, 1951, right?”

  “June 20, 1953,” I said.

  “You were born in Ohio … and your whole family has brown hair and problems with their feet, right?”

  “I was born in Michigan, but you’re right about the hair and feet.”

  “Gemini–Cancer cusp. Interesting.” He thought for a moment. “Well, you’re going to be feeling a surge of energy now that Mercury’s gone direct. The next few weeks are going to be quite productive for you. You’re about to experience a positive shift in your tenth house, the house of career.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I quipped.

  “Oh, no … I’m not always accurate with people’s signs, but I know my houses,” he said, a little less shaky now.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Greta Garbo was now coming our way, slithering through the crowd, waving; I wasn’t quite sure to whom. In the hand that wasn’t waving was a long cigarette holder and a champagne flute. Sporting a thirties-style seductive nightgown, her small boobies bouncing, her blonde shoulder-length hair—clearly a wig—swaying to and fro, she vamped up to Emma and embraced her.

  They launched right into an intimate conversation as if I didn’t exist, and then, finally, Emma turned and introduced me to Ms. Garbo.

  “Zelda, this is Sandra. The young girl who is staying—”

  “So, you’re the new roomie I’ve heard so much about.”

  So, this is Zelda. Aloud, I said, “Hello, Zelda. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Ms. Garbo was a bit tipsy, and delightful, and made me smile every time she tried to speak. Maybe it was the way she slurred her words and her attempt to stand up straight in her inebriated state. I also detected sadness behind her girlish smiles, most likely due to finding her husband in bed with a younger woman.

  Emma had mentioned just the other day that she and Zelda had been friends in Berlin. Zelda’s husband, Max, and Josef were also friends. They’d all moved to the States at the same time. Only, Max and Zelda moved to California first. Josef and Emma settled in New York.

  Now Zelda whisked Emma away to another cluster of costumed guests. Slowly, inconspicuously, I moved over to observe the conversation, where Emma was being worshipped. At least that’s what it looked like. Some reached for her hand, others kissed her cheek as if she were royalty, or expressed concern over her illness, exclaiming how elegant, how vibrant, she looked. Emma’s charm, her wry sense of humor, made her seem right at home in this social setting. It was as if she had come out of years of hibernation, bubbling like the champagne in Zelda’s glass, totally captivating the hearts of a knot of breathless men and women now standing around her. Only, where had all these devoted friends been all this time? They never came over to visit Emma, or called. And why hadn’t Emma introduced me to her friends or let them know I was part of her recovery? Why was she being so insensitive?

  As the crowd grew larger, the costumed guests hung attentively on Emma’s every word. Swept up in the wave of attention, she captivated them with stories of “the good ol’ days,” how life was so rich when she lived in New York. How she missed the art galleries, the theater, the artists and theatrics of the crowded city. Who was this butterfly now spreading her wings, this creature metamorphosing right in front of me? It wasn’t Emma from the farmers’ market or Emma the quiet, even-tempered woman from before we entered this gala. She was shining and glittering like the bright silver disco ball twirling rapidly above her head. As kaleidoscopically as the tiny square mirrors changed their colored reflections, Emma changed her style, her mood. Seeing her come alive was a delightful surprise on the one hand, and confusing to me on the other. I wondered why she had never shared this part of herself with me.

  In the midst of her exuberance, a short, stocky man dressed in a silk robe with a silk purple turban on his head burst through the semicircle surrounding Emma.

  “There’s my goddess! I’ve been searching the whole damn house for you.”

  “Bert!” Emma exclaimed and beamed at him in sheer delight. “Happy birthday, dear.” She handed
him a small wrapped present from her purse. Another surprise I’d known nothing about.

  Well, what do you know, Bert Klein in the flesh. Blue eyes, pudgy cheeks, pampered baby-soft skin. I noticed immediately how his lips tightened when he spoke, and how his hooded eyes had an air of superiority. I stood at least three inches taller than the man. As I observed his flamboyant behavior, I remembered the brief disclosure Emma had made about him only a few weeks back: that Bert’s father, Harvey, had quite a reputation in the movie industry for being verbally abusive and intimidating. And he didn’t turn off the abuse once he got home, directing most of it at Bert. Bert’s mother, Sarah, smothered the boy with love to compensate for Harvey’s harm.

  Sarah had been Emma’s good friend. She’d died not long after Josef.

  I supposed I could show a little compassion for the man, knowing his unmanageable unconsciousness sprang from his father’s behavior and the loss of his mother. I supposed I could even respect the guy for acknowledging Emma’s usefulness and intelligence, by giving her his scripts to critique. At least he appreciated her talent.

  But this was not easy. Because no matter what qualities he had or what kind of hell he’d gone through in his youth, he never, ever had to worry about a job, a place to live, or money. Everything was handed to him on a silver platter. Which, as far as I was concerned, was quite a nice little buffer. I didn’t want to be jealous. I had been working on this awful trait since I’d seen Rachel with her baby bump and her ring. But these demons don’t leave quickly.

  About to engineer my departure to the abundantly lavish buffet, I heard Emma say, “Bert, dear, I’d like you to meet Sandra; you spoke to her on the phone, remember?”

  Bert made an exaggerated turn toward me. “Ah, yes, the fledging actress—soon to be cast in Hollywood’s next blockbuster. Nice to meet you.”

  Hollywood’s next blockbuster!? He certainly wasn’t referring to one of his own films.

  Emma pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear. He looked at me, and then, turning back to the small crowd, he made an announcement: “Excuse me for a few minutes, everyone. I have someone I want Sandra to meet. I’ll be back. Don’t move from this spot, Emma. When I return, you and I are going to take some whirls around the dance floor.” The surrounding crowd applauded.

  “Go ahead, Bert,” she said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  I didn’t get it. Emma was like a stoic chief of police when she was with me, and with Bert, she’d just gone from kindly mother to simpering schoolgirl. It made me ill watching the “seduction.”

  Bert slipped his arm under my elbow and escorted me against my will to the library, where several people were sitting and talking. On our way into the room he murmured that the man he was about to introduce me to, Jerry Aldridge, was an up-and-coming writer, and it would be to my advantage to get to know him.

  Jerry Aldridge was sitting comfortably by himself on the seat of an elaborately draped bay window. Dressed in beige from his sweater to his toes, which oddly made him more conspicuous than the costumed guests, he looked utterly at ease sitting there. Perhaps he was imagining a passage for one of his stories, or scripts, or novels, or whatever it was he wrote. I hated to disturb him, but of course, Bert barged right in.

  “Jerry, I want you to meet a friend of mine: Sandra, uh …”

  “Billings,” I reminded him.

  “Of course, Billings. Sandra is an actress; we’re going to have to find her a role in one of our upcoming projects.”

  I saw Bert wink at Jerry, as if this statement were some kind of joke at my expense. “Why don’t you two get cozy.” He winked again. “I’m going back to dance with the Queen of the Ball.”

  I could have died right there. Jerry, not betraying any notice of my mortification, rose and reached out his hand. “Hi.” He smiled. “I’m Jerry Aldridge.”

  His voice was sweet, melodic to my ears. His eyes were big and brown and enchanting. You just knew this man didn’t have an ounce of anger in his soul. You knew he was one of those male specimens who’d never raise his voice … even if a terrible driver cut him off. I could tell these things about people within seconds of meeting them. Jerry had such an unusual handshake for a man; his palm was soft, inviting. His light complexion and sandy-blond hair added to his warm, virtuous quality, and he sure knew how to use those puppy-dog eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, Sandra Billings.” The voice was so soothing, I could feel my whole body relax into this content, open posture. “Don’t let Bert get to you. He’s only irritating on the surface. Underneath he has a good heart.”

  “Oh, you’ve experienced his heart, have you?” I rolled my eyes in disbelief.

  “On rare occasions.”

  We both sat down on the window seat, not too close, but close enough for me to smell his subtle cologne.

  “So … you’re a writer? What do you write?”

  “Novels mostly. I just finished my first screenplay.”

  “Wow, a screenplay. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. It’s arduous work, frustrating when you’re trying to please two producers and a director. And you? Bert mentioned you were an actress. Are you performing in anything I could see you in?”

  “Don’t get me started.” I didn’t want to complain. I hardly knew the man. Why would he want to hear a dismal story at his friend’s birthday party? I found myself falling into the deep brown of his eyes, forgetting where I was. I pulled myself out … only to be reminded of how short Jerry Aldridge was. Even sitting, I topped him by half a head in my low heels. What a shame. I knew, once he stood up again, the fantasy I was conjuring up in my mind about him would be over.

  “It’s a very strange business,” Jerry said. “A lot of it is who you know. But only in the beginning. Then, it’s what you know. When I first started, the only job I could get was writing skits for an industrial show in Vegas. We were introducing new plumbing products to a thousand distributors, trying to make toilets sound funny and appealing.”

  “Now, that would be an interesting writing assignment.”

  “It wasn’t. It was awful. The designers had no idea what they wanted, and I had to take my orders from them.”

  “I’ve been in a few productions like that.”

  “But at least I was writing and getting paid for it.”

  “I’ve never been paid for my work,” I said, as tears suddenly rolled down my cheeks. At last, a man who understood, who was intelligent, who listened, without any obvious intention of wanting to climb on top of me. Even if Jerry had an ulterior motive, he had the manners to be subtle about it.

  He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at my tears.

  “Oh God,” I confessed, “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Most people can’t let their emotions out. It’s healthy if you can release them. It’s a gift.”

  “If this is a gift, I have truckloads of presents.”

  “I don’t envy your situation. At least when I feel bad, I can take out my pencil and write about it. The truth is, if you’re good, they’ll come looking for you. If you’re good, someone will notice.”

  Why did I care if he was short? Why did I always have to be attracted to dark-complected, hairy men who invariably turned out to be jerks? Why couldn’t I just fall in love with a short, fair-skinned, wonderfully warm, kind person? I wiped my eyes and did the best I could to blow my nose without sounding like a party horn.

  “You know,” Jerry continued, “a friend of mine, Allen Cahill, is casting a new play in a couple weeks. He wanted me to audition, which is ridiculous, since I’m not an actor.” He handed me a card and wrote down: “Windmill Theater, Allen Cahill, Wednesday at four.”

  “You’ll take my place, and show up for the audition in my spot. If I’m not mistaken, I think there is a dual female role. Don’t worry—I’ll call him first.”

  “He’s not going to mind?”

  “He’ll be fine; he’s a friend. There’s a condition here, though. You have to promise to
call me, let me know what happens.”

  “I will, I will. Are you sure this is going to be okay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Thanks again. I guess you didn’t know it was a costume party either.”

  “I did.” Jerry smiled. “I came as Theodore Dreiser.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “‘Cause nobody remembers what he looked like.”

  “I came as Sylvia Plath.”

  “Good party choice.”

  He smiled, and then the up-and-coming writer extended his hand. Only this time, it felt like he’d wrapped his arms around my entire body, protecting me from all the foreign entities in the room.

  “I have an early appointment tomorrow, so I’d better be going. It was great meeting you, Sandra. Good luck with the audition. And don’t forget our agreement.”

  “I’m not from L.A.; I keep my word.”

  Jerry Aldridge pulled away, drifted out of the library and into the mass of bobbing partygoers. I drifted behind him as far as the entrance to the living room and leaned against one of the pillars that framed the doorway. For some reason, I didn’t feel alone anymore, nor did the music seem so loud or the lights so garish. As Jerry departed through the front door, my body relaxed against the solid white pillar, and I stood there, observing the glitter, the jewels, the dancing bodies moving to the beat of the samba. I could feel my spine straighten, my head resting more comfortably on my shoulders. I was no longer stung by Emma’s earlier indifference. Funny how my confidence had returned. I guess it was because I met someone who cared.

  I had closed my eyes in an inner prayer of gratitude when someone hit me on my shoulder. I opened my eyes, turned around, and there, standing before me, decked out in skimpy wrestling shorts and a black silk robe, was none other than Larry Santino. There was no “Hello,” no “How are you?” only Larry Santino, standing there half-naked, wearing boxing gloves and grinning with enthusiasm.