Pushing Upward

by Andrea Adler

  Dear Emma,

  I’ll call you from the theater to make plans for tonight. I’m so glad you’ll be coming. Talk to you later.

  Sandra.

  Calvin’s apartment was off Wilshire Boulevard, about ten miles from Emma’s. And although taking Wilshire was the most direct way there, it looked like there was an accident up ahead. So I turned onto a side street, and noticed the sweetest art-deco apartment building I’d ever seen. The wooden sign in front of the small garden read: ONE-BEDROOM FOR RENT. One day! I promised myself. One day I’ll have a nest of my own.

  I circled the block back to Wilshire, and found Calvin’s building. It was a cold, white high-rise. The front entry portico was easy to pull into, and as I parked the car at the front, I wondered if Calvin had remembered to leave the key. I left the Fiat running and ran inside to find the doorman.

  A short, stocky man with bifocals sat on a stool reading a dirty girlie magazine. I was about to say, “Excuse me, your tenant Calvin Schreiber was supposed to leave me …” when the doorman looked up and said, “Hi, you must be Sandra,” and handed me an envelope. “I’ve been expecting you. The key’s inside.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Sorry to be in such a rush, but I have an opening tonight!” I ran back to the Fiat and grabbed my suitcase and some bags. The doorman followed me out to the car and grabbed a few, too; he led me to the bank of elevators and showed me the elevator to take—the one that would take me to the ­twenty-sixth floor.

  I slid in the key, turned the bolt, and opened Calvin’s door. Before me was expensive furniture—luxurious rugs, glass-and-chrome tables, glass-and-chrome chairs, glass-and-chrome mirrors. The place was huge, and sterile, and a mess. Dishes were piled high in the sink; days-old cold, congealed pizza was still in its open box on the couch. Clothes were scattered everywhere. I wanted to go back to Emma’s. I wanted to cry. I wanted to die, but there was no time. It was already ten-thirty.

  I took the elevator back to the lobby, made a few more trips up with the doorman’s help, and then grabbed the overnight bag that I’d packed for later, for Allen’s.

  “Good luck,” the doorman said to my back as I got into the car. And as I drove like a madman, I repeated a prayer: Dear God, give me strength. Just let me get through the night.

  I ran to the dressing room, placed my overnight bag in the closet, made sure all my costume changes and wigs were in place, and then darted back to the stage. Everyone was there, receiving notes. Our director wanted to run through the play twice—once without costumes, once with costumes. So that’s what we did. The first rehearsal was done at lightning speed, a clever technique to see if we knew our lines without thinking about them and remembered the blocking. Then we rehearsed the play again. This time with costumes and corrected scene changes.

  Everyone was on cue. We knew our lines, when to come in, when to exit. Everyone looked radiant—particularly our distinguished director, decked out in a tailored suit. Allen’s hair, slicked back, made his expressive dark eyes stand out. Just thinking about going home with this man at the end of the night made me pinch myself.

  Marlene was focused and deliberate. Perhaps this would be her comeback debut after all. Bill Fleishman had the comedic timing of a masterful clown, and Kevin Hawthorne, who’d replaced Bob Driscoll, played the rich owner of a manor with dignity and defiance. Frank Geraldi’s sardonic sense of humor would have the audience in stitches. Charlie, the stage manager, made sure the props were in place and the curtain calls went smoothly. Other than stopping for a few snags in the scene changes, and a few minor fixes in the blocking, dress rehearsal went well. Mr. Cahill announced his appreciation.

  We were given a two-hour break to eat and rest up. Everyone left the stage except Allen, who asked me to stay. He came over to me, glanced around before making his move, and then gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You’re going to be great. How’s everything with Emma?”

  “It’s all … okay.”

  “You are coming home with me, right?”

  “I suppose. Unless I get a better offer.”

  “Let me know if you do.”

  “I gotta go.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “See you later.” I looked around for Charlie, the stage manager. I needed to reserve the best seats in the house—for Emma, Bert, and Sharleen.

  “Charlie!” I yelled, but he didn’t answer. “Charlie!” I yelled again.

  “I’m over here, in the back,” his voice hollered back.

  I found him fiddling with the pulley. “How’s it going?”

  “I dunno—these new curtains,” he said. “We shoulda stayed with the old ones until after the show.”

  “You’ll make ’em work. You always do. Charlie, I have a favor to ask. Would you let me reserve some seats?” I pulled out a five, smiled, and waved it around.

  He looked at the five and said, “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, I do. You deserve more.”

  He caved, but made me swear not to tell. I raised my three fingers, Girl Scout–style, and handed him the five.

  “Fifteenth row, down center, smack in the middle of the auditorium.”

  “Perfect. Thank you, Charlie.”

  “You better go get some ribbon and mark those seats; otherwise they’ll be gone.”

  I ran out of the theater, sprinted four blocks to the five-and-dime, purchased some yellow ribbon and a black Magic Marker.

  I ran back and wrapped the ribbon carefully around the three seats in the fifteenth row, and wrote: RESERVED FOR EMMA. After all, no matter what was happening between us, it was her opening night as much as mine.

  I rushed back out to the phone booth to call Emma and go over the details. Thank goodness she was home.

  “Listen, Emma.” Out of breath. “If Bert could pick up Sharleen at six-forty-five, and you at seven, then you’ll all be at the theater by seven-fifteen, which is perfect. You need to be in your seats when the curtain opens; otherwise the seats I reserved for you will be taken.”

  Emma responded with a distant voice, “Yes, dear. I’ll call Bert to make sure we’re all there.”

  “It means a lot to me that you’ll be here. You have no idea how much.” I hung up the phone, relieved that she was coming and that she’d used the word dear.

  With less than an hour left, I had to make a choice to either rest or eat. Oh no! I had forgotten to buy the corsage. The one I wanted to present to Emma. She had earned it, after all.

  I ran over to the flower shop two blocks away and waited for the saleswoman to get off the phone. I told her I wanted to buy the most beautiful corsage in the store. She went into the cold glassed-in room and returned with a lavender Lisianthus. It was elegant. And since Emma wore lavender a lot, it would match whatever she was wearing tonight. The store owner placed the flower in a clear plastic box. I paid her with the last ten dollars to my name and ran back to the theater.

  I placed Emma’s flower in a small refrigerator at the back of the stage, where it would stay chilled and fresh until after the show; went to the women’s room and sponge-bathed my face and neck, patting under my arms with the industrial-strength, rough paper towel; and returned to my dressing room, where I collapsed in the chair and sank deep into the wicker seat. Knowing I didn’t have much time, I closed my eyes, clasped my hands on my stomach, and watched as my body began to relax … get centered … let go.

  I must have fallen asleep, because I woke with a start. I got up and turned on the overhead light and noticed a burgundy rose on a small eyelet cloth. It lay there innocently on the surface of the dressing table. Attached to the rose was a small string tied to a card: “Have a ball out there! Love, Allen.”

  I placed the rose above my ear as I applied opening-night makeup to my face. And as I looked in the mirror and smoothed the thick pancake to my eyes and cheeks, I noticed that the canvas I was painting on was an image I no longer knew. Who are you? I asked the reflection. Why do you feel so alone? There’s an auditorium filled with people, and Allen, ador
ing you, praising you, wanting to be with you after the show. I touched the rose. I had so much to be grateful for, but all I could think of was Emma and that I needed to call her in the morning, tell her that I was sorry … that I’d made a stupid, impulsive mistake and that I wanted—needed—to move back.

  The bright green light on the wall started to flicker. It was the stage manager’s signal meaning: ten minutes to curtain.

  I finished applying the makeup, slipped on the necessary undergarments so nothing could show through, donned the blonde wig, and zipped up the invisible zipper at the side of the actress costume. I took one last glance at the mirror: Okay, this is it. Make Emma proud. I kissed my finger and touched the mirror, turned off the light, and quietly closed the door.

  Tiptoeing cautiously on the black-painted cement, careful not to make any noise with my heels or trip over a prop, I moved toward the stage. I touched the black curtains with my fingers to confirm that the night was real, and eavesdropped on the audience as they roared with laughter. Goose bumps were popping up on my skin; electric impulses were shooting through my body.

  We were lucky; it was an intelligent audience. They laughed and were silent in all the right places. I peered around the curtains for a glimpse of the stage. The actors were pacing themselves perfectly. Peeking out and into the audience, I could see newspaper reporters making notes on their spiral pads. I wondered if Jerry had come or if Rachel had made it. And if she got my message, did she bring Armando? Did Emma and Bert find their marked seats? Was Clifford Thorne, the playwright, here?

  I heard my cue and felt a rush of energy up my spine. All thoughts of who was in the audience and who wasn’t stopped; no one was allowed into my head. Sandra Billings stepped aside and made room for the character of the actress, and then the actress moved out onto the stage. All that was left to do was to listen, repeat the lines I knew so well, and respond.

  Everything flowed. No matter what I did, the character was true to her essence. The audience trusted the actress completely, and they responded. They felt sad when the actress cried. They sat motionless when the actress sat quietly. My body felt wired with an electric current cranked up to the highest degree, picking up emotional frequencies within the full radius of the auditorium. I could hear people’s thoughts, feel their emotions. I became the instrument for creating resistance, letting go, pulling back, letting go. The audience and I were one. And at the same time that my body, this instrument, was playing the part, I watched every move it made. I’d become the witness to my own performance and was able to stay in that awareness throughout the play: watching every move, listening to every inflection. The same response and feeling occurred when I played the intern. It was sheer perfection.

  The audience loved that Allen Cahill, the director, was also playing the role of a famous playwright in the production. They loved how he meandered up and down the aisles, brushing by their seats, yelling at the actors in character. It gave the audience a chance to be voyeurs, and imagine, if only for an hour and a half, what it would be like to be in charge. The spectators were entranced, enthralled. As well they should be. Our ensemble was at their best tonight.

  The curtain fell, the audience applauded, and the curtain reopened. We all took a bow and a second bow; the spectators kept applauding, and the curtain closed again. We were all ready to disperse, but the curtains reopened. Clusters of people were on their feet, shouting, “Bravo, bravo!” The rest of the audience rose in a wave. Red and white roses sailed onto the stage.

  Bill Fleishman called out, “Director!” And then we all chimed in, “Director, director!” Allen Cahill came onstage and stood with the cast. The audience clapped harder. The applause rose. It was thunderous. Allen stayed with us, took a bow, and extended his arm toward the cast to show his appreciation. His gesture fueled a redoubled roar of applause. It washed over us like a current, until the curtain made its final close.

  We all knew the play was a bona-fide success.

  The cast members embraced each other. What a night! What an unbelievable night! I hugged everyone in sight: Charlie, Bill, Marlene, the box-office ladies Harriet and Toby. Family and friends were making their way backstage behind the curtain. Photographers and reporters were jamming their way through the crowd to get their best shots. An elderly man I’d never met came over to me in tears. He stroked my cheek and thanked me for touching his heart. Allen approached me, gave me a hug, and whispered, “You couldn’t have been better. Let’s go to the party together.”

  “Together?” I couldn’t help but be sarcastic. “In the same car? Are you ready to make that leap?” I whispered back. It was one of those remarks I never should have made. “Sorry,” I said. “I’d love to go with you, and thanks for the rose.”

  The rose. I was reminded of Emma’s corsage! I excused myself and ran to the small refrigerator, pulled out the lavender Lisianthus, still elegant and graceful in its plastic container, and returned to the stage to find Emma.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and was ecstatic to see a familiar face. “Rachel, you came! I don’t believe it. Oh my God, I’m so glad to see you.” I pulled her into a hug that would have suffocated her and her unborn child, now taking up a bit more room.

  “Miss you in a starring role? Are you serious? You were great, Sandra, really! Rock solid. You should be proud, Sandra Billings.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here … oh my God, your stomach has really grown! How are you feeling?”

  “Great! Sandra, I’d like you to meet Armando.”

  Armando was a knockout! He had dark wavy hair and caramel-colored skin. His black-framed glasses gave the impression of someone tough and inflexible, but as soon as his big brown eyes smiled at me, I knew he would be a kind and loving husband, a good father. He seemed perfect for Rachel.

  “Hi. It’s great to meet you, finally,” I said as we shook hands.

  “I enjoyed the show very much,” Armando said in his tentative English.

  “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “I heard your phone message,” Rachel said, “but we only arrived this afternoon. Are you all right?”

  “I’m better.”

  “We’re here for a while, so we’ll have lots of time to talk. Go ahead,” Rachel said, gently pushing me away. “All these people are waiting to meet you. Call me tomorrow.”

  I gave her a final hug, turned around, and saw a line of strangers waiting to congratulate me. I smiled and shook people’s hands, and then, across the stage, I saw an elderly woman with short white hair, talking to a cluster of people. Emma! I kept waiting for her to turn around, but she didn’t. I excused myself from the throng and moved across the wooden stage, placed my hand on her shoulder.

  “This is for you,” I said and handed her the lavender flower.

  The woman turned. It wasn’t Emma. Turning all shades of humiliation, I stammered an apology.

  Between handshaking and slaps on the back and hugs, I kept looking around for Emma. No sight of her. But I spotted Jerry and a tall woman with dark curly hair coming toward me.

  “Sandra, you were fantastic. Really great! The show was terrific. I’d like you to meet Virginia Smollins. Virginia, this is Sandra.”

  “Nice to meet you, Virginia.”

  “It was a wonderful show. I’m sure you’ll be very busy after this run.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  “Virginia is an agent,” Jerry said slyly.

  She smiled at me. “Here’s my card. I’d love to sit down and discuss your future.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Call me Monday.”

  “That’s in three days,” Jerry reminded me. “You won’t forget, will you?”

  “I don’t think so, Jerry.”

  “Good. Is Emma here?”

  “She should be. I haven’t seen her yet.”

  Jerry paused, ready to wave his exit. “I’ll call you,” he said warmly.

  “Oh … I moved. But I may be m
oving back. Let me call you.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”

  “Do me a favor—don’t worry about your career. I believe the universe is handling everything.”

  Grateful for his words, I smiled.

  Emma. Where was that woman? I looked out again through the curtains, backstage, around the dressing rooms, and then I saw—oh my God!—Ginger Pompidou, LaPapa’s infamous witch, wrapped in her long dark cape and sporting new orange hair. I tried to duck around a group of backstage visitors to hide from her, but she saw me. Oh well.

  “Ginger, how are you?”

  “You were incredible, darling. I knew you had it in you. We have five new members at LaPapa, and we’re in production with Camille’s first play. You’ve got to see it, The Iron Pot. The play opens in two weeks at the Vanguard. This is Camille, our fabulous new playwright.”

  “Nice to meet you, Camille.” I could sense that Camille was more to Ginger than just a playwright.

  “Ginger, it’s great seeing you. I’m glad you made it to the show.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bert Klein cutting though the crowd, moving toward me.

  “Ginger, I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t forget, The Iron Pot, two weeks, Vanguard Theater.”

  “I’ll try to make it.”

  I caught up with Bert, and we both began to speak at the same time:

  “Bert, hi, where’s Emma and Sharleen?”

  “Sandra, you’ve been a challenge to find.”

  Bert continued, “Emma was tired. She’s coming tomorrow night with her friend Jackson.”