Pushing Upward (26 page)

After a beautiful drive, Jerry and I arrived at our destination, just a few blocks from the beach. The air felt so rejuvenating that I wanted to jump into my running gear and sprint along the coast, but I looked at my watch and couldn't believe time had passed so fast.

“Jerry, we have to get moving.”

“Here are the houses.”

“These two? Right here, in front of us?”

“Yep, right next to each other.”

“That makes it convenient. Do you have keys?”

“I tried calling the Realtor, but she wasn't there.”

“Can we peek in the windows?”

“Sure. No one lives in either house.”

I leapt out of the Audi and walked up to the house I found less appealing first. Years of study moved me quickly into high gear.

The first house was Spanish, with a pueblo look to it: flat roof, small chimney, and very few windows. There was an unattractive square window in the front door, and when I looked through it, I saw a hideous staircase right behind the door, taking up half the visual space. “Why do builders do that?” I muttered. “Who wants to open a door and be greeted by steps? It makes the entryway so uninviting. This house has no chance, and it's an embarrassment to Spanish architecture.”

The second house had much more style. It, too, was Spanish, but more eclectic. Graceful proportions. There were three wings, distinguished by variations in the height of the roofline, with a Renaissance-inspired entryway. The clincher for me was the stained-glass window placed perfectly under the cross-gable tile roof, and a huge lawn that swept the length of the house. I climbed atop a low rock wall and stood on tiptoe to look inside the grand picture window, and there it was: an iron spiral staircase. So dramatic! So enchanting! I turned around to tell Jerry he was crazy to consider the other house, when I lost my balance and fell straight into his arms.

“Oh, I didn't realize you were right there.”

“I
am
right here.”

“You certainly are.”

He looked at me with such desire that I could hardly speak, and then he leaned in to kiss me. I searched my soul for a reason to give in. Was it really
my
desire? Wasn't I just using him to make Allen jealous? I looked deep into his soft brown eyes, his face, aware of his strong arms. I wanted to kiss him because he was kind and gentle and I trusted him, but I knew how I felt …

We kissed.

I shouldn't have. I disengaged. “You,
ahhh
… must be in pretty good shape to catch me without falling over,” I said, trying to lessen the intensity of the moment. “This house has my vote.” I pulled away and straightened out my shirt.

“I had a feeling you'd like that one,” he said.

I looked at my watch again. “We have to get going, Jerry. I am going to be
sooo
late.”

On our race back to the theater, I learned that the house I was in favor of was substantially pricier than the one I disliked. But, I explained to Jerry, there was no decision to be made. “The house that is meant for you will let you know. Trust me, you won't be able to sleep or work or anything until you arrive at the right decision. It will become very clear.”

He drove me back to the theater. As I reached for the door handle, Jerry said, “Thanks for coming, Sandra.” He leaned over to offer me his lips. An offer I hesitated to accept, but then did.

“Can I call you at Emma's?”

“Sure. Thanks for the diversion, and the tour. Talk to you soon.”

“'Bye, Sandra.”

The back door to the theater was heavy-duty metal, with a squeak that would set your teeth on edge if you happened to be within range of its echoing shriek. I thought it would be easy to sneak in, make an invisible entrance, and fool everyone into thinking I'd been there all along. But the actors were onstage when the door screeched the announcement of my arrival. I walked meekly onto the stage, found a spot to place my embarrassed body within the semicircle around Allen, and listened intently to his critique of the previous scene.

I could tell our director was annoyed with me.
Hmm,
maybe I was missed!
I apologized for being late, but he ignored my appeal. After he concluded his notes, he asked us to redo the scene. Fortunately, I knew the lines. Perhaps there'd be some mercy from our director after he'd seen how easily I flowed with the other actors. He only had to stop the action once to remind me of a specific blocking. But when he did, we all experienced the leaping of the lion from its cage. The anger reverberating in his voice made it only too plain to me, and everyone else, that the director was agitated—and it wasn't about the blocking.

It took the rest of the afternoon before his anger dissipated. When the hand of the clock finally pointed to seven, we were ready to leave. I couldn't wait to go home, light some incense, and crawl into bed.

Everyone waved their good-byes, and when I opened the big black door to exit the theater, there stood Allen leaning against his shiny white Porsche. Without warning, without any preliminary dialogue to soften the impact, he asked, “I hope you had a good excuse to be late today.”

“I did,” I said. “I had to help a friend.” I didn't want to go into detail.

“How about joining me for dinner?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Dinner?”
Oh God,
I thought.
What a question.
Did I want to have dinner with him? Did I want to sit in a romantic restaurant, watch the fire burn and the wood crackle, laugh, share stories, drink wine, and cuddle? (Make a guess.) But he'd caught me off guard. I was exhausted from rehearsal, and afraid I wouldn't have anything intelligent to say. And then there was Emma. So I hesitated.

“I'd love to join you for dinner,” I said, “only I live with an older woman, who I haven't spent much time with since rehearsals started. Would you mind just walking me home? I live only a few blocks away.” The truth was, I had driven my car to rehearsal. But I could get up early tomorrow morning and walk to the theater.

“Sure,” he said, without pausing.

The Los Angeles sky was dark, and if you stared into the blueness long enough, you could glimpse the barest hint of a star. The traffic was slow, and we hardly spoke as we strolled down Sunset Boulevard. I could feel his desire to be with me. I could sense his longing to be close. I didn't know if he longed to be with
me,
or simply with any woman. And as much as I wanted to know the answer, this was not the time to obsess about it. I didn't want to miss this or any other moment.

We looked into store windows, made our opinions known about the upcoming season's fashions. We talked about how much the cement sidewalks were in need of repair, and how tarnished the bell on the church had become. There was a synchronized rhythm to our speech and in the way we took each step. And yet there was a holding back. I wanted to know why. What was going on with him? Thousands of words went unspoken. The air grew thick with emotion. We rounded the corner.

Knowing I was almost home, I was bursting to ask him a million questions, I could only come out with one: “So, the play's going well, don't you think?”

“The play is going well,” he responded.

“I think the play's going well, too.”

“Bob Driscoll, I thought, would be stronger. He's not hitting the notes. I might have to let him go.”

“Yes. I actually thought he was kind of weak for the part. It's too bad. He's a nice guy.”

Then we simultaneously blurted out:

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Are you involved with anyone now?”

We laughed at how ridiculous we sounded, like goofy teenagers trying to find out if the other one was “taken”; then he turned to me with fiery eyes. “Sandra, I just got out of a relationship that should have ended months ago, and … I don't want to rush into another. But I want you to know that I am attracted to you, and I would love you to …”

I closed my eyes because I knew this was a dream I wanted to remain immersed in. I closed my eyes because I loved his voice and the sound of it resonated more when I listened that way. It was familiar, as if I had heard this voice lifetime after lifetime. Who knew who we were before? Who cared?

He kissed me and held me, and I responded with the same fervor. He took my hand, and we walked slowly toward Emma's apartment. Then he turned to me with those dark eyes and stroked my hair with his fingers.

“Your hair—it's like a thick, rich mane.”

“I was a horse in a past life.”

“A magnificent mare, no doubt.”

“And what were
you
while I galloped around the countryside looking for a place to escape from the demands of the Wild West?”

“Oh, I captured you”—he lightly touched my hair—“don't you remember, and turned you into my getaway steed while I robbed the local banks and trains.”

“I must have been a loyal horse, dedicated to the cause. Had you always been involved in these acts of charitable accomplishment?”

“I needed the money to feed my horse.”

“Selflessness is a commendable trait. Thank you for accompanying me home.”

“Have dinner with me next week?”

“Why, I'd just
love
to have
dinnah
with you next week.” I always seemed to break a serious emotional moment with a Southern accent.

“I'll look forward to it. Good night,” he said, and as I entered the lobby of the building, my past-life proprietor disappeared down the block.

I ascended in the elevator. Not wanting to break the spell, I stood on the landing and looked down over the railing, still breathing in his baby powder and aftershave. Remembering the feel of his mustache on my lips, rubbing my lip with my tongue to savor his touch. Imagining he was still in my arms. I floated into the apartment and found Emma sitting in her chair with no book in her hand, no newspaper before her face, no script on her lap, her eyes fixed upon air.

“Hello,” I said softly, not wanting to break
her
trance.

“Hello,” she said, faintly, from somewhere far away.

“Want some tea?” I asked.

“No, thanks,” she replied, still in her state of absorption.

I stopped to really look at her. “Are you okay, Emma?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” She moved her head a little, as if to clear it. “Did you eat?”

“I'm not very hungry.”

“How did rehearsal go?”

“Great, great,” I said, wanting to say good night and hightail it out of there. But I couldn't leave her sitting there, not in the state she was in, looking so lonely. She'd been by herself all day, and for the past month. I sat down next to her and took a deep breath.

“Well, Bill Fleishman, I'm afraid, is going to steal the show. He is so funny! He plays this guy who sneezes constantly and gets in trouble because of his sneezing, which ultimately becomes a political showdown. But the doctor, Bob Driscoll, has mercy for the man, and … what am I doing? I'm not telling you any more about the play because if I do, you'll be totally bored when you see it.”

I got up and rummaged in the fridge for a carrot, and began to peel it over the sink. “Did you do anything special today?” I asked from the kitchen, hoping she had something new to share.

“I heard from Josef.”

“Oh, that's great. What did he have to say?”

“He's fine.”

I walked back into the living room, suddenly realizing what she'd said. I looked at her in disbelief. “Excuse me, you heard from
Josef?
”

“Sometimes I stare at Josef's paintings and remember the smell of his oil paints and the sound his brushes used to make when he cleaned them. Tap, tap, tap.” She looked so peaceful in her memory of him. “He'd always tap the brush like that. Tap, tap, tap. Today, I felt his presence so strongly, I heard him tapping the brushes on the can, and whistling.”

“Maybe his spirit is still here, and you're sensing it. That happens, I'm sure of it. There have been lots of books written about people coming back to visit their loved ones and communicating with them on subtle levels.”