Pushing Upward (30 page)

No shit.

Those feelings, thinking that if we get everything we want, we will be happy, are an unreal expectation.

I was used to unreal expectations.

When we try to find satisfaction outside of ourselves, we end up running in circles. We will find lasting happiness only when we stop looking for it—only when we let go of our desire for it.

Yeah, yeah! Well, that'd be as easy as getting tar off lace. I'll just give up my desire for everything. Right!

I snapped the pamphlet shut. I was tired of getting answers off printed pages, off of other people's words. Tired of reading, and forgetting everything I'd read. I turned off the lamp, closed my eyes, and hoped that when I woke up, I'd be someplace else, somebody else.

Chapter 26

The enthusiasm of the heart expresses itself involuntarily …

On my way to rehearsal, I knew I couldn't hide the emotions whirling around inside me. I knew from experience that if I tried to hide them, they would come across as tension—and tension, as any actor knows, is a performer's worst enemy. I had to use every ounce of emotion I was feeling—unworthiness, helplessness, vulnerability … all the feelings I was trying to conceal—and weave them between the lines. Integrate them seamlessly with the words from the script and allow them to be a part of my every move, my every gesture.

I watched as Allen rehearsed the scenes that didn't include me. I watched with rapt attention, so I wouldn't have to think about what I didn't want to think about. I went over my lines so they were certain to be memorized. During lunch, I stayed in my dressing room so I wouldn't have to speak, to anyone. I kept myself busy with letters to friends, composing them from the personas of the actress and the medical intern, in order to see the roles from different perspectives.

I went over and over my lines, until I heard Allen call out: “Sandra, get onstage, please. I'd like to rehearse the audition scene.”

I snapped back into the present, walked up the stairs, and took center stage. Emulating the actress's fear of arriving alone in the big city of Saint Petersburg was effortless. I used the subtext of my own fear here, the pent-up panic running through my veins, the fleeting thought that I might have to leave Emma's. When the actress met her idol, the famous writer, scared to death she might make a mistake and fail the audition, I used my own frailty. I projected the uncertainty I was feeling, the apprehension about confronting Emma. It was time to find out the truth, whatever it was. It was surprisingly easy to act with humility. Exposing myself felt natural. It was easier to reveal these emotions to strangers than it would be to disclose them to the one I'd come to care for and was afraid to lose.

When rehearsal was over, I saw that Allen and the others had been moved by my performance. They sat in the theater in silence. No one made a move—not the cast, not the stage managers, not even the three middle-aged women who managed the box office and who had ventured into the auditorium, standing by the entrance with their mouths agape. Marlene ran over to me and took me aside. “You were amazing. I've never heard you say your lines with so much … I don't know, intention, passion. Are you going to have any juice left for the show?”

“Oh yeah. There are gallons more.”

Allen called it an early night, knocking off at six-thirty instead of the usual seven. Everybody scurried off the stage to go home. I felt grateful that I'd been able to release so much tension. The exhaustion was worth it. I'd let it all out, and now I was, thank God, too tired to think. I went to my dressing room to wash my face and chill out, just sit. I could feel my nerves pulsating. I was sweaty, and beat.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I said, as audibly as I could muster.

Allen walked in with a smile and a silly plastic rose. “You gave yourself quite a workout today. Hungry, my little star?”

“Oh, I could eat something small, like a buffalo.”

“How about you let me take you to my place, where we can survey my fridge and see what we can come up with?”

I accepted the invitation without missing a beat. A restaurant would not have been appealing. Not tonight. I was in no mood to sit in a commercial setting or expose myself to bright lights and strangers. My senses needed pampering and caressing. My body yearned to stretch out on a huge couch with big pillows, and my ears wanted only the sound of classical music and hushed words whispered into them. My eyes needed soft lights, and my nostrils wanted to inhale the fragrance of burning firewood so I could offer all my fears into the fire and watch them blaze up and burn down into ashes. I needed to be with someone who cared, who would listen to my heart and not be afraid to share his.

I loved sitting next to Allen in his leather bucket seats, watching him take control of the car, the steering wheel. My life, if he wanted to. He must have worked hard for this Porsche and its fancy black seats.

Allen's house was tucked away in a cozy cul-de-sac where hundreds of homes cascaded down the slopes and canyons of the Hollywood Hills. As we pulled into his circular driveway, he said, “This is where I replenish myself, away from the world. It's my private hideaway.”

So, this was where he'd lived with his wife of seven years—perhaps a few other wives. Although I couldn't imagine him married. Thank God he now lived here alone. He came around, opened my door, and escorted me to the house. Unlocking the front door, he bent down to scoop up the mail that had fallen through the slot, and we entered his secret retreat.

Inside, I immediately felt a sense of loneliness, emptiness, as if the house had once been filled with joy, or children laughing and playing, but now had been reduced to silence. The smell of cigar lingered in the air. Down the stairs, the living room was all earthy tones, browns and golds and reds. I was happy to see the brick fireplace and the dark, masculine furniture. Somehow they provided concrete evidence for my feeling that Allen was stable, of the earth, and I could trust him.

There were photos of his ex-wife and child, another photo of a second ex-wife and children from an earlier marriage. (Bill Fleishman was right.) The photos sat on an impressive mahogany desk, surrounded by pads of paper and a stack of scripts.

Allen opened the French doors to his deck, to air the place out. While he looked through his mail at the desk, I crossed the room to the deck to look out onto the City of Angels. Standing at the railing, admiring the view from this height, I watched lights winking on one by one, like fireflies, as dusk settled over the valley. I found myself thinking about Emma. What would she say if she saw me tonight standing on Allen Cahill's deck? Would she smile, or walk away in silence, leaving me behind to guess at her reaction? Why should I care?

I stood on the solid wood planks of the deck, looking to see if I could locate the Windmill Theater, when Allen's arms came up from behind me, his hands slowly taking hold of my waist. And then, I don't know if he turned me around or if I turned myself around, but I will never forget the sweet taste of his mouth and the fullness that sprang from his kiss. How protected I felt. Whatever was going through my mind about Emma completely melted away.

When the kiss ended, I said, “
Mmm
… that was a pleasant surprise.”

“I'm glad,” he said.

Here I was kissing the man I'd wanted to be alone with since the first minute I'd laid eyes on him, and now that I had the opportunity, I was nervous. Not quite ready for the intimacy.

“I'm starving—what's in the refrigerator?” I started to move back inside, toward the kitchen.

“Wh-where you going?” He gently took hold of my wrist before I got too far and pulled me back close against his chest, supporting my back with his hands. Our eyes close, our lips almost touching.

“I was going to get something to eat. Aren't you hungry?”

“Very.” He kissed my neck.

“I mean for food.”

“You were great today,” he said. He kissed my forehead gently. “There was so much passion in your monologue.”

“I had a lot to work with,” I admitted.

“You always have a lot to work with.”

“Look, Allen, you have no idea how difficult things are for me. I just think we should wait.”

“Till when, after dinner? I don't think I can wait that long.”

“No, until opening night.”

“Opening night is three weeks away,” he objected, like a child not getting the candy he wanted
now.

“I have to know that what I'm doing is right. Not out of fear or desperation … I need some clarity. And if we wait, we'll have something to look forward to and celebrate.”

“I can think of a lot to celebrate right now.”

“If we make love tonight”—my words were saying no, but my fingers were entwining themselves in the strands of his black wavy hair—“I'll be walking around rehearsal like a zombie, and everyone will know, you know, and I won't be able to keep my hands off you.”

“I don't see that as a problem.”

“It's not easy for me to be patient, either.”

“I think underneath that sweet smile is a very sadistic human being who derives great pleasure out of torturing the male half of the species. I will be patient. Not because I want to. But because”—he kissed my nose—“this way, I get to fantasize more. However, if it were up to me …”

Inside, the phone rang. Allen broke off the embrace and moved swiftly to pick it up. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. There was a pause. And then his face closed in, his eyes looked down, his voice lowered discreetly.

“Hi, uh, it's wonderful to hear from you … I'd love to, but I have a guest over at the house. Of course … can I call you, later … ? Wonderful … talk to you then.”

We kissed again. “Who was that, Cliff Thorne, calling in all scripts for a rewrite?” I asked jokingly, although seriously wanting to know if this was a call I should be concerned about.

“No, it was a friend who needed some information. I'll call them later.”

He resumed kissing my neck. I stood there with at least four lines of thought fighting for my attention. I was curious about the call. I wanted to tell him about Emma and how difficult living with her had become. But I didn't want to appear needy and immature.

Knowing I had to figure this out on my own, I pulled myself away, took his hand, and led him into the kitchen, where we pulled together a salad from remnants of assorted vegetables and warmed up two pieces of leftover chicken. When our plates were full, I took both our dishes out to the deck and waited for him to join me.

“How about some Mozart?” he called out, looking through his LP collection.

“Mozart would be wonderful. You must have read my mind.” He put on a Bach suite instead, dimmed the lights inside the house, and joined me with a bottle of Chablis and two glasses. The man was so prepared, so together.

“Would you like some?” He poured himself a glass and waited for my answer.

“Sure, I'll have a little.”

We sat on the lounge chairs as Allen spoke about the play and drank his Chablis. He talked of his disappointment in directing television and his desire to direct film. He shared his excitement about the film deal he was negotiating with the producers in New York. I sat there listening to the modulations of his voice as he articulated his sentences, pronouncing every word as if I were the recipient of all his years of training, watching his lips become wet from the wine and his expressive hands gesturing with abandon.

I interrupted his soliloquy with yet another one of my adolescent fears: “You know, you're always going to have the advantage in this relationship.”

“Why is that?”

“You're older. You're more experienced. You're always going to know things before I do. You'll always have the edge.”

“What's fifteen, twenty years? Not much when you see the whole picture. Let me show you something.” He stood up, walked inside to his desk, and brought back a pencil and a pad of paper. He sat down next to me and drew two circles on the page.