Pushing Upward (12 page)

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 …

It is only when we have the courage to face things exactly as they are, without any sort of self-deception or illusion, that a light will develop out of events, by which the path to success will be recognized.

I closed the book. I needed a shower, but it was still very early and I didn't want to wake Emma. Moving very quietly, I tiptoed out into the hall.

I was reaching for the bathroom doorknob when I heard someone talking and, I thought—I wasn't sure, because the sounds were muffled—crying. I stood there, listening, trying to decipher the words. It didn't sound like Emma, but it was coming from her room. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar. I moved a little closer. Through the slim opening, I saw Emma standing there, alone, facing a painting on her wall, talking to it.

“I'm so sorry, my
Liebling.
” I'd never heard that word before. It must have been German. “I wanted to save you,” she murmured to the painting. “I never wanted you to suffer. The sickness had a force. It took hold of you …” She sighed. And then touched the picture gently with her fingers.

To give her some space, I slipped into the bathroom and took my shower. Clearly, Emma was still mourning Josef. She must really miss him. I dressed and came out looking for her. Her bedroom was open, and empty. She wasn't sitting in her high-back, either. Instead, I found her in the kitchen, doubled over, in the middle of the floor. It scared the bejeezus out of me! I couldn't tell
what
she was doing because her head was down and her buttocks were raised high in an absurd position that looked like some exotic
hatha yoga
posture. “Is everything all right, Emma?”

She turned, sponge in hand. “There's honey on the floor, and I'm tired of having my slippers stick to it.”

“Allow me. I'm an expert at honey removal.” Relieved that she was okay, and glad to be useful, I took out a butter knife from the drawer, joined her kneeling on the floor, and began to scrape up the hardened honey. I felt somewhat ashamed, since I was the one who had dripped it in the first place and had forgotten to clean it up.

“There you go. You just needed a little muscle.” I smiled, hesitantly. I helped her up from the floor, wanting to keep the conversation light. “How was your lunch with Zelda, by the way?” I had been so preoccupied that I hadn't gotten a chance to ask her about it before.

“Fine,” she said, pausing to think about how much she actually wanted to divulge from her schmooze with her friend. “Zelda found Max in bed with a young girl and nearly lost her mind. She's not doing too well … Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?”

“No,” I said, as I ran the sponge under soapy water until the stickiness was gone. “But it sounds like you do.”

“What do you think about going to Santa Monica, to the beach?”

“Well, I think you're wasting a lot of time standing there when you could be getting ready.”

Emma grinned, giddy as a seven-year-old. “I'll pack some snacks for us and gather my things.”

“Excellent. I'll go clean my car so there's room for you to sit.”

It was a beautiful day. There were no smog alerts, the sun wasn't blazing, and there weren't millions of cars jostling bumper to bumper down Pacific Coast Highway.

Ah-h-h-h, yes!
This was the reason I'd left Michigan and moved to California. This was the reason I'd bought this dilapidated old Fiat convertible. To drive in the salty sea air, admire the ocean's beauty, and hear the waves crashing against each other. As we drove up the highway along the beach, I looked over to see how Emma was doing. She was squinting into the wind as it caressed her face. She was somewhere else, as if I didn't know where. Before I had a chance to ask her if she had sunglasses, she reached into her purse and pulled them out. Before I could ask her if she had a scarf for her hair, she pulled out a
babushka
and tried to tie it under her chin.

The wind was fierce. Just before the scarf blew out of her hands and into the air, like a kite without a string, I caught it, pulled the car over, and stopped. And that's when we had another moment. It was brief. But as I tied the bow under her chin, I felt her melt, let go, and open her heart … to me once again. It was another rare, delicate fraction of a moment, but it felt like an earthquake. After the bow was tied, we looked at each other, acknowledging the sweetness, the improbability of our relationship, and then we both smiled.

Cooler on the skin and darker in color than the beaches along the lake in Michigan, the sand near the Santa Monica pier was refreshing. Emma and I walked a bit before finding our spot, and then together we spread out the blanket. Emma placed her purse atop one corner. I placed the basket of food on another. She took off her babushka and folded it neatly inside her purse, slipped off her sandals, and opened her wobbly director's chair. She straightened it out, making sure the legs were balanced, and then she slowly sat down.

The woman from the newspaper ad reached inside her purse and pulled out a small plastic tube of sunblock. I tried not to be conspicuous, but I couldn't help but stare as she carefully applied pressure to the cylinder so only the most minuscule amount of lotion squeezed out of the tiny hole. I observed how carefully she applied the few drops of cream to her wise, aged face and how her blue pastel sundress appeared lighter in the sun, like her eyes; how erect her back was, as she sat in the concave chair. She applied a few more drops to her legs, the tops of her feet and toes. How methodical she was. Merging her entire being into the smallest task. Never rushing. Steady as a sailboat in placid water. This was how she did things. Every move had a purpose. Every word had a charge. And yet, what I observed most about Emma was her ­silence—a powerful tool that I would come to know as her weapon.

She handed me the tube, and I squirted out what was left into my palm. Only I turned my palm over too fast, and dropped most of the lotion on the blanket. I tried to salvage what I could, quickly smearing the remainder on my face and shoulders before it could melt and drip onto the sand. And while I made a mess, wasting the small amount of protection left, I asked myself: What was
my
hurry? What had happened to
my
patience?

“Are you hungry?” Emma asked.

“I'm going to jog soon to build up an appetite.”

We sat there listening to the waves. And as I sat next to this woman, whom I had come to admire, I realized how little I knew of her past.

“Emma, where did you grow up?”

She edged out the answer. “Europe … in Germany mostly, during the Great War.”

“What was your childhood like?”

She became uncomfortable, shifted her posture, and paused. “Suffice it to say, I felt little hope. There was a war going on, and people were not themselves—even when they tried to be.”

There were volumes in her words. I tried to imagine the thoughts she wasn't sharing. Her life must have been hard during the Depression. Standing in breadlines for hours; welcoming back truckloads of wounded men from the war; observing antiwar demonstrations, Brownshirts looking for Jews in the streets as Nazism began to rise.

“Did you have brothers or sisters?”

“I was an only child.”

Hungry for answers, I kept probing: “Where did you meet Josef?”

“I met him in Berlin at an art gallery, where he was exhibiting. Zelda introduced us. We married there, in Berlin, and moved to Paris to avoid the tension. After a while, U.S. galleries became interested in his work, so we moved to the States. He was quite famous in New York circles.”

“Did you have a career?”

“I loved journalism, and I wanted to be a writer. But those plans changed when I married Josef.”

“Why did they change?”
I
felt like the journalist now.

“I worked as a news correspondent and supported Josef while he finished art school. I was going to be promoted, only the new job entailed quite a bit of traveling. I didn't want to be living in hotel rooms, consumed by a career. I know women don't think that way today, but I was fulfilled looking after Josef, and …”

It seemed she had something else to say. I was curious, but I wasn't going to press her. “Why did you leave New York?”

She thought for a moment. “The winters became too harsh for Josef. He loved painting outdoors.” She went on, looking out to the sea. “He used to paint on the beach for hours at Martha's Vineyard. We'd go there in the summer. He'd only come in for a phone call and then return to his paints until dusk. At night we'd dance.”

“Alone on the beach. How romantic! You'd watch him paint the whole time?”

“There would be such stillness in the air, as if the birds and even the water stood still for his brush. They understood the perfection he wanted to capture on canvas … He told me once that he never could have painted a tree if I weren't in his life.”

“He was a lucky man.”

“
I
was the lucky one, my dear.”

The wind stilled and the waves subsided. I wanted to hear more. But before I had formed another question, she brought out the
New York Times
from under her director's chair, shook out the pages, and began to read, as if the previous moment had never taken place.

I got up. “I think I'll go for a run. Are you going to be all right?”

“I'll be fine, dear.”

I ran down to the edge of the ocean to feel the cool, clear liquid wrap around my ankles. I cupped some water and poured it over my head. Then I took off, the wind blowing my wet face dry, synchronizing my breath with the weight of each foot pressing its image into the sand. I increased my speed, lifted my knees higher. Just like Emma had commanded. As I ran, I realized how much I loved it. How free and liberated I felt. As I ran closer to the water, feeling the cold liquid between my toes, I felt like a colt, unrestrained, galloping in the wind, propelled by streamlined legs. I could feel the muscles in my thighs tightening with each stride, my spine lengthening and straightening, vertebra by vertebra. Back straight, chest expanded. I imagined being the consummate athlete, focused on honing every joint and muscle for the ultimate competition. Not only because it felt good physically, but as an actor it strengthened my physical and mental instrument for any character I might portray.

As I sprinted along the hard-packed sand, watching the waves rush in, I had to remind myself how lucky I was to have someone in my life rooting for me, wanting me to succeed as much as I did. The only other person who had ever had faith in me was Bella.

Bella was our housekeeper in Michigan. Her room was in the basement, between the Ping-Pong table and the washer and dryer. She was tough and old and thick around the waist, her skin the color of dark espresso. My love for that woman went way deeper than color, deeper than blood. She was the rock that stabilized my life, the glue that held my spirit together.

Bella was always there, rescuing me from everything I tried to avoid but couldn't. Like the time Steven stole my diorama for the science fair, and turned it in as his own! Oh man, I wanted to really kill him that time. I'd worked so hard on that project, and he knew how much I wanted to win. When I found out
he
had won with
my
project, I went straight to Daddy.