Dancing in the Light (17 page)

In any case, I had another session with McPherson to discuss whether there was any hope for me to get another good part in the near future.

“First of all,” he said, “you made some Brownie points with us up here in turning down
Poltergeist.
It’s fine for others to do a film like that, but not for you.”

“Great,” I said to Tom, “but what about making movies? I mean, when will I get a good part?”

He chuckled and said, “Well, would two weeks be soon enough?”

I, of course, didn’t know what he was talking about. There was nothing that I knew of, not even on the horizon.

“You will receive,” he said, “a very fine script about a mother-and-daughter relationship and the opening shot of the film will be that of a child’s clown.”

“A mother and daughter?” I asked.

“Quite right,” he said confidently. “It will be very popular and you will win one of those golden statues for your portrayal.”

I took what he said with less than a grain of salt.
Two weeks later I received a call from a fireball of an agent named Sue Mengers. She said she had read a script about a mother and daughter written by James L. Brooks, a man from television. She said it was considered a risky art film by most of the studios in town, but she thought it was brilliant and just right for me. Would I read it?

Immediately I thought of Tom McPherson’s prediction, read it the next day, met Jim a week later, and the rest is history.

There is an additional twist to this story. When, a few weeks later, I discussed
Terms of Endearment
with Ramtha, he said, “You won’t be doing this film for another year and a half. The time is not ripe yet. The financing will not be there and
you
are not yet ready. But it is true that when you do do it, you and the film will be greatly rewarded. Have patience. Do not be afraid.”

The timing worked out exactly as Ramtha had said. Studio after studio walked away from the project believing that it was not at all commercial and insisting that they would not allocate the amount of money Jim needed to shoot it on location in Texas.

I waited. I turned down everything else that came up in the ensuing time period so that I would be available, trusting that what McPherson and Ramtha had said would come to pass. Finally Paramount agreed to make it one and a half years later.

And when, at last, we went into production, Ramtha and McPherson were there with me, encouraging me to “become” Aurora Greenway.

Ramtha also spent a good deal of time with me discussing
Out on a Limb.
He was unalterably opposed to my projections of negativism in the original manuscript, even when they seemed logical in the light of what was happening on the world scene. I am enough of a pragmatist to have had some fairly hot arguments with him on this issue. Choosing one’s own path in positivity is one thing. Ignoring all common-sense predictions of what one sees around
one is another. Ramtha’s view, though, was that prophesies are, all too often, self-fulfilling. To project the worst actually contributes to its happening.

I, too, eventually came to this view. This has been one of the most profound lessons for me since beginning my metaphysical searching. Fear and negativity are
not
part of the future. The
erasure
of fear and negativity are the future. And whatever it takes to eliminate those concepts of consciousness, I will address myself to, not only in relation to global conflict but in relation to my everyday life. I had to eliminate a great deal of fear in myself before I could allow
Out on a Limb
to be published. And as my life continues to progress I find that the more I eliminate fear, the happier I am. Fear has become a non-reality to me. It is a perception, not a fact. Fear is only what I perceive it to be. Yes, it is still there sometimes, but in “reality” I know it is only there because I allow it.

Chapter 7

A
s time passed, my mother’s condition improved. She was determined to be well enough to attend my closing night.

True to her prediction, she and Dad arrived at the theater during my next-to-last matinee performance. Sachi came in from California again. Dominick had picked them up at the airport.

I was performing on stage when I looked to stage left and saw three of the most important people in my life seated on folding chairs watching me from the wings. It was a picture I’ll always remember. Dad and Mother sitting erect, leaning on their canes in front of them for support, and Sachi with her arms around them from behind.

Their three faces beamed; I could almost hear their thoughts. The grandparents reflecting on what might have been had they not raised a family in traditional fashion and the granddaughter, who sat with stars dancing in her eyes, projecting that being a performer was what she wanted more than anything else.

There was a cast party in between shows, commemorating the end of our run. The tables were decorated with bowls of cherries and there was yet another carrot cake with “Love and Light” spelled out in sugary letters. Many of the stage crew and ushers brought copies of my book to sign and Danny
in the box office had me sign the statement of the house record we had broken.

Many of the fans who had waited literally every night at the stage door came again for the last time. They brought me gifts and letters which poured out their feelings of appreciation for my advice on thinking positively.

Danny said ninety percent of the conversations he heard as people left the theater had to do with reminding each other to think positive.

Mom and Dad and Sachi went out front to see the last performance. Mom and Dad were outfitted with the auxiliary hearing devices provided by the theater.

Bella and Martin Abzug were there too.

Before the overture, I did my performing affirmations for the last time. It was true that I was tired from a six-week run, but facing the fact that I would probably never do the show in New York again, I felt an overwhelming sadness that it was over.

In my red sequined pantsuit I walked one last time to my position behind the piano. As the show began, I looked above me. The light rack had become so comfortingly familiar. The scrim hung on a lead pipe waiting for its cue. The face of each musician (not one of them had missed a performance) smiled back at me. The sweep of the music (the orchestra said it was the most intricate they had ever had to play in a Broadway house) lifted to the rafters. I wondered as I gazed around me how much energy from other performers still lingered hauntingly in those rafters. The magic was probably there for always. In a few hours our props would be physically dismantled and crated away in a truck to make way for the next performer, but the magic of our energy would remain. I understood the show business adage of “lucky” and “unlucky” houses. And what was luck? It was nothing more than being aligned with positive energy. Every theater I had played resonated with those energies. I could almost
tangibly feel the vibrations of past performers. The communal experience of performance and appreciation, of jokes and laughter, of tears and identification, of depth-plumbing drama and high-soaring comedy, of thundering ovations and stone-silent attention … all of it still hung quivering with memories in the unseen ethers of every theater. No wonder theaters were houses of magic, engendering star-struck awe. Theaters were where life was re-created to fulfill the fantasies of dreamers. And without dreams, how could life proceed?

My cue came. The spotlight hit me and I was on for the last time.

I looked down to the fourth row center. Mom and Dad and Sachi expectantly smiled up at me. I smiled back. No one knew who I was smiling at.

I felt content and complete.

I did the show for them.

When it was over, I took the microphone and went to them in the audience. I asked the audience to please respect their privacy and I introduced them. Then I sang songs to each of them. Tears gently slid down their cheeks as they held hands, This was what live performing was all about. It came from the heart and was completely spontaneous, from the spectator’s as well as the performer’s point of view.

I made my way back to the stage, thanked everyone for six of the most fulfilling weeks of my life, and asked for the curtain to descend.

Backstage, the dancers and I turned and applauded each other. The musicians spilled from the bandstand and embraced us. Stagehands wiped dirty palms on their jeans and slapped us on the back as they began to dismantle. The wardrobe girls said the theater would never be the same as they hung our wet costumes. The lighting-booth guys winked the lights backstage on and off to remind us they were still there and would be again. Pictures and autographs were exchanged and I gave out closing-night
presents—small diamond pins in the form of initials of everyone’s name.

When I returned to my dressing room, my family was waiting.

Daddy looked up at me. His eyes filled with tears. “Well, Monkey,” he said, “I wish I could find the words to describe how beautiful you were on that stage.”

“Oh, darling,” said Mother, “to realize that something so lovely came from a person who was part of us was thrilling.”

I had waited a long time for them to say that. The two people who had been responsible for my formative training, my childhood courage, and the struggle for belief in myself now sat proudly in front of me and said that their dreams for me had been realized.

A few moments later Bella and Martin walked in. I introduced them to Mom and Dad.

“Well, Mr. Beaty, how did you enjoy your daughter?” asked Bella.

Daddy’s mischievous twinkle returned to his eyes. “Well,” he said, “first of all, I could hear everything she said. Those earphones out there are humdingers.”

“Earphones?” asked Bella, not realizing she was walking into one of his traps.

“Certainly,” said Daddy, “none of my hearing aids ever work. But this one did. You know why?”

“No, why?” asked Bella.

“Because it is a Republican hearing aid.”

“A
Republican
hearing aid?” she said, ready for battle.

“Sure,” said Daddy. “If that old cowboy in the White House has one of these, no wonder he always has the right answer.”

“The
right
answer?” Bella’s voice was slowly rising.

“Why sure,” said Daddy, knowing for certain that he had her going.

I winked at Mother. She shrugged her shoulders in mock embarrassment. “Now Ira,” she said, “you might think that’s funny, but Bella doesn’t—”

“Sure she does.” Dad wouldn’t quit.

Bella looked confused, which is not something I’ve seen often. I threw up my hands and went into my inner dressing room to change my clothes. There was no doubt about it. Mom and Dad were the leads in any room they played. The rest of us might just as well accept the fact that we were bit players.

We left the theater about three hours after the final curtain. I walked out on my dismantled stage and blessed the empty seats in the house. I knew that our energy would mingle and linger with the energies of everyone who had preceded me, and everyone who would follow. Yet for me, as for most performers, there was an inevitable letdown.

My family watched as, melancholy, I turned away from the work light and into the shadows of the wings for the last time. They sensed that I lived another life when I was out there, a life dreams are made of. Dreams based on hard work and the struggle to overcome the fear of not being accepted. I hadn’t realized how deeply embedded the fear had been in me until later that evening and the following day. Or I should say, I had not understood where and how the fear had developed until I was witness to those same fears still alive in my mother.

Live performing has a way of inspiring and provoking immediate emotional reactions in some people. Pent-up, long-suppressed feelings often erupt after having been moved by what you see live on a stage, particularly if it is someone you know and love. It has happened to me many times, so I wasn’t all that surprised when it happened to Mother. She had, after all, by her own admission, lived her dreams through me. What brought me closer to her, though, was that she felt safe enough to let herself go completely. In her case, her loss of control probably
added years to her life, and it was a compliment that she did it because of me.

Sachi and Dad and Mom and I were back at the apartment after the show, sitting down to a snack of corn muffins and tea. They were still full of their feelings in having seen my show. Sachi was paying close attention to the interplay between my parents and with me. She had never really spent that much time with the three of us. As a fledgling actress, she was riveted by the intense familial emotion, and as my daughter, she was learning more about me and what made me the way I was. The keenness of her interest was second only to mine, as I was beginning to understand more and more
my
chosen karmic reasons for being a part of life with my mother and father.

“These muffins are delicious, Monkey,” Dad said, referring to the fact that there was nothing else to eat in the apartment. “I’m thankful for small favors. After Bird Brain’s meals, this is a feast.”

Mother laughed and there was more conversation relating to Bird Brain’s lack of culinary talent.

“But we know she is a good and nice person,” he went on. “She entertains us. Since we don’t get out much, all I see are your mother’s financial-wizard friends.”

Mother looked up at him with that “look” in her eyes. “Ira,” she said, “I won’t have you speak of my friends that way.”

I was surprised at the intensity of her reaction, but Dad seemed to understand that he had hit a trigger point and had maybe even done it on purpose. I wondered what this was all about.

“My friends are important to me,” said Mother, “You don’t understand them at all because you haven’t even taken the trouble to know them. You are always too busy humiliating me in front of them.”

Sachi and I were astonished at how deeply upset she was, seemingly provoked by nothing. She was reacting far too strongly to his intended humor.