The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER FIVE

Hazel

New York City, May 1950

All right, everyone. We’re live in thirty seconds. Hazel, this will be your big moment.”

Jack Singleton, the director of the hit radio program Cavalcade of America, looked her way. Hazel returned a solemn nod.

They recorded in the NBC Studios at Rockefeller Center every Friday, an 8:00 P.M. show followed by another one for the West Coast at 11:00. In the weeks Hazel was called in to work, she was able to watch great actors and writers in action, big names like Robert Sherwood and Mickey Rooney. Even Cary Grant, once.

She huddled with four of her fellow actors around one microphone, script in hand. Each episode brought to life a historical event, with the emphasis on inspiration and uplift. This evening’s reenacted how the death of a tubercular cow led to the pasteurization of milk and saved millions of lives. Not a topic Hazel had ever imagined being dramatized, but why not?

The ON AIR sign lit up and the announcer launched into the DuPont slogan, “Better Things for Better Living through Chemistry,” before offering up an introduction to this week’s episode.

The actors straightened, at the ready.

The director nodded and the first section of dialogue between the cow’s owner and a veterinarian began, the actor Melvyn Douglas speaking with a clipped authority as the owner.

The director raised his eyebrows at Hazel, lifted his finger, and right on cue Hazel moved closer into the mic and took a deep breath.

“Moo.”

She mooed like a cow a few times more, before joining the others with general barnyard noises.

The director nodded his approval.

The highlight of her week. Acting like a cow.

When she’d first come home from the war, her mother had welcomed her back, eager to hear about her travels abroad. But once Hazel had run through all the stories she could muster, they fell into old habits. Her mother had made lists of theater producers Hazel ought to see, shows she should audition for, just as she’d done with Hazel’s father and brother, when the last thing Hazel wanted to do was put on makeup and high heels and beg for an audition. The work seemed trivial, after what she’d done in Naples. After what she’d seen. She’d eventually been offered the job at the radio show, although the work was intermittent at best, and far from challenging.

The past few years, she’d continued to work on the play she’d started in Italy after learning of Paul’s brutal murder. The main characters—a young Italian man hiding a German who’d turned against his homeland, and the German himself—had haunted her nightmares since the events in the plaza in Naples, and she’d put it down on the page in the hopes she could tame the violent memories that spooled in her head. Still, something was wrong with it, but she was too nervous to show it to anyone else and get advice. The setting—an Italian village in the countryside—limited her enormously. What did she really know about small-town Calabria? Not much beyond the scenery. She kept at it, though, trying to make it come to life.

After the radio program wrapped, everyone clapping one another on the back and offering congratulations as if they’d won the World Series, Hazel grabbed her coat and handbag and headed for the door. In spite of the odd subject matter, she’d been inspired by some of the dialogue, and couldn’t wait to get home to tweak her own work accordingly.

She never played anything grander than a voice in the crowd, but with each broadcast, she learned something new about structure or timing. Hazel absorbed these lessons as if she were an apprentice instead of an extra, lingering behind the director as he gave notes to the leads or brainstormed with the writer to come up with a better ending.

She stepped outside into the warm spring evening. The streetlamps threw down shimmering ribbons of gold on the wet pavement and sidewalks. The walk uptown, even at this late hour, was safe and quiet.

At home, Ruth sat alone, hunched over, nursing a cold tea and a grudge at their linoleum table. Without Ben to divert their mother’s attention, Hazel received the full onslaught of pressure to perform. She’d considered finding her own place, even walked by the Chelsea Hotel a number of times and gazed up at the balconies, wondering which room Maxine had stayed in.

They’d exchanged letters for a while after the war, Maxine’s full of Hollywood gossip, Hazel with updates on the theater scene and her attempts at both acting and playwriting, but after a while, Hazel found it easier to stop replying than admit how dull her life had become. Meanwhile, she’d read all about Maxine’s exploits in Hollywood in the magazines, how she’d landed several decent parts in movies, been photographed in front of palm trees and on breezy beaches.

The Chelsea Hotel felt like a link to the Maxine she’d known in Naples, the girl who’d suffered with her at Paul’s death, who’d shared the horror and, at times, the strange joy of war. On top of that, the place tantalized her with creative promise, with the knowledge that so many actors and writers had stayed there and found inspiration. But Hazel couldn’t leave her mother, not after Ben had left and never come back.

Hazel hung her coat on the hook and took off her gloves. “Did you listen tonight, Ma? What did you think?” Hazel added an extra dose of enthusiasm to her voice, hoping that might change the course of the conversation.

“It was fine.” Ruth took a loud sip of tea. “I have no idea which one you were.”

No way was Hazel going to volunteer that she’d voiced a bovine.

“I made a list of casting calls for you for next week.” Ruth pointed to a notebook on the table. “First one is Monday at ten, for a revival of some Thornton Wilder one-act. Make sure you wear something pretty, put on some makeup. We’ve got to land you a theater job soon, or you’ll be out of the running completely.”

“That’s the wrong way to look at it. Radio and television are all the rage these days. There’s a ton of new opportunities.”

“I don’t know about that. The stage was good enough for your brother. By now he would have been starring on Broadway. Don’t forget, I know how this is done. After all, I built your father’s career. Without me, he’d never have hit the big time.”

No one could forget that fact, as Ruth brought it up every chance she got: that she had been his assistant at first before gradually taking over every aspect of decision-making—from choosing the color of his shirt to the part in his hair—and turning him into a major name. His helplessness later in life sealed her role as compassionate caretaker. Every neighbor who stopped by for coffee knew to praise Ruth for her self-sacrifice if they wanted an extra slice of cake.

Whenever Ruth got prickly, Hazel reminded herself that her mother lashed out only because she was terrified of losing another child the way she had lost Ben. Hazel had already disrupted her mother’s life once by impulsively auditioning for the USO tour, and Ruth would brook no more foolishness.

One evening, though, Hazel had seen a different side of Ruth, when she’d awoken to a strange sound and watched silently from the darkness of the hallway as her mother sobbed into her father’s lap. She was half kneeling on the cold tile floor, clutching his knees and weeping into his skinny thighs as he patted her head with his good hand, as one would an old dog. Her father lifted his eyes and met Hazel’s gaze. Even though he hadn’t said a word since the stroke, she knew exactly what that look meant. Do not enter, do not catch her in her grief. Go back to bed and leave her to me.

Hazel tried again. “The good thing about being on the radio is that no one knows how old you are, which opens up a lot of great parts.”

“Voices age just like faces. Don’t fool yourself.”

“Well, sure, eventually they do. But I’m only thirty.”

“You think thirty’s young?”

“Not young, no. But I don’t mind aging into leading lady territory. Much better than being a ditzy ingenue.” Hazel winked, trying to force Ruth into more lighthearted territory. If she could steer her mother into a laugh just as her rant gathered steam, the tension between them might fizzle. Hazel had used this method of circumventing Ruth’s tirades for years, but lately it hadn’t been working very well.

“What do you know about it?” Ruth scowled. “You’ve never played an ingenue.”

Hazel sighed. There would be no avoiding any tension tonight. “Mom, enough. I may not want to work onstage anymore. I may not even want to act.”

Ruth flinched, her lips in a long, hard line. “You don’t want to act? It was good enough for your brother.”

“But I’m not Ben. I’m not going to be Ben. I have to find my own way.”

“Exactly what do you think you’ll do instead? You’re in your room all day, typing away, like Hemingway. Do you think you can be a Hemingway? That’s not what’s in your blood. What’s in your blood is the theater.” She stood and dumped out the rest of her tea in the sink. “At this rate, you’ll be playing old harridans before you know it.”

Enough was enough. “Then I might as well stick around and learn from the best.”

The slap came as a complete surprise. Ruth had never raised her hand to Hazel before, and for a moment, Hazel wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. She put her hand to her cheek and then looked at her fingers, as if the answer could be found there.

“I’m sorry, Hazel. I didn’t mean it.”

Her mother tried to hug her, to pull her close, but Hazel stepped back, hands in the air, to block her. She needed space, time to think, without her mother fussing about and telling her what to do every minute of the day. Enough was enough. And there was one place where she might be able to find this reprieve.

As her mother’s apology slid into tears, Hazel packed a bag and jumped in a cab. She gave the driver the name of the Chelsea Hotel and stared out the window as the taxi pulled up to the redbrick building, a handsome melding of Victorian Gothic and Queen Anne styles that loomed over Twenty-Third Street.

Her plan was to stay there for a few days and collect herself, cool off. She wasn’t called in to work this week anyway, and she needed a break from her mother’s self-pity and recriminations.

In the lobby, she examined the eclectic mix of art on the walls. One was signed de Kooning, and she remembered seeing his first one-man show a couple of years earlier. Victorian flourishes filled the foyer, including a massive mahogany fireplace that wouldn’t be out of place in a Scottish castle. Tables with gleaming marble tops reflected the circular chandelier. The furniture was too big for the size of the room, but the high ceilings helped manage the scale.

A young couple stood at the front desk, chatting with the clerk. The woman tottered on heels so high Hazel was amazed she’d been able to navigate the foyer, and had a purple fascinator perched on her head that matched the suit clinging to her slender frame. She turned around and gave Hazel a tentative smile.

The woman was a man. With five-o’clock shadow and thick eyebrows. In women’s clothing. The couple disappeared into the elevator.

“All right, miss.” The man behind the counter tugged at the brown bow tie around his neck and motioned to Hazel, entirely unperturbed by the strange sight. “What can I help you with?”

She tried to remain unruffled, as if being here were perfectly normal. Maxine had warned her the place was eccentric. “I’d like a room, please. Nothing fancy. I’ll be here for a few days.”

He looked at his register and frowned. “We’re almost fully booked. Who are you, exactly?”

The question threw her. “I’m sorry?”

“Who are you? What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.” She’d never said that out loud before. Never dared to. The words hung in the air.

The man perked up considerably. “We’ve had a number of famous writers here. O. Henry in room 412, Edgar Lee Masters in 214. Thomas Wolfe wrote Look Homeward, Angel in 829. Mark Twain lived here as well. You a novelist?” He spoke with a vaguely European accent that Hazel couldn’t place.

“No. A playwright.”

“Huh. In that case.” The man scribbled something down in his register. “What’s your name?”

“Hazel Ripley.”

“Sign here.”

She did so, and snapped open her pocketbook.

“No need for that yet,” he said. “Let’s get you settled first. You seem like a nice enough girl.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Full name’s David Bard. At your service. You got any problems, you just come to me. My office is around the corner.” He plucked a key off a hook and led her to the elevator. His upbeat manner and ill-fitting suit endeared him to her immediately.

A weathered bellhop appeared, wearing a frayed navy uniform that looked about as old as he was. He picked up her suitcase and followed them inside the elevator.

“This here is Percy,” said Mr. Bard. “And in case you need anything fixed, ask for Krauss.”

She reminded him that she was only there for a few days. “I doubt I’ll need a handyman.”

He just smiled.

They got out on the fifth floor and walked past a wide marble staircase that spiraled through the middle of the building, its railing studded with bronzed-iron passionflowers.

Mr. Bard opened the door to one of the rooms at the very end of the hallway, and Hazel gasped. Rows of handsome bookcases lined one wall, with a fireplace opposite. A solid rosewood beam separated two open spaces, the walls of one painted a robin’s-egg blue and the other a sunny yellow, with golden wood floors that ran on the diagonal. Matching red brocade chairs flanked the fireplace, but the rest of the furniture trumpeted mismatched patterns and colors that unexpectedly blended in with one another. Stained glass in the transom windows topped off the room’s riot of colors and textures.

To the left was a small kitchen. A bedroom sat just off the main room, its decor only slightly more subdued than that of the salon.

She thought of her meager savings. “This is beautiful, but I can’t possibly afford it.”

“I’m afraid it’s all we have. But you’re only here for a few days, you say, right? Let’s agree on fifteen dollars a night and call it a day.” He laughed at his joke.

“Are you sure? Once I’m here, I may never want to leave.”

He smiled. “Won’t be the first time. Price is cheaper by the month, by the way. If you’re a true artist, and I can tell just by looking at you, you are, this is the place for you. Back when it was built, the plan was to make it a utopia for creative minds, whether poor or rich. The Chelsea was the tallest building in New York City until 1902. We still have a roof garden where you can enjoy the view.”

Hazel let him ramble on at length. This was obviously a man who enjoyed his work.

After he left, she unpacked the few items she’d brought with her and placed her typewriter and manuscript on the small desk. In the kitchen, she checked the icebox, which was empty, and poured a glass of water from the sink, realizing after the first sip that the cold tap ran hot water, and vice versa.

One window looked out west, across the roof of the synagogue next door, while the French door in the main room faced north. She turned the knob and stepped out onto the narrow, lacy balcony.

Five stories below, traffic zoomed along Twenty-Third Street.

With a start, she realized what was wrong with her play: the setting. It was far too specific and unwieldy. What if she set the story in a grand hotel, like the Chelsea, but one that’s crumbling away in a war zone, under siege, with only a handful of guests left? Forget nationalities, make it a war story that’s not tied to any particular war, so the characters are stripped down to their essence. They suspect there’s an enemy in their midst, an enemy who insists he works for the resistance. It would raise questions of patriotism and nationalism, faithfulness and betrayal, everything that had churned inside Hazel from her time in Italy.

Hazel reconsidered the strange person she’d observed in the lobby. What if one of the leading men was actually a leading lady, but her gender wasn’t revealed right away? Hazel thought of Shakespeare, who often had girls wearing drag in order to remain safe in a dangerous world—Rosalind, Viola. If she layered in a love story between the two leads, the whole thing would truly sing.

She practically skipped back to the desk and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. Fingers poised on the keys, she considered how many other writers had stayed here, in this hotel. She could almost feel the ghosts of former guests pressing around her, encouraging her. This place was a living, breathing muse, one that coddled its guests and kept them warm while they scribbled away. Or, from the sound of the piano she’d heard in the hallway and the artwork in the lobby, composed or sang or painted.

She’d come this far, and her only goal over the next few days was to rework the play, following this new inspiration. That accomplishment might spur her on to pursue a different path, a way out of the grind of playing barn animals on the radio. Once the play was ready, she even might work up the courage to gather together some actor friends to read through it, and get a sense of what worked and what didn’t. For now, though, in the quiet of her room, she would take it page by page.

On Hazel’s second day at the Chelsea Hotel, a desk clerk called her over as she entered the lobby on her way back from a quick lunch at the corner Automat. She’d been up all night, fueled by coffee and the words that tumbled out of her fingers onto the pages, and was eager to get back to work.

“Miss Ripley? You have a message.” He plucked a piece of paper from one of the cubbyholes.

It was an invitation to a cocktail party later that evening, up on the seventh floor, signed Miss Lavinia Smarts.

The actress who knew Maxine. “I’ve never met her. How does she know who I am?” she asked the clerk.

The clerk laughed. “Mr. Bard, of course. He’s been talking you up all around the place. As our new writer in residence.”

Considering Mr. Bard had never read a page she’d written, his enthusiasm was certainly misplaced. Still, she couldn’t help but puff up a little.

She’d planned on writing all evening. Going to a party might disrupt the flow of creativity that had invigorated her the past two days, the clacking of the typewriter the only sound other than the honks from the cars far below. Her revisions were almost complete.

The clerk shook his head, as if reading her mind. “Best not to decline. There are rules of etiquette at the Chelsea, you know.”

“What rules?”

“One never knocks on the door of a room during the day, when the writers are writing or the artists are at work. Instead, messages should be left down here. Once evening falls, all rules are off and you’ll find folks tripping from room to room as if it’s Mardi Gras. Oh, and never turn down an invitation from Miss Smarts.”

“I won’t know anyone. I’m not sure I’ll fit in.”

“You do already, my dear.”

She wasn’t sure from his raised eyebrow whether that was a good or a bad thing, but she decided she must attend. It would give her a good story to tell, and who knows who she’d meet? A few hours later, after another furious bout of writing, Hazel reluctantly pulled herself away. She put on her favorite lilac dress and powdered her nose before taking the elevator up to the seventh floor.

The party was already in full swing. Miss Smarts’s apartment was similar in layout to her own, but in the center of the salon stood a grand piano, piled with sheets of music spilling onto the floor around it. A drink was placed in her hand without her asking—a martini—and she made her way to a velvet couch, hoping to observe the goings-on without having to interact.

No luck.

Two older women, identical twins wearing matching dresses and bright pink shoes, plunked down on either side of Hazel and introduced themselves as Winnifred on the left and Wanda to her right. “You’re the new writer Mr. Bard is talking about, right?”

“News spreads fast.”

“Sure does,” said Winnifred. “We’ve lived here for ages. Anything you want to know, just ask us.”

Hazel looked about. “Where’s Lavinia Smarts?”

“She likes to make a grand entrance once the party’s in high gear,” answered Wanda. “In the meantime, let me tell you who is here. That man over there is Virgil Thomson, the composer.”

She pointed to a pear-shaped man standing by the piano, with a wide forehead and a grim look on his face. He was listening to an older man, handsome, who Hazel recognized as a well-regarded artist. “Is that the painter John Sloan?”

Winnifred gestured around the room, beaming like a proud mother. “She’s full of famous people.”

“The hotel, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

The Chelsea Hotel. A “she,” like a lumbering redbrick ship filled with foolish dreamers.

Hazel would have to use the phrase somewhere in her work.

“Oh no, watch out for fireworks.” Wanda and Winnifred spoke in tandem and giggled at each other.

“You dare to show your face, Ben Stolberg!” The words came from a woman of around seventy who appeared from the bedroom, with thick, swept-up hair and a profile that belonged on a Greek coin. Even though her skin was wrinkled and stippled with age spots, her mouth was still generous and her eyes a vivid green, matching the wrap that she tossed dramatically over one shoulder. Lavinia Smarts was even taller in person than she appeared onstage, a fact that surprised Hazel.

Miss Smarts glared at a man who’d just arrived through the front door and looked to be in his late fifties. The man opened his mouth to offer a retort, but someone turned up the music, so Hazel couldn’t hear his reply.

Wanda shouted into Hazel’s ear. “That’s your hostess, Lavinia Smarts. She and Ben are always at each other’s throats.”

“Why?”

“Politics. When things get crazy, everyone goes up to the roof to avoid getting decked by a flying ashtray.”

The music grew even louder, the sounds of violins drowning out any attempt at conversation. Across the room the argument carried on, like a silent movie. Hazel secretly rooted for Lavinia Smarts to win.

“Lavinia Smarts was a communist but is now a socialist,” shouted Wanda. “That’s what the fight’s all about. Ben Stolberg finds her political views abhorrent, whether communist or socialist.”

“He hates all ‘ists,’ really,” added her sister.

“Are you a communist?” Wanda asked politely when the orchestral music quieted down.

Hazel didn’t answer outright. “Why?”

“We have a number of them organizing on the first floor, if you’re interested.”

The thought made her smile. “Back in the day, my brother was active in the CPUSA. I went along for the ride, really.” Ben had joined the Communist Party of the USA in the thirties, after droning on and on at home about the imbalance of wealth during the Depression and the rise of fascism in Europe. He’d call her into his room to read from some Communist text or other, and she’d sit at the end of his bed, cross-legged, nodding as if she understood but really just enjoying his attention. He’d had the lashes of a girl, long and lovely, but the rest of him was all boyish exuberance, quoting Karl Marx the same way he’d once carried on about the Hardy Boys mysteries.

“I suppose everyone has a right to an opinion,” offered Hazel to the twins.

“Maybe not for long.”

Wanda had a point. In the years since the war had ended, political sentiment in the United States had turned hard to the right. Mr. Stolberg turned off the record player with a sharp scrape that made Hazel put her hands to her ears.

“Listen, Miss Smarts,” he said. “You want to know why the Screen Actors Guild insists that all members take an oath of loyalty? Because the entertainment industry is filled with pinkos.”

Miss Smarts wasn’t cowed. “Says who? Joseph McCarthy? He’s just making it up as he goes along. How can you not see that?”

Mr. Stolberg wagged a plump finger in her face. “The commie spies have already made inroads throughout America. It’s only a matter of time before they take over and destroy democracy forever. We must fight back.”

“How? By invading Korea? It’s on the other side of the world, for God’s sake. It has nothing to do with us.” She looked around the room, currying support, and Hazel nodded vigorously.

“Korea is only the beginning.” Stolberg was turning red. “We have to defend ourselves from the incursion.”

“You mean send more boys out to die? Enough, I’ve heard enough. You must leave at once.” She extended one arm out, finger pointing to the door, and Mr. Stolberg did a dramatic bow before exiting. Obviously, this was a repeat performance, and neither seemed to take it personally, Mr. Stolberg rolling his eyes on his way out, and Miss Smarts taking a long swig out of a glass and twirling around.

“Where’s this new writer we have on board?” She came to a stop in front of the sofa, jutting out one hip.

Hazel got to her feet, noting that Miss Smarts was taller by at least five inches. She introduced herself and thanked her for the invitation.

“Please, call me Lavinia,” she insisted. “I remember your father fondly, as well as your brother. You Ripleys are a talented bunch.”

“Thank you.” The theater community was so small, Hazel immediately felt comfortable with Lavinia, as if she’d known her for years. “We also have a friend in common,” she added.

“Who is that?”

“Maxine Mead.”

Lavinia clapped her hands together, her eyes twinkling. “A delightful child. I remember her well, from my days on tour. I hear she’s off in California making movies. How is she doing?”

“Sounds like she’s doing quite well,” Hazel answered vaguely. “From what I can tell, Hollywood agrees with her.”

“Word at the Chelsea is that you’re a playwright. What have you written?”

“Nothing yet. I’m trying to write a play. About my experiences in a USO touring company, during the war.”

“A girl writing a war play, I like what I’m hearing. Send it to me, please.”

“Send it to you?” Hazel must have heard wrong.

“Yes. Call downstairs and have them deliver it up to me tonight. I’ll have it back to you tomorrow morning by nine.”

A terrible idea, for many reasons. It was Hazel’s only copy. She hadn’t finished revising the last scene. It wasn’t ready. Yet Lavinia’s offer, her eyebrows raised in bemusement, was quite generous.

But what if she hated it? Would Hazel be able to withstand the blow of harsh criticism? Then again, no matter what Lavinia thought, by refusing her, Hazel might never get another opportunity.

God, she was making herself crazy. Meanwhile, Lavinia was staring at her, waiting for an answer.

“I’ll do that. Thank you, Lavinia.”

Hazel dashed back to her room to continue working, finalizing the draft before wrapping some twine around the finished pages, tying it off, and ringing down to the porter to pick it up.

The next day, she reluctantly began packing up her few items of clothing, watching as the clock ticked closer and closer to nine. Maybe Lavinia had tossed the script aside after the first page and completely forgotten about it. Of course, Hazel could call up to her room and inquire, but she didn’t want to come off as pushy.

What a mistake, to let the pages out of her sight.

She sat at the bare desk, the typewriter packed up in its case on the floor beside her, and stared out the window. No matter what the outcome, she’d make good on her promise to finish it. For Paul’s sake. For her own sake.

Promptly at 9:00 A.M., there was a knock on her door. A porter handed the script back, with a note tucked inside the twine.

This must be mounted. Am talking to a producer forthwith. Remain in place.

Hazel sat down on the sofa and looked about, the bright colors of the pillows and rug swirling dizzily around her.

Looked like she’d be staying on at the Chelsea Hotel.