The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER SIX

Hazel

May 1950

Who are you? Did you really write this?”

Lester Canby tossed Hazel’s play on his desk and eyed her from above his spectacles, perched midway on a bulbous nose. His face was long and thin, with hollow cheekbones, topped by an enormous bald head. His enlarged cranium and bulging eyes reminded her of an octopus she’d seen in an aquarium as a child.

Hazel had turned up at the producer’s office in Times Square not knowing what to expect. Four days went by after Miss Smarts’s directive to remain in place, and Mr. Bard had inquired, ever so politely, about the rent. He’d called her into his office at the front of the building, formerly the ladies’ reception room, where angelic plaster cherubs looked down with unabashed delight at the chunky adding machine and endless reams of paper that covered his desk. Hazel promised she’d pay up on Monday, once she’d had a chance to cash her check from the radio show, and he’d beamed like she’d told him he’d won the lottery. She’d hate to disappoint him.

Luckily, the invitation to meet with Mr. Canby arrived soon after. Hazel had been in his office before, as a struggling young actress making the rounds in her finest outfit and brightest lipstick, inquiring whether there were any roles she might audition for. Mr. Canby had seen her a few times but never cast her in a part, dismissing her with a loud bark. She hoped he didn’t remember.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to his question about the play’s authorship. Her name, after all, was on the title page. “I did write it. The play was inspired by my experiences as a USO tour performer.”

“I love the part where the guy turns out to be a girl. I didn’t expect that twist.”

She couldn’t help but beam.

“It’s a fresh take on war, and I also love that we don’t know what country the hotel is in, or even what side some of the characters are on, at least at first. Terrific.” He leaned back, teetering on the back legs of his chair. A habit, from the looks of the indentations on the wall behind him, that lined up perfectly with the two round finials rising over either shoulder. “This isn’t my usual cup of tea. My audiences love spectacles. Revues, that sort of thing. I had a troop of whirling dervishes from Turkey booked at the Biltmore this summer, but I just found out they’re not coming. So I need a replacement. Fast.”

She’d figured she’d been called in as a courtesy to Lavinia Smarts. But no. He needed a replacement. Mr. Canby was actually considering her play for a slot in a Broadway theater.

“You mean, me?”

“Maybe.” He slammed his chair back down. There were probably a couple of divots in the wooden floor as well.

She had to set him straight on one point. “This is a drama, not a spectacle.”

“Fine with me. Look at Death of a Salesman. Nothing spectacular about it, yet it won the Tony. I read that play and said to Miller, ‘What kind of title is that? You’re giving away the ending, what the hell are you thinking?’ So I passed.” His irritation at having done so was obvious. “What a mistake. After that, I decided that I should go against my instincts. If I think something’s a bore, I should book it. What’s your play called again?” He squinted at the title page.

“Wartime Sonata.”

“Exactly. Who would want to see a play with that title?”

“So you think that my play is a bore?”

“Don’t take it personally.” He leaned forward. “I cried. Don’t tell anyone else that. If you can make me cry, think of all those weepy housewives out there. That’s what I’m banking on. We’ll do a table read in two weeks, onstage at the Biltmore. It’s one of the smaller theaters, which means I’m not taking that much of a risk. I gotta hear it out loud, then we’ll do casting and get it up by July. I got an empty theater and I gotta fill it, or I lose money. You in? Don’t go shopping this around on me. Any questions?”

He wanted her play. Barring any surprises at the table read, her play was going to Broadway. For a moment she was struck dumb; then she asked the first thing that came into her head. “Um, how do I get paid?”

He laughed. “I like the way you think. Like a man, not a girl. Here’s the deal: We give you an advance of one grand. I’ll have my secretary cut you a check today. Once the show makes money, you’ll get four and a half percent of the take, minus the advance. Got it?”

He held out his hand and Hazel shook it. One thousand dollars. An unimaginable amount, considering she’d thought the ten dollars a day she’d made on tour was a decent wage. Even better, she’d be able to stay on at the Chelsea.

All those words she’d typed and retyped over the past five years since her return from the war had finally paid off, in spades. She thought of the thousands of pages of dialogue that she’d reworked and then tossed aside in her effort to find just the right phrase, the right joke, the right mood. This play was a culmination of serious study and hard work, but still, after all that, she’d simply been in the right place at the right time. At the Chelsea Hotel.

Right off, she sent Lavinia an enormous bouquet of flowers to thank her for the referral, and told the folks at NBC that she had booked another job. The hardest part was telling Ruth, who considered her decision to stay at the Chelsea Hotel and not return home a personal betrayal. Ruth had said she was crazy to break away from acting, called the play a dangerous distraction, and warned that Hazel would regret not taking her advice. Hazel had stood firm, though, the memory of her mother’s hand on her cheek still fresh.

The day of the reading, Hazel knocked on the stage door of the Biltmore and was ushered inside to the house, where plasterwork in creams and light blues rose to an enormous dome. A long table had been set up in the center of the stage; a bare bulb atop a pole stood sentry near the wings. A group of actors had been assembled for the workshop, and Hazel knew from experience that they all hoped to get the roles they’d been temporarily assigned. They clapped politely as she was introduced, and she took the empty seat next to Mr. Canby.

The director, a short man with a nasal voice, named William Williams, stood to offer a welcome speech. “This is a remarkable play by a woman about war. I want the audience to feel the bullets, the fear, to smell the sweat. Make it big, don’t be afraid, my soldiers. Let us begin.”

Not the words Hazel would have used to describe her play, but she stayed mum. Let the professionals do their jobs. She’d given herself a pep talk before walking into the theater, telling herself that she had as much right to be here as anyone, and to take a seat at the table with confidence. But no one had really noticed her, even now.

“Act one, scene one,” read the stage manager.

Hazel cringed as the actress playing the female lead burst into high-pitched crocodile tears only a few lines into her first scene, when she was supposed to be pretending to be a man. The actor playing opposite her shouted to the rafters and gesticulated wildly as they hid from the search mob storming the hotel. Not the most effective choice. Thank goodness this was just a workshop.

Hazel raised her eyebrows at Mr. Canby, but he just nodded and leaned back in his chair, staring at the lighting grid in the rafters.

The revisions she’d done to the play held up, at least. Once she convinced the director to take it down a notch, she was certain it would work. She looked out at the empty seats. So many people to attract, to convince to buy a ticket. To entertain. This was her big chance, and she’d have to make sure she held the reins tightly so Mr. Williams didn’t run off in the wrong direction. But that’s what rehearsal was for.

They took a break after the second act. Hazel tried to explain her take on the play to Mr. Canby, but he just laughed and told her that the playwright always thought he knew best. But in this case, they would have to trust in the director, who, as Hazel would do well to remember, was the most experienced and successful artist in the room. Hazel knew then that her only hope was to appeal to Mr. Williams.

She discovered their illustrious director off in the wings whispering with the lead actress. They both jumped when she approached.

Mr. Williams shook her hand, squeezing hard. “Miss Ripley, we were just remarking on what a terrific work you’ve come up with, on the first try. Bravo.”

“Thank you, I am quite honored to be here, of course. But I was wondering, as we delve into the final act, what if you asked the actors to lower the tone a bit? I think the play will work even better. After all, the subject matter is serious.”

“Now, don’t you worry, little lady. I have it well in hand. You know, I’ve directed twenty-five shows on the Great White Way.”

“Twenty-six,” added the actress with a sly smile. Brandy Sainsbury was her name. Hazel had run into her on previous auditions, where she had a tendency to tap-dance in the waiting room, ostensibly to calm her own nerves, but more likely because she knew it would irritate and fluster her competition.

“Right. Well, just a thought.”

Hazel returned to the table. She’d never been in this position before, one of authority, and was unsure. Should she assert herself now, making her preferences and demands known right off? Or was it better to wait until they had an actual cast and were in rehearsal? It was less immediate pressure if she chose to wait, but was that just a cop-out?

By the time she’d convinced herself to speak up, they’d launched back into the play. Too late.

Emboldened by Mr. Williams, the actors went all out, offering up over-the-top line readings and, a couple of times, silly voices. She’d have to add in slamming doors and tripping on rugs, now that her play had turned into an English farce.

Finally, the stage manager intoned, “Curtain.”

Hazel tried to catch Mr. Canby before he left, but he said he had a lunch to get to at Sardi’s and he’d see her tomorrow at the auditions. She asked if he had any notes about the play, any suggested changes, and to her surprise he made a good one, switching around two scenes in the second act. Easy to execute, and an improvement. Maybe today’s reading hadn’t been for naught.

She walked back to the hotel, where a half dozen men with cameras slung around their necks had gathered just outside, smoking and talking among themselves. A strange sight, more suited to the fancy hotels uptown like the Plaza or the Waldorf. She made her way through and headed for the elevator.

Mr. Bard stopped her.

“You have a guest, Miss Ripley.”

Hazel wasn’t expecting anyone. She looked about the lobby, but all the chairs were empty.

“I didn’t think she should wait down here, so I sent her straight to your room with an extra key.” He looked positively giddy, like a schoolboy who’d aced a test.

She imagined her mother showing up, demanding that she return home. “Who is it?”

“She said I was to not tell you, to let it be a surprise. Don’t you love surprises?” He clapped his hands together. “Up you go. She arrived a few hours ago. Do let me know if she requires anything. We can send up anything you need.”

What on earth was he talking about?

Hazel braced herself and headed up. Her door was unlocked, and at least seven suitcases were strewn across the Oriental rug, several opened and the contents bursting forth, as if they’d been dropped from a great height. She recognized one of the dresses from the tent in Naples.

“There you are!” Maxine popped her head out from the bedroom, her shoulders bare. “Just changing, I’ll be with you in a bit.”

Maxine Mead had arrived.

Hazel didn’t have to wait long before Maxine rushed into her arms, wearing only a silk slip and smelling like lemons. Memories flooded back, of sand and mud, of uncertainty, and deep belly laughs at the silliest things. And of the boy in the cell, petrified and alone.

“Are you surprised?” asked Maxine.

Hazel stared at her friend, amazed. “I am. I didn’t even know you were in town.”

“A last-minute decision. Gosh, it’s boiling in here. Can we open a window or something?”

An early hot spell had settled on the city the past two days. In the dark quiet of her rooms, Hazel barely noticed. Somehow the hotel seemed to keep the humidity low by the sheer thickness of the walls, but just having Maxine in the room caused the temperature to rise considerably.

“Ugh, I can’t breathe.” Maxine clawed at her throat. “We have to get out of here.”

“There’s a pack of reporters out front. Are they part of your entourage?” It was almost as though Maxine had been flown in from another planet. What she was doing here at the Chelsea Hotel instead of at the fancier hotels uptown was anyone’s guess.

“Can’t seem to shake them. I came to New York for some peace and quiet. Didn’t realize the frenzy would follow me here.”

“We could go up on the roof.”

“Splendid idea. Let me put on some clothes.”

While Maxine dressed, Hazel looked in the icebox for a bottle of wine and grabbed two glasses. They took the stairs instead of the elevator, winding their way up to the top floor. Hazel shoved open the heavy metal door at the top and squinted in the bright sunlight.

The various chimneys and gables, including a pyramid-shaped turret that sprouted in the middle of the building, were festooned with vines and softened by potted trees and grasses. Hazel and Maxine settled in a corner that faced west, where the ships glided down the Hudson River. Over in New Jersey, a line of gray clouds paralleled the horizon.

Maxine plopped down in one of three Adirondack chairs. Hazel took another and pulled the cork from the bottle. “I assume you need a drink.”

“Do I ever.”

They toasted to each other’s health, and then Maxine rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Her cheeks were slightly fuller than Hazel remembered, but the added padding suited her. Maxine seemed to gain weight in even proportions around her bust and hips, whereas Hazel’s thickened waist made her feel older than her years.

“What brings you to New York, my friend?” she asked. “From what I can tell, you’ve been working nonstop out in Hollywood.”

Maxine turned her head to face Hazel and sighed. “Yes. I’ve had a good run. But I had to get away. Professionally and personally.”

“Man trouble?”

Maxine didn’t answer, but Hazel could tell she’d guessed right.

“The same man who wrote you the one letter back in Naples?”

Maxine raised an eyebrow. “Of course you’d remember that. Always watching what everyone is up to.”

“You just so rarely got letters.”

“The story of Arthur. It’s a boring one, really. We’ve heard it all before.”

“Who’s Arthur?”

“A man I met ages ago. Before the war. He’s married.”

So that was the big secret. That explained Maxine’s reluctance to discuss him, even though the girls had shared so much. “Have you been having an affair all this time?”

“It was one of the reasons I went overseas. To get away.”

“But then you went back?”

“He wrote and asked me to come to California. Said he knew he wanted to be with me, and put me up in the sweetest cottage in the Hollywood Hills, hidden away from prying eyes.” She shielded her eyes with one hand and looked over at Hazel.

Underneath Maxine’s usual swagger lurked an unsettling vulnerability. This was a different girl from the one who’d driven a Jeep into a hostile crowd.

“Tell me more.”

“When we first met, it was like a bomb going off.” Maxine’s words tumbled out. “I saw him and he saw me and we knew we had to be together. He’s a businessman, food packaging. Sounds boring, right? But he’s not boring at all. He’s funny, kind. We clicked. His wife—I’ve nicknamed her Zelda—has some kind of serious mental problem.” She caught the look Hazel threw her. “No, it’s true. She should be in a home, but he continues to care for her. He can’t get a divorce because she’s not mentally competent to sign off on it. So he’s stuck.”

Hazel couldn’t help but play devil’s advocate. “How do you know that’s true?”

“I followed him home one time, back to his house. She’d locked him out, and was leaning out of the window, screaming at him, throwing his clothes into the garden.”

“That sounds like a wronged wife, not a lunatic.”

“She almost climbed out the window herself. He finally broke in and pulled her inside.”

“Okay. That might be honest-to-goodness crazy.”

How complicated Maxine’s life was. Hazel wasn’t surprised. She was a touch envious, to be honest. Hazel had gone out on dates with some lovely boys since the war, but they were just that. Boys. Actors who loved the sound of their own voices and carried on as if they were Marlon Brando. She’d told herself she had no time for boyfriends, that her work came first. And for the most part, that was true. Yet here was Maxine, juggling a successful career and a passionate love affair. Even if it was with a married man.

“Sounds like a reasonable setup, in a way,” said Hazel. “You can have your career and not have to deal with taking care of a man.”

“Oh, there are plenty of men who want to be taken care of, believe me.”

“What do you mean?”

Maxine frowned. “Out there, it’s not like New York. It’s as if the casting couch is the only way to get a good role, to jump to the top of the line.” She didn’t elaborate further. “I miss what we had in Naples. We didn’t have to listen, and got away with breaking the rules.”

Indeed, that had been one of the few refreshing things about being abroad. There were no meddling middlemen and limited self-indulgence on the part of the actors, as there was no time. Learn your lines and get onstage. It had been a valuable lesson, one Hazel hoped she could apply to her own play. But maybe now it wouldn’t be possible, with Mr. Williams in charge.

Hazel poured herself some more wine. Maxine was trying to communicate something important, though she was having trouble being direct about it. No wonder, as it had been at least a year or two since they’d corresponded, a decision that Hazel now greatly regretted. Maxine was here because she needed Hazel, in some way, and had sought her out.

“I have to apologize, Max.”

“Whatever for?”

“I didn’t write back, I pulled away from our friendship, and I’m so sorry.” She waved away Maxine’s response, knowing she had to finish. “I felt dull next to your glamorous lifestyle, like I was treading water while you performed tricks from the high dive. I was jealous, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s all water under the bridge, to continue your aquatic metaphor.”

They both laughed, before Maxine grew serious. “After you go through what we did, with Paul, you’re bonded for life. Besides, you’re the only one who can see me as regular Maxine, and not the facade of a Hollywood star. I’m glad we’re reunited.”

“Me, too,” said Hazel. “But it’s terrible that you have to deal with all that other baloney. You don’t deserve to be treated like that, either by this Arthur fellow or by those producers.”

“I was trying so hard to please Arthur whenever we met, knowing that our time was precious. I bent over backward. He’d show up and I’d have his Scotch ready, dinner on the table, ready to take care of his every need. He was paying my rent at the beginning, after all. I was utterly dependent on him. Then I’d go to auditions and do the exact same thing, smile and flirt and play the game. I wasn’t myself in either situation, always acting.” She took a slug of wine. “On my last audition, for a doozy of a role, I refused the producer’s advances and lost the part.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Marilyn Monroe sure isn’t. They announced the casting a few days ago.”

Maxine was up against the likes of Marilyn Monroe? Hazel couldn’t help but be impressed. “I’m sure you’ll get the next one. On your talent, not your availability.”

“Anyway, Arthur and I had a terrible fight. I said awful things to him”—Maxine’s voice hitched with emotion—“and he was awful back. I jumped on a plane heading east and here I am.”

“I’m sorry.” They sat quietly for a moment. Hazel knew something was missing from Maxine’s story, but whatever it was, Maxine had shut down and wasn’t about to volunteer more. “What would you like to do while you’re in New York?”

“Not sure. See some plays. Lay low.”

The door to the roof slammed and Lavinia came into view, carrying a straw hat with an enormous brim, a script tucked under one arm. Hazel waved her over and both girls stood as she neared.

Lavinia’s face brightened as she recognized Maxine and enveloped her in a warm hug. “What a surprise, my dear! It’s a true delight to have you back.”

Hazel could have sworn that Maxine had tears in her eyes when she pulled back from Lavinia after a few long moments in her arms. She hadn’t realized how close they were.

To give her friend time to gather herself, Hazel thanked Lavinia again. “Lavinia was the one who got my play on Broadway,” she explained to Maxine.

Maxine nodded. “I read all about your show in Variety. I’m sorry I didn’t congratulate you sooner. I got so wrapped up in all of my silly problems, I forgot to tell you how happy I am for you, Hazel.”

Lavinia settled in one of the chairs. “A terrific play, even if there wasn’t a part for me in it.” She pointed a finger at Hazel. “Next one, promise?”

Hazel nodded.

“How is your grandmother, Maxine, still going strong?” Lavinia asked.

“She is, thank you. Sends you her love. And how’s the Chelsea holding up these days? The twins still roughing it? Or has their father allowed them back into the fold?”

Lavinia laughed. “They’re not going anywhere, those two.”

“Roughing it?” echoed Hazel.

“The hotel’s guests can be divided up into several categories,” explained Lavinia. “The twins belong to the herd of black sheep, dilettantes who’ve been tossed out of wealthy families for not following the rules. Winnifred and Wanda were brought up in a mansion on Long Island’s gold coast, but they had some kind of a spat with their dad and moved in here. They’re up on eight. Down on the first floor are all the left-wing organizers, like the Peace Information Center.”

“I’m sorry, what’s that?” asked Hazel.

“It’s headed by W. E. B. Du Bois; they’re fighting against nukes. They share the same floor as the Eastern European refugee families who were temporarily housed here by the Catholic Charities but never left. The rest are creative types: artists, writers, musicians, designers, actors, several photographers. All overseen by David Bard and his Hungarian syndicate, who are constantly wheeling and dealing. I’m told that even the building’s plumber, Krauss, has some kind of ownership stake in the Chelsea. Quite a stew, when it comes down to it.”

Maxine threw back her head and laughed. “I’m so happy to be here, I can’t tell you.”

“How long do you think you’ll stay?” Hazel asked.

Maxine swatted her arm. “You worried about all those suitcases taking up space in your tidy room? Who knows? But don’t worry, I’ll talk to Mr. Bard about getting my own room. He said one down the hall is free. I’ll be close, but not too close.”

Hazel was thrilled. She could use a friend right now, and Maxine might bring a little lightness into her life. Without the distance between them, she could see her jealousy of Maxine’s Hollywood dream life was unfounded and that their friendship mattered more than that, anyway. She had no doubt they’d pick up right where they left off.

Together, they’d dive headfirst into the delicious stew of the Chelsea Hotel.