The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER SEVEN

Maxine

May 23, 1950

The shock of being back at the Chelsea, of seeing Lavinia and Hazel, has driven me to pick up a pen again, to keep a record, like I used to during the war. But just in case the hotel maids are snooping, I’m keeping some secrets to myself. After all, a girl needs her privacy.

I felt bad, dumping my sob story on Hazel like that, watered down as it was. I’d hoped that in coming to New York I could flee the sickly perfection of Los Angeles and get some gritty New York dirt under my nails. Just like when I flew off to Europe with the USO and found an anchor in the plays and the women around me.

That article in Variety about Hazel’s production was like a lighthouse beacon at my lowest moment, where I could escape the humiliation of botching that audition and get a breather from being in Arthur’s grasp. Hazel getting a show on Broadway. No mean feat. She’d obviously changed from that sweet, scared girl who’d shown up in Naples. There was a sturdy capability about her, a no-nonsense demeanor. When her eyes focused on you and only you, it felt as if she was the only person who understood you. Arthur was like that, too. In the beginning. I get now that he used that particular ploy to reel me in, but Hazel has different intentions. Her desire to connect comes from a kindhearted, unselfish place.

Seeing her again brought up all kinds of emotions: pride at her accomplishments, jealousy at her uncomplicated life—at least compared to mine—and, above all, a love for her. I loved the way she looked at me, like she didn’t quite believe whatever was coming out of my mouth, and called me on it, when necessary. My grandmother is the same way, someone who truly understands me.

I suggested we go out and celebrate her good news. We put on our posh frocks—I wore my fiery-pink Balenciaga. Whenever I put on that dress, I feel divine, but then Hazel stepped out of her bedroom in a strapless white number, stunning in its simplicity, that made it seem like there was a halo around her. How does she do that?

“I hope there aren’t any photographers still waiting outside,” said Hazel as we stepped off the elevator.

No such luck. I counted four, that I could see, and had steadied myself, like I was about to dive into a pool filled with alligators, when Mr. Bard popped into the lobby from a side hallway.

“You don’t have to go out that way, if you don’t want.”

“Is there a back door to this place?” Hazel asked.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Follow me.”

We took a staircase tucked beside the lobby phone booths down one flight to the basement, past the laundry. The maids stubbed out cigarettes and began loading sheets into enormous dryers as soon as we came into view.

Their lackadaisical work ethic didn’t seem to bother Mr. Bard, who kept up a running commentary as we zigzagged through the narrow hallways. “Back when the hotel was built, in the 1880s, we had a billiard parlor, wine cellar, and butcher shop down here.” Hazel rolled her eyes, she’d clearly heard all this before. But Mr. Bard had a giddy hop in his step, leading us deeper into the basement, to a narrow door, which he opened with a flourish. “The servants used to be housed in a brownstone on Twenty-Second Street, but now it’s empty. This tunnel connects the two buildings.”

We entered a dank, dark hallway, lit by bare bulbs spaced widely apart. Strange to think we were directly underneath the ragged courtyard that separated the Chelsea from the row houses to the south. I wouldn’t want to come down there on my own. I was sure rats and other critters used it as a highway when the humans weren’t about.

We eventually emerged inside a small cellar. Up five steps and we were out on the street, not a camera in sight.

“Well done, Mr. Bard,” said Hazel. He grinned with delight. I blew him a kiss as we jumped in a cab, and in no time we arrived at the Russian Tea Room. Nothing classier than that, I’ve always thought. The place was jumping, the red leather banquettes full up and golden samovars gleaming in the low light. I blended in just right. Showy but with a purpose. That’s me.

“Hazel, over here.”

A man whose shiny bald pate rivaled the gleam of the samovars stood and waved his arms. “You must join us.”

Hazel looked uncertain, worried. “We could get a more private table upstairs,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

“Nah. Let’s meet your friends.” Something was holding her back, and I was curious to find out what it was.

The older man turned out to be Mr. Canby, the producer of her play, who sat next to the director, Mr. Williams. A hussy with glossy lips was squashed up against Mr. Williams like a barnacle. “This is Miss Brandy Sainsbury,” remarked Hazel. “She was kind enough to do a reading of the show earlier today.”

We ordered Moscow mules and got acquainted. At first, Miss Sainsbury pretended to not know who I was, before doing a wide-eyed double take. “Wait a minute, weren’t you in that movie with Linda Darnell? I can’t remember the name. Well, gosh almighty.”

What a liar. Any aspiring actress with Hollywood dreams knows every last thing about the film business—who’s in, who’s out, the names of all the speaking cast members on the silver screen, from the stars on down. Miss Sainsbury knew exactly who I was, but she preferred to try to diminish me in front of these men rather than admit it. It was the oldest power play in the world, and she probably sensed it was a waste of effort from the get-go. At this table, there was no denying who was queen. Or maybe little Brandy’s objective was less to establish the upper hand than to telegraph how much she already hated me. The feeling was entirely mutual.

The director and the producer, on the other hand, cozied up to me big-time. Theater folk love to think they might end up in Hollywood, however much they pooh-pooh the film business. Usually, I’d luxuriate in the attention, but instead, I turned the subject right around to the play. This was Hazel’s town, not mine. For now.

“We’re planning on opening in July,” said Mr. Canby. “It’s fast, but I’ve been telling investors that our playwright is the next Lillian Hellman, another lady writer great with a turn of phrase.” He lit a cigarette, pleased with himself. “I tell you, it makes people swoon.”

“Lillian Hellman, that’s a lot to live up to,” said Hazel. “We’ve still got to cast the thing. That’ll be the key, to get the right people in the leads.”

I noticed she avoided looking at Miss Sainsbury as she spoke.

“Now, how do you two know each other?” Mr. Canby asked.

“We acted together in the USO tour.” I put my arm around Hazel. “In fact, that’s where our soon-to-be-famous playwright first put pen to paper. She wrote up news items that I translated over the radio to the Germans as part of the propaganda effort, known as Lina from America. I was the voice of Lina, but Hazel was the brains.”

Mr. Canby swiveled his head around to Hazel, his eyes popping. “Then there we have it.”

“Have what?” Hazel fixed him with a strange expression.

“Your character in the play is named Lina. This is Lina.” He gestured to me. “Obviously, Maxine Mead is our girl.”

I blinked in surprise, but already my excitement was building. I could list a dozen reasons why this appealed to me. It could be a chance to prove myself as a real actress, on a Broadway stage. A way to leave the sordid life of L.A. behind for a few months. And an opportunity to reconnect with Hazel. Not to mention—

I was jolted back to the present when Hazel offered a weird half smile. “I see how you might think that, but the Lina I wrote isn’t Maxine.” She put her hand on mine. “Please don’t be offended, you know I adore you. But this character is more of a tomboy. The actress who’s cast in the part has to be able to play a man believably. You’re too recognizable, too womanly. You understand, right?”

I knew I was more bombshell than boyish, but still, her speedy dismissal hurt. We did God knows how many shows together, catching each other when the lines failed to come because we had so many plays stuffed inside our heads. We played in thunderous rain and sticky heat, and I never failed to bring down the house. “Sure, I understand.”

It was as if Canby never even heard us. “We can use this in all the publicity. The reunion of two wartime heroines, from the USO to the Great White Way. It’s perfect. Done. You’ve got the job.”

Both Hazel and Mr. Williams shifted in their seats, tense. From the way little Brandy was staring at Mr. Williams, it was quite evident she’d counted on getting the job.

The director spoke first. “We have auditions set for tomorrow. We can’t just cancel them.”

Mr. Canby would have none of it. “Of course we can. For a rising star like Maxine Mead, that’s exactly what we’ll do. She’s the next Kim Hunter or Tallulah Bankhead.”

News to me, but I’d take it.

Hazel began to speak, but the young actress slammed her beaded handbag on the table. A couple of the tiny beads came loose and rolled along the tablecloth. “That’s not fair. Not at all.” She turned to the director. “You promised.”

“Promised what?” asked Hazel, her eyes narrowed. “An audition or the part?”

The director paled. “An audition, of course.”

“No, Willy.” The girl’s voice shook with rage. “That’s not what you said. You said the part was mine.”

I sat back; things were getting interesting.

Hazel grew cold. “You had no right to do that, Mr. Williams. This is my play, not yours.”

“As your director, I know what works.” The poor guy was caught between two very angry women, and I almost pitied him. “You’re too close to see it. That’s what we tell all the writers. To leave the decision-making up to us. Canby, tell her.”

Miss Sainsbury let out a whimper.

Mr. Canby smiled, still coasting on the genius of his great idea. “It’s true, the writer can gum up the production if not held in check. But I want Maxine.”

Mr. Williams looked at Miss Sainsbury and back at Mr. Canby, his face red. “That won’t do. I won’t stand for it.” I noticed Miss Sainsbury’s hand sliding across his thigh as a reward for his courage. “Either I get control of this production or I quit.”

“Yeah, he quits,” echoed Miss Sainsbury.

Mr. Canby held firm. “Great. Quit.”

Hazel looked panicked, and I could understand why. Her show was falling apart fast. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mr. Williams cut her off.

“I cannot believe I’m being treated like this. Trust me, I will complain to the union about having to suffer such an indignity. Being fired before I’ve even begun, it’s unheard of!” He carried on with his diatribe as he and his chippy exited with as much dignity as they could muster, not easy when it involved sliding out of a banquette.

After they’d left, I turned to Hazel, who’d gone white. “Good riddance, I say.”

“What now?” she said, to no one in particular.

“Don’t worry, there’s a line of directors down the block eager to take on this project.” Mr. Canby, unconcerned, ordered another round of drinks.

“But the auditions start tomorrow at ten,” she said. “They’d still have to read the play before then.”

The answer came to me like a shot. “You should direct it.”

I knew I was right the minute I spoke the words.

“What?” Hazel pushed her drink away. She was probably regretting she’d ever agreed to bring me into her circle.

“You directed us on tour.” I cut her off when she started to speak. “Maybe not at first, but definitely by the end. You stepped up and took over. Remember the show at the Teatro di San Carlo?” I turned to Mr. Canby. “She wrote it and directed it, the whole shebang. Just like what we’re proposing today.”

“That was just a matter of making sure we all didn’t collide onstage,” Hazel protested. “Hardly directing. More like being a traffic cop.”

“You could do it. I know it. You’re bossier than you think.”

Got a smile out of her with that one. I could see she was warming to the idea.

Canby spoke up. “I don’t know, maybe we should interview some other possibilities first, just to be safe.”

“Since she’s green, you won’t have to pay her as much,” I volunteered.

Mr. Canby’s eyebrows lifted. I’d found his weak spot. No doubt he was thinking of the savings in salary compared with a pricey veteran like Mr. Williams. Less overhead, more profit for him. “That’s true, I can’t pay Hazel as much. On top of her being a girl.”

Hazel’s eyes flashed. Now she really wanted the job. “I’m certainly not the first woman director on Broadway, by a long shot.”

“That’s true.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s do it. As long as Maxine Mead plays Lina.”

I could have sworn Hazel winced, but it was too late. After some back-and-forth, Hazel and Mr. Canby shook hands. The deal was done. She was a director, and I had my first Broadway leading role.

Hazel was quiet during the cab ride. We passed the front of the hotel, where a few photographers lingered. “Take us to Twenty-Second Street,” she told the driver. I waited for her to thank me for acting as her de facto agent over what turned out to be a lucrative business dinner, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk.

We took the reverse route back into the Chelsea. I used the key that Mr. Bard had pressed into my hand earlier that evening to get into the basement door of the brownstone. Once in the tunnel, the only sounds were our footsteps and occasional drips of water, like we were in a cave deep in the earth.

Hazel walked ahead of me, her shoulders back and tight.

I couldn’t stand her freezing me out. “Look, I’m sorry if I got ahead of myself at the Tea Room,” I offered. “I know I don’t match what you picture in your head for Lina. But I can do it, I promise.”

“You’re wrong for the part. Entirely. She has to be able to blend into the background, at least at first.”

“I can blend into the background.”

“How? By putting yourself up for the part less than two minutes after meeting the creative team?”

“I didn’t do that. Canby did. I got you the job of directing, by the way. No thanks for that?” I tried to make her see the big picture the way I did. “Being a writer and director is a giant career leap, and it’ll serve you well going forward. And in the meantime, you get to work with an old friend. Is that so bad?”

“Look at you.” She gestured from my feet to my head. “You couldn’t look like a boy if you tried.”

Her rejection stung. If she only knew.

There was one way I could prove it to her, but it would take all the courage I had. I reminded myself this was Hazel, a friend. And I wanted this part, more than anything. I lifted my hand to the top of my head and gently tugged, letting the wig slide off. I held it by my side while she gaped at me.

My hair had been chopped off, each irregular piece no longer than a few inches. The color wasn’t the red I got from a rinse, but my natural color, more of a dirty blond. Her face reflected exactly what I feared: Without my mane, I was a wretched, ugly girl.

“What happened to you?”

“Arthur got angry. He held me down and cut it all off. That’s why I fled to New York. And that’s why I can do the role.” I paused. “I can play a boy, like this. I can play a girl playing a boy. You have to give me a chance, that’s all I ask. One chance.”

We talked well into the night.

I told Hazel that Arthur had become increasingly cruel over the past year, taunting me and pushing me to fight, then apologizing and swearing he’d never do it again. He’d been under a lot of stress, and while we’d always had arguments in the past, they’d begun spiraling out of control. This last time, after we’d both had too many drinks, I’d confided to Arthur that the movie producer had pawed at me, offering up several guesses as to the size of my brassiere at the film audition, the one that had just been announced as going to Marilyn Monroe. Arthur said something snide about how I shouldn’t be so precious about sleeping my way to the top, since my talent obviously wasn’t enough to get me there on its own, and I’d tried to smack him. Bad mistake. That only made him angrier, and before I knew it, he’d grabbed a fistful of my hair and was dragging me to the bathroom. He picked up a set of shearing scissors and, with a knee to my chest, snipped off two thick locks of hair before coming to his senses, collapsing on the floor beside me. We both wept. I told him to get out, and once he was gone, I finished the job, doing my best to even it up as tears streamed down my face.

“He’s horrible. I’m glad you’re free of him,” Hazel finally said.

“There’s more to me than a vamp. I can do the part of Lina, I swear I can.” I stayed still while Hazel studied me.

“Why don’t we read through Lina’s part together, up in my room?” she suggested.

“Tonight?”

“Why not? Time is of the essence.”

Hazel and I worked until dawn. She spoke of the character’s desires, and her weaknesses. Scene by scene, we picked apart the motivations, focusing on Lina’s desire to be with the man she loved, while hiding her true identity from the others. Around five in the morning, I read the character’s final monologue, and when I looked up, Hazel’s eyes were shining.

“Yes. You should play Lina. I never should have doubted you. This role is yours, and I’d be honored to have you involved.”

“The honor is all mine.”

Hazel invited me to sit in on the auditions a few hours later. The morning was spent finding the right actor for the character of the male lead, Matthew, and we had more than enough to choose from—the talent pool in New York was tremendous—but everyone agreed on a man named Jake Simmons, who hit all the right notes of desperation and desire.

During a coffee break, Mr. Canby said he’d invited a potential costume designer to stop by to meet Hazel, so I stepped off to the side to grab a donut, which I almost dropped when Hazel let out a screech like she was being attacked by bees.

She was hugging someone, and as they disentangled, I screeched as well.

Floyd, our artist from Naples. The boy who had done our caricatures had grown into a lovely young man in the past half decade, with an easy smile yet still sporting a slight hunch to his shoulders, like he was afraid of taking up too much space.

Turned out, he’d come to New York after the war, taken costume design classes, and landed a few decent gigs. Hazel’s eyes widened as he listed some of the shows he worked on. “Those costumes were excellent! You’re a real rising star.”

“Well, I owe it all to you two ladies.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, while his face turned scarlet. “After the USO shows, I decided I wanted to get into theater, too, and here I am.”

Hazel pulled Mr. Canby aside and they shared a quick whisper. She looked over at us, beaming. “Floyd, you’ve got the job. See you next week at the first rehearsal.”

After we’d all hugged again and he’d taken his leave, we got another surprise guest, Brandy Sainsbury, the girlfriend of the ex-director. Or ex-girlfriend of the ex-director, apparently. She showed up at her appointed time, all meek and mealy, and asked to read for one of the smaller roles. Hazel, that saint, allowed it and Brandy wasn’t half-bad, so I wasn’t surprised when Hazel offered her the part. Floyd’s arrival had put all of us into a good mood.

I spent the rest of the week getting my New York life in order, setting up the room Mr. Bard had offered me down the hall from Hazel’s. Much to Hazel’s relief, I’m sure. She was such a neat little girl, her desk perfectly arranged with her typewriter, a stack of paper, a thesaurus, and nothing else.

At the first rehearsal, I stepped through the backstage door and was handed a key for my dressing room, but before heading up, I snuck into the back of the house to catch my breath. The Biltmore Theatre is gorgeous, with plasterwork like ornamental lace on the walls, and a ceiling that soars high above the balcony seats. Hazel and Mr. Canby were standing at the foot of the stage, waving their arms about and doing whatever it is directors and producers do. How strange, to not be on the same level anymore. Now I was working for her. Still, it was way better than being in Arthur’s clutches, any day.

“All right, everyone, let’s begin.” Mr. Canby clapped his hands.

I grabbed my script and let a stagehand guide me up onto the stage from a temporary set of steps at the end of the aisle.

“We’ll start with the scene where Lina and Matthew are confronted by the other hotel guests,” said Hazel.

Not my first choice, as it gave me no chance of easing into the role. My heart began to pound like I was a newbie. If I didn’t relax, my throat would tighten up and make my voice sound strange, but the very thought made me even more tense. A merry-go-round of disaster.

We did the scene once through. Then again. Jake Simmons, even this early in the rehearsal process, was committed, passionate, while I came off like a stick figure. Both times, Hazel gave us guidance, but I could tell Jake’s advice was only for show, to make me feel better.

“This time, let’s heighten the stakes, okay?” said Hazel. “We can always bring it down.”

That was the problem, though. I only had two speeds as an actress, a shortcoming that I hadn’t really understood until now. On a film set, I could bring it down to almost zero, let my eyes do the work. I barely speak above a whisper, but the microphone picks up my words as the camera captures my every emotion. Does the trick every time, just as it did with Hazel when we read through the scenes at the Chelsea. My other speed is full throttle. Put me out in front of a thousand soldiers and I can make them laugh and sway in their seats as I belt out “That Old Black Magic.” But this play required me to run in second or third gear, and I wasn’t sure how to do that.

In fact, I was completely at a loss. Every line landed with a thud. Hazel’s initial reluctance to cast me had been spot on, she knew me better than I knew myself. I simply wasn’t up to the task.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Canby run a hand over his head and sigh loudly, while Brandy smirked just behind him. Jake looked panicked for me, which only made matters worse.

“Let’s all take a break,” said Hazel. “Ten minutes, please. Maxine, come with me.”

Oh God. A dressing-down my first day on the job. Part of me hoped she’d fire me and put me out of my misery.

As she led me up the stairs stage right, I filled the silence fast. “I’m sorry, Hazel, it’s just a bad day. You know I’ll figure this out.”

She didn’t look at me as she climbed up another flight. “We have to find you another way. Your old bag of tricks won’t work in my play.”

Of course, she knew exactly what was going on. That’s what happens when you share a tent and sleep under each other’s laundry.

“Do you trust me?” she asked.

I nodded.

We stepped into the hair and wig room. She dismissed the crew and closed the door. “Take off your shoes and dress.”

I did so.

“And the wig.”

“I’m not sure about that. Not just yet. Give me a week and I’ll do it.” I tried to hide the pleading from my voice. She was asking me to give up all my defenses. On the first day of rehearsal. I’d figured around week three I’d shock the cast and crew with my wigless head, once we’d all gotten to know each other and I felt safe. Not day one.

I deserved this, though. Everyone else in the cast was better than me. I was terrible, a fraud, a vampy whore who would be shown up. That awful Brandy Sainsbury popped into my head. I imagined her reading the reviews, crowing at my bad notices, proclaiming that I’d ruined the production with my wooden line readings.

I took off the wig.

Hazel grabbed a roll of cloth and told me to lift my arms while she bound my curves down, circling around me and around me, her eyes focused on my torso. Then she handed me a man’s suit, one that had been recently brought up from storage, by the sour smell of it, and I put it on.

“Shoes.”

I stepped into a pair of men’s Oxfords. The comfort of being able to wiggle my toes perked me up. Much better than heels.

“Let’s go back down and try again. You can’t coast in this role, Max.” She leaned in and put her hands on either side of my face. “From now on, when we’re rehearsing, you must wear these clothes and take off the wig. Lina has to act like a man to make herself heard. She can’t use her feminine wiles, which means neither can you.”

We walked back down to stage level, Hazel leading the way, holding my hand and talking in a low, soothing voice, as if I were a horse about to bolt.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t show everyone how awful I looked, what a mess I was. What Arthur had done to me. I wanted to pretend that he never existed, and now it was as if he was standing right behind me, jeering and laughing.

Hazel kept talking. “Remember when we first saw the boys in the plaza? Their faces, one defiant and one near tears. What was Paul thinking? What made him sling one arm around his friend, like they were two kids heading off for a summer’s day of fishing? Not about to be torn apart by a mob. When have you felt that way, Maxine? Defiant when you should be terrified?”

The answer came to me right away, although I didn’t speak it out loud.

The day that Lavinia had rescued me and my grandmother, ushering us inside the foyer of the Seattle theater, where it was silent and dark, the air sweet with pipe tobacco. As Lavinia and the others huddled over my grandmother, who’d been on the verge of fainting, I’d turned back to the glass doors and stood, legs spread wide, hands on hips, glaring right back at the unruly mob outside like a sheriff in a Western. Rage surged through my body, like I was on fire.

Hazel and I walked back onstage. I hardly noticed as the stagehands and cast gasped at my physical transformation. I touched Jake’s arm, briefly, to connect and let him know that I was in this one hundred percent.

We began from the top, and this time I didn’t think about my posture, or what to do with my hands. The emotion inside me, the image of my grandmother’s cheek glistening with spit, was the engine of the scene now. Everything else followed suit, and before I knew it, we’d reached the last line.

Applause filled my ears. I’d found her. I’d found Lina.