The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER NINE

Hazel

June 1950

The man lying in Hazel’s lap seemed only to get worse. A trail of drool dripped down the side of his chin, and the sound of his teeth grinding set her own on edge. She looked around, desperate for help, even though she knew she was all alone on the sprawling rooftop. For a while he fought against her, as if trying to get to his feet, so in a low voice she told him to quiet down, that everything was fine.

With a great gasp, he sat upright, almost knocking Hazel in the head as he did so. He wasn’t fully conscious, but his breathing began to return to normal, and the color slowly came back to his face.

“Where am I?” When he finally spoke, his voice was low, weary. Like that of a much older man.

“On the roof of the Chelsea Hotel. You had some kind of a fit.”

He blinked a couple of times and looked about. “God, no.”

She kept her hand on his back, unsure of what to do next. “You fell pretty hard. Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so.” He rolled his shoulders a few times.

“Someone’s gone for help. What happened to you just now?”

He looked defeated, worn. “Epilepsy.”

“Is it because we chased you up the stairs?” Hazel couldn’t believe she was actually feeling bad for the guy.

“It just happens.”

“Does it happen often?”

He put one hand on the back of his neck and rubbed it. “Not in years, since I was in high school. It’s what kept me from the draft.”

She guided him onto a nearby bench and sat beside him, like a couple of strangers waiting for a bus. Uncertain, she said the first thing that came to mind. “You were following Lavinia Smarts, right?”

He nodded, barely.

“Why are you spying on people? There’s no one evil or dangerous here. Just a bunch of artists and writers and actors.”

“I’m not spying. I was just inquiring. We’re trying to keep America safe.” His face fell. “Apparently, I haven’t done a very good job of it.”

“That was pretty terrifying.”

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

She knew she should let him recover, but in her nervousness, and her relief that he was okay, she couldn’t seem to stop talking. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“You seem younger.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “I guess it doesn’t help when I’m drooling like a baby.”

“You only drooled a little.” She patted his knee, then immediately regretted it. “I hardly noticed.”

The corners of his mouth rose slightly. “I appreciate that.”

The door to the stairway banged open and Maxine and Mr. Bard appeared.

“What’s your name?” asked Hazel.

“Charlie. Look, I really don’t want to cause a scene, I’ll lose my job. Again, I’m sorry about this. I’ll just go.”

By the time Maxine and Mr. Bard reached them, Charlie was back on his feet. He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and addressed Hazel. “Thank you for helping me. I appreciate it, but I must go now.”

His strides lengthened as he crossed the rooftop, then disappeared into the black hole of the stairway.

“What should we do?” asked Maxine.

Mr. Bard shrugged. “What can we do? We’re the little people, they’re the ones in power. We do what they say.”

Hazel spoke up. “He’s not a threat, believe me. He’s mortified by what happened. My guess is we won’t see him around here again.”

“If you say so,” answered Maxine.

“In the meantime, should we go and tell Lavinia what’s going on? She’ll want to know.”

Downstairs, Lavinia was nestled in an apricot-colored armchair in her living room, a script spread open on her lap and a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. Winnifred and Wanda sat at a table near the window, playing a game of checkers.

Lavinia listened to Hazel’s recounting of the morning’s events without interrupting, glancing over at Maxine every so often.

“I don’t think we’ll see him again,” said Hazel. “He was awfully embarrassed, but I bet there’s more where that came from.”

Lavinia closed the script and set it on the floor. “What bothers me most is not that I’m a target, but that by infiltrating the hotel, they’re destroying everything the Chelsea stands for. Where people with opposing opinions can mingle and mix without forcing one side or the other to leave. It’s the beauty of the place, has been so for decades. The same goes for Broadway.”

Maxine leaned back in the sofa. “Broadway—and New Yorkers—won’t put up with this insanity for long. It’ll blow over fast, I’m guessing.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Hazel. “The House Un-American Activities Committee successfully crushed the Hollywood Ten, which has only encouraged that awful Senator McCarthy in his fanatical hunt for communists in the government. Who knows who’s next after that? Artists, musicians? We’re right in the HUAC’s crosshairs. I can’t help but think that if we band together, we can show them that we won’t be bullied,” said Hazel.

“You mean, like the Hollywood Ten banded together?” Wanda’s voice was barely a whisper. Winnifred finished her thought. “They ended up going to prison.”

The sisters had a good point.

“What about going to our unions?” said Hazel. “Aren’t they there to protect us?”

“Good luck with that,” answered Lavinia. “The Screen Actors Guild caved three years ago, and I have no doubt AFTRA will do the same.” She looked dolefully down at the script on the floor. “No doubt I’m next, with my history. If I get named, there goes my starring role on the small screen.”

“What starring role?” asked Hazel.

“I’m to play a family matriarch in a new television series on NBC. A juicy part, to say the least.”

Congratulations rang out around the room. “What will become of us if the classically trained Madame Lavinia stoops to television work?” teased Maxine.

“I’m getting old. Older. It would be nice to cut down on travel, do less regional theater. Although I’d miss your grandmother’s apple cake.” Lavinia turned to Hazel. “Maxine’s grandmother made all the treats that were sold during the intermission at Seattle Rep. I still dream of that cake.”

“Being German, and something of a battle-ax, my grandmother didn’t have many friends,” added Maxine. “But she was always welcome at the theater, and has a special place in her heart for Lavinia. She’ll be very sorry if you stop performing there.”

The apartment door opened and Virgil Thomson walked in. “What on earth is going on in here?”

Hazel gestured around the room. “We’re trying to figure out a way to fight back against the blacklist.”

“A ghastly premise for a get-together.” He patted her on the head. “On principle, I don’t tolerate discussions of politics or religion. I don’t tolerate complainers. It all bores me to tears.”

“We’re not complaining, we’re standing up for something.”

But he’d already wandered over to the bar cart, and didn’t hear a word she’d said.

The soothing repetition of rehearsals helped Hazel move forward.

The play was gradually taking shape under her hand. The process was no different from that of a sculptor, but instead of wet clay, she maneuvered actors around a stage. First, the table read: A scene was discussed and characters considered from all angles, usually a demonstration of pseudo-intellectual posturing, although every so often a small nugget of truth hit home. Then the actors took to their feet and stumbled around onstage, bumping into one another, struggling with words, a mangled mess of a thing that left everyone panicked. This week, though, the actors had been told to be “off book.” No more scripts.

The fear of not knowing the lines overcame nearly everyone, with actors calling out for help from the stage manager when they lost their way, apologizing profusely as the scene ground to a halt. But by the third or fourth run-through of a scene, the emotion under the words began to bubble to the surface. For a minute or two, speech and movement coalesced into a sublime tension. Whenever that happened, the cast would turn to Hazel afterward with the expectant smiles of good schoolchildren waiting to be patted on the head.

The only cloud in the creative process was Hazel’s worry that her listing in Red Channels, and the threat of others being listed, was dividing the cast. When a couple of the actors whispered in one corner during a break, every so often looking up and scanning the rest of the group, she couldn’t help wondering if they were merely gossiping, or guessing at who was a communist sympathizer. Another time, when Brandy and Hazel started walking toward the stage door at the same time during a break, Brandy said she’d forgotten something and suddenly turned back. Did she not want to be seen to the outside world as being too chummy with Hazel?

Hazel tried to shrug it off as her own silly insecurities.

Until Mr. Canby showed up early to a meeting of the show’s designers at the theater with a grim look on his face. He tossed the latest issue of Variety on the worktable, where Floyd’s sketches were scattered around a model of the set.

“They’re closing in.”

Hazel picked it up. “Who is?”

“Read the headline.”

She did so out loud. “Un-American Activities Group Probing Radio, TV, Stage.”

“Stage. That’s us.” Mr. Canby took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

She scanned the first paragraph.

The House Un-American Activities Committee is heading east, and soon will be initiating a probe of communism within the Broadway theaters of New York City. Committee investigators are already on the ground in the Big Apple investigating suspected actors and writers, as well as gleaning information from others claiming to have facts about commie influences in Manhattan’s showbiz.

The pattern for the Broadway probe will be no different from that of the Hollywood hearings. The HUAC expects several former members of the Communist Party to come forward and purge themselves by answering questions and naming those they knew in the Party.

“Purge.” Mr. Canby let the word hang in the air. “That’s some word. They’ve already started interviewing people in secret.”

Floyd and the set designer were downstairs in the basement, checking to see if any old props could be retooled for the show, and Hazel was grateful they weren’t in earshot. She didn’t want them to see Mr. Canby so anxious. “I don’t know anyone who’s been interviewed.”

“Because they’re secret, doll.”

The article would certainly strike even more fear into the hearts of the theater community, everyone wondering if a rival was turning on them, if they were a target. If they’d go off to jail and lose everything. An insidious, poisonous fog was drifting down Broadway, across stages and into producers’ offices and rehearsal rooms, making everyone suspect and scared.

“What can I do to help you? To help our production?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I mean, that’s what you should do. Nothing. Don’t speak out, don’t talk about it with other people. Lay low.”

“What about the radio interview Maxine and I are supposed to do this afternoon?”

Canby had arranged for an on-air interview at NBC, and Hazel hated to admit how eager she was to return to the studio as a budding playwright, as opposed to a cow.

“You’ll still do that, of course. We need all the good press we can get.” Canby’s expression softened. “Don’t get me wrong. I believe in this show. This is the best thing I’ve produced in decades. Screw Butterfield Supermarkets.”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Butterfield Supermarkets, some upstate grocery chain owned by an amateur blacklister. He enjoys organizing boycotts of anything slightly pinko. Laurence Butterfield has decided the theater is his next pet project.”

Floyd and the set designer emerged from the wings just then, preventing Hazel from asking any more questions. She dove headlong into the agenda, knowing that they had only an hour before the rest of the cast reassembled, and Mr. Canby headed off after giving the nod of approval to both sets and costumes.

As Floyd and the set designer were packing up to go, the rest of the cast drifted back in for the afternoon’s rehearsal.

The air in the room seemed to chill even before Hazel realized that two men in dark suits were charging down the aisle. This could not be good. She desperately wished Mr. Canby were still here.

“Yes? Can I help you?” Hazel tried to stay calm, put a neutral expression on her face.

“We’re investigators with the FBI.” The one who addressed her had an angry landscape of razor burn across his neck. In tandem, the men flashed their badges before tucking them back into the inside pockets of their jackets.

“What do you want?”

“We were informed that Floyd Jenkins is here.”

Floyd stepped forward, clutching a folder with his sketches in front of his chest like armor. “Yes? You want me?” His voice rose almost to a falsetto.

The other man, a bear of a guy in a too-small suit that pulled at the seams, nodded. “We’d like to ask you some questions, downtown. Come with us, please.”

“What is this all about?” said Hazel. “You can’t just come and take him away, we’re working here.”

“Actually, ma’am, we can. If you’ll come with us, please, Mr. Jenkins.”

The room froze. “Floyd, let me call Mr. Canby, don’t go anywhere,” said Hazel, starting down the steps from the stage.

“No, no.” Floyd waved his hand. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.” He handed the folder to Hazel. “See that these get back to the costume shop, to my assistant. Tell her we have the green light and to get to work.”

“No, Floyd.”

“It’s fine. I’ll answer their questions and be back in no time.”

With the agents flanking Floyd on either side, they disappeared up the aisle.

“Maxine Mead, you are an absolute delight.” The host of the radio program leaned in close to his microphone. “I know all our listeners out there are entranced, and if only they could see you like I do, they’d be panting like dogs.”

Not exactly the way Hazel would have liked him to put it, but at least so far the radio interview had gone smoothly, with all the focus on Maxine. Hazel hadn’t been able to reach Mr. Canby to tell him of the FBI spiriting Floyd off to be interviewed, but their own interview had only five minutes to go, after which she could head right over to his office.

“Now, Miss Ripley.” The host swiveled around to Hazel. “You’ve come out of nowhere, it seems, and now will be not only directing your first Broadway show, you also wrote it. How can you explain your good luck?”

“Well, you have to remember I understudied on Broadway for several years, so I know the theater world pretty well. And as Maxine explained, it came out of our experiences during World War II, in Naples.”

“Right. Now, tell us what your little skit is all about.”

Unbelievable. She doubted they’d call a male playwright’s work a “little skit,” even if it were a debut. She soldiered on. “It takes place in a formerly grand hotel in an unnamed country that’s under siege, and the guests are trapped inside by the fighting. They start turning on each other, in fear and desperation, and make assumptions about each other that aren’t necessarily true. I’d say the general theme touches on the dangers of making assumptions about someone’s identity and political beliefs.”

“Intriguing. That’s a big subject to tackle, especially now. I hate to bring this up, but your name turns up in Red Channels, which if our listeners don’t know, is a list of people suspected of being communist sympathizers. What do you have to say to that?”

She looked over at Maxine, who’d turned gray. “I advise everyone to ignore it, it’s all hearsay.”

The host was only getting started, it seemed. He pulled a sheet of paper from his notes. “I also have here a letter from a producer in the Theatre Guild, saying that you shouldn’t be directing a Broadway show since you’ve been listed in Red Channels. It says that a half dozen Theatre Guild subscribers were unhappy to see the employment of a controversial artist.”

This was news to Hazel. The incriminations seemed to be coming faster and faster. She couldn’t help but wonder if William Williams wasn’t behind this, trying to stir up trouble ever since he’d quit as director.

“I won’t bother to defend myself against the spurious allegations you just mentioned,” she said. “In fact, I’m surprised, as a member of the press, you’d give them any credence without checking your facts first.”

“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”

After watching Floyd be taken away, Hazel couldn’t take Mr. Canby’s advice and stay under the radar. Not when she’d just been ambushed. This time, she’d channel Maxine’s innate courage and speak the truth, loud and clear. “May I remind you and your listeners that we have something called the First Amendment, the right to free speech? Directing a play should have nothing to do with my political views. America is a free country, after all. Am I right?”

Before he could respond, Maxine launched into a long monologue about the difference between acting in a movie and acting onstage, not letting the host get a word in edgewise. The clock ticked down until there were only ten seconds to go. “So be sure to come see Wartime Sonata,” Maxine said. “Previews start July twelfth, opening night is July twenty-first. See you at the theater!”

Hazel threw her headphones down on the table, with Maxine following suit, and together they walked out without another word.