The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER TEN

Maxine

June 26, 1950

Hotel living definitely has its perks, especially when I camp out in the lobby and watch Mr. Bard’s reactions to every tenant passing by. You can tell immediately those he loves and those he abhors. If he loves them, he calls out a nickname, sometimes “dearie” and other times some kind of Hungarian endearment that sounds like it consists of all consonants. If he hates them, he’ll scurry into his office rather than suffer their presence. Worse off are the folks who owe him rent money. Those he’ll follow to the elevator, standing too close as it makes its slow descent, and speak about their “monetary delinquency” in a stage whisper that I’m sure he hopes will shame the poor resident into ponying up.

I was waiting in the lobby because I was tired of staring at my phone upstairs, wondering if it would ring. Not surprisingly, Arthur had resurfaced. More than once. The first time, he was standing across the street from the Biltmore, wearing a black fedora and matching raincoat. My eye went to him immediately, it always has. He nodded but didn’t beckon to me, and I jumped into a cab and escaped as fast as I could, heart pounding.

He was outside the Chelsea the next time, holding a bunch of flowers. Peonies. My favorite. We spoke, briefly. He was back in town for business, but said he couldn’t let me go, that he’d do anything to make it up to me. We made a date to talk further, and it was then he pulled out all the stops, bringing me to a glitzy nightclub, ordering champagne.

My grandmother had adored Arthur from the start, even though I was only sixteen. “I met your grandfather when I was a teenager,” she told me. “It’s better that way.” I asked her why, and she just smiled. She kept a photo of them on their wedding day on her bureau, and I used to creep into her room and study it. In it, they were looking at each other, laughing, my grandmother’s profile as delicate as a movie star’s and my grandfather’s eyes filled with longing. The same way Arthur looked at me that evening at the nightclub.

Arthur talked of our shared history, pleaded with me to not let our story end like this. Promised that he’d changed and we were meant for each other. Even though I knew it was only a matter of time before he wore me down and we were back to performing our sordid duet, I’d said I wasn’t ready, and walked out.

“What are you doing, lurking in the lobby?”

Hazel appeared out of nowhere, wearing a prim shirtdress with a matching cardigan. Like she was off to church or something.

I avoided her question with one of my own. “Where are you headed this fine evening?”

“Family dinner. Would rather jump in the Hudson, but duty calls. My mom’s still sore that I moved out, although I stop by once a week, to try to make it up to her.” She let out a funny sound, a cross between a hiccup and a gasp. “Hey. You should come along. Do you want to meet my parents? My mother will love you.” She didn’t wait for me to reply. “This is perfect. Come on.”

I agreed, curious. Not that I had anything better to do.

“Any news on Floyd?” I asked as the cab roared uptown. Yesterday, we’d hightailed it over to Canby’s office right after the radio show, and found him already on the phone with NBC, chewing them out for their attack on Hazel. He’d taken the news about Floyd badly, throwing a coffee mug across the room, and promised to track him down, do whatever it took.

“Nothing yet. I’m sure we’ll hear soon, though.”

I didn’t answer. None of us knew how these new rules worked, where someone could be taken away for questioning and then disappear. As if we were living under siege in some authoritarian state, not America.

The taxi dropped us off outside one of those grand Upper West Side apartment buildings that take up the whole block. Hazel nodded to the doorman keeping guard just inside the gates and we took a sharp left, up a flight of wide stairs. She shoved open a door and we were standing inside what felt like a rambling country house, not a New York apartment. An expansive foyer with a mosaic floor opened up to a dark wood library on one side and some kind of salon on the other, both with big fireplaces. Hallways led off other hallways, a maze of sharp turns and hidden nooks.

Hazel hung her hat and coat on the rack and I followed suit. “This is your home?”

“Yes. Back in the 1920s, when they moved in, it wasn’t a big deal. Everyone lived like this. Lucky for them, it’s rent-controlled, otherwise they might have to move in with me.” She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, Mr. Bard would adore them, I’m sure.”

Inside the kitchen the aroma of a roast chicken greeted us. Her mother was stooped over, lifting it out of the oven, and when she caught sight of me, she squealed and dropped the roasting pan with a large crash.

She left it there, the chicken half in the pan and half on the floor, and dashed over, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re Maxine Mead. A true star, here in our home.” Hazel’s mother had the same blue eyes as her daughter, but they darted back and forth, studying me closely. Her jowls hung heavy on her face, as did the skin under her eyes, forming translucent half-moons.

Hazel was on her knees, cleaning up the mess and wiping the chicken’s backside with a towel. “This will be fine. It wasn’t on the floor for long.”

I moved to help, but her mother held me firmly by my elbows. “Maxine Mead, in the flesh!”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ripley.”

“That’s right, Hazel said she acted with you in Italy.” Mrs. Ripley turned to her husband, who sat in a wheelchair by the table. “Remember? Hazel acted with Maxine Mead in the USO tour.”

Her father, a skinny man with bony knees under his too-big slacks, nodded but stayed silent.

Hazel made the introductions and then Mrs. Ripley was off to the races, offering me a glass of wine and asking all about Hollywood. I swear she used the word starlet at least four times. We sat down and ate dinner, me answering her questions and Hazel looking quite pleased with herself and not saying a word. Unlike me, that girl shied away from attention, and now I knew why. Attention in this household was fierce.

“Hazel wanted to be an actress, but she wouldn’t listen to me.” Mrs. Ripley passed me the bowl of peas. “If she had taken my advice, she’d be in your position, doing movies and the like. I made Mr. Ripley’s career, you see, so I know of what I speak.”

I looked over at Hazel, who stayed silent. “Hazel is a wonderful actress,” I offered.

Mrs. Ripley shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen her act. Not once. She’s a bit of a joke in the theater world. ‘Always the bridesmaid,’ you know that saying?”

I was well aware of Hazel’s run as an understudy, and resented her mother for throwing it in her face. She seemed to take it personally, as if Hazel had refused to go onstage to spite her. There was no inquiry into her daughter’s play, or acknowledgment of the fact that Hazel’s work was soon to be performed on Broadway. The blinders on that woman annoyed the hell out of me.

After dinner, Mrs. Ripley attended to her husband, and I wandered around, eventually finding Hazel sitting in one of the bedrooms, looking out the window onto the rooftops of the city, the sky lit up with the last blast of sunset.

The room still smelled slightly boyish, a lingering hint of sweat and hormones. Or maybe that was just my imagination. “Was this Ben’s room?”

Hazel nodded, her hands folded in her lap. “How did you meet him?”

We hadn’t spoken much of him. I didn’t want to, as I barely knew her brother at all. I’m sure she wanted some dramatic love story, but that’s not what it was. Far from it. We were just kids, moving along in the world.

“In a coffee shop, downtown. We dated here and there, but it wasn’t anything serious. I don’t really remember much about him, to be honest. I’m sorry.”

“What about the other man? He’s back, isn’t he?”

Of course Hazel would know. She’d been watching me onstage, day after day. Surely the resurgence of Arthur registered in my body language, my voice. Hazel of all people would know that.

“He is. Arthur’s in the city on business. I tried to fend him off, but he’s persistent. I finally agreed to meet him and we talked. He feels awful about what happened.”

“Why do you like him so much? He doesn’t respect you.”

“Why don’t you tell your mom to respect you? She’s awfully rude.”

I hadn’t meant to be so abrupt, but Hazel considered her answer before speaking. “She believes she knows the best way to go about things, and gets frustrated when I don’t listen. She was upset when I moved into the Chelsea, and feels abandoned. First Ben, then me.”

“You’re only a cab ride away, and you’re an adult, for God’s sake. Does she really feel abandoned, or is it just that you made an independent decision without consulting her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother is one of those people who comes across as selfless and caring, but only so others will recognize and laud her martyrdom. She craves control.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.” Hazel’s tentative delivery didn’t match the admonishment. She had to know it was true, deep down. “At least she doesn’t hurt me.”

The dig at Arthur hit home. “You so sure of that? It doesn’t just have to be physical, you know.”

We sat quietly, a détente of sorts. “My mother has been through so much,” she finally explained. “I guess I see it as my daughterly duty, and try not to let it bother me. How did you and Arthur meet?”

I appreciated Hazel maneuvering the conversation to a less fraught subject. “He knew the couple who ran Seattle Rep, and would often stop by and help out. All the girls had a crush on him.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. The smell of the theater—a mix of wood shavings and pipe smoke—came back to me in a rush. “I was sixteen, and he was twenty-one, with this curly dark hair and blue eyes, what a combination. A tough guy, all muscles and cragginess, except for those eyes. Anyway, I’d finally gotten a decent role in a play, where I had to sing and dance. No one expected me to land that part, but I’d been practicing day after day, really putting in the work. The other girls hated me for getting it and tortured me to no end. Whispered backstage as I was rehearsing, hid my costumes and makeup.”

“That’s terrible.” Hazel sat back against the headboard and wrapped her arms around her knees. “What did you do?”

“What could I do, really? The night of the first performance, they smeared lipstick on my shirt. I tried to get it off best I could but then I had to go onstage, wearing this white blouse with a huge water stain over my chest. My grandmother and father were in the audience. This was my chance to prove to them I could act, that I was worthy of going off to New York City after school. Instead, I froze. I warbled out the tune, feeling the tension in the room rise with every note, feeling horribly exposed. After, I ran into an empty dressing room and crawled under the counter, crying my eyes out.”

“Oh, Maxine. I’m so sorry.”

“Eventually, the door opened and I hoped it might be my grandmother, but no, it was Arthur. He didn’t say a word. Just sat on the floor with me and placed a hand on my ankle. My ankle, of all places.” The pressure of his hand had been wonderfully warm and calming, like he was staunching the flow of my shame. “Once I was okay, we headed out the back door and found a diner and drank milkshakes. And that was that.”

I could tell Hazel wanted to ask more questions about why I tolerated Arthur’s bad behavior, about his marriage, but I didn’t want to discuss it and ruin all those lovely memories.

Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Ripley was wiping Mr. Ripley’s chin. Even though she was a loud, brash woman, the way she gently cleaned her husband, dabbing at the corners of his mouth, moved me. I wondered if Arthur would take care of me like that, if it came down to it, and regretted my earlier harsh words.

“Where did you girls get off to?” asked Mrs. Ripley.

“I was just showing Maxine around the apartment,” said Hazel. “We really should go, though, it’s been a busy day.”

“Can’t be that busy. It’s not as if you have to memorize any lines, since you’re not acting anymore.” Mrs. Ripley finally acknowledged the play we were both working so hard on.

“A director has just as much work, if not more.”

Mrs. Ripley stepped forward and planted a kiss on Hazel’s forehead, her hands on either side of her cheeks. “I just wish you were onstage with Maxine, not hiding in the back of the theater.”

Hazel shook free. “I’m not hiding in the back of a theater. That’s not what directors do.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Your daughter runs the show. She gets paid more money than the actors, gets to say what she wants and how she wants it. You really ought to be impressed.”

“A lady director? I don’t know.”

Hazel placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders and stared hard into her eyes. “I am the boss, Mother. You get it? Just like George Abbott, Moss Hart.”

Her mother began to say something smart, but Hazel shook her head. “No more dismissing this. It’s a big deal. You can come to opening night, but only if you are there to be pleasant and say nice things to me. Period. Otherwise you can stay home.”

Her mother frowned but remained quiet. Hazel swept away, grabbing our coats and hats from the rack in a fluid motion and letting the front door bang hard behind us.

As we walked outside, she hugged me. “Thank you.”

“You were great. Your best role yet.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t acting.” She took a deep breath, pleased with herself. “Now it’s your turn. Next time you see Arthur, you tell him what’s what. I’ve got your back.”

If it were only that easy. But I didn’t say that. I just nodded and whistled for a taxi.

Mr. Canby pulled me aside at rehearsal the next day. Not just aside, he yanked me into the house manager’s office near the front of the theater, kicked out the house manager, and closed the door.

“Am I fired?” I was only half joking, but Mr. Canby laughed hard and loud. Nervous laughter, forced.

“No, of course not.”

I’d hoped he might have some news about Floyd, but I was wrong.

“I have a favor to ask of you, Miss Mead. I’ve arranged a meeting with you and an important person, someone whose approval is crucial to our little play here.”

“An investor?”

“Not quite. After that disastrous radio interview, he reached out, saying he wants assurance that all is on the up-and-up. I’m hoping you can tell him that it is.”

Strange choice of words. I was intrigued. “Isn’t Hazel the right person for this?”

“No, I want star power. You need to dazzle him with your Hollywood glitter.”

“Darn, I forgot to pack it in my handbag this morning.”

More fake laughter. Whoever this guy was, he had Mr. Canby shaking in his shoes.

“No need to mention it to Hazel, she has enough on her plate as it is. He’s at the Pierre hotel.”

“Swanky. How will I know who he is?”

“Just ask for Laurence Butterfield.”

Now it was all coming into focus. “This is the Butterfield with the supermarket empire? The same lunatic who crusades against commie sympathizers?”

Mr. Canby blanched. “Please don’t put it like that. Look, he heard the radio broadcast and is threatening the show with picketers, and I was hoping you could convince him to back off.”

“Why don’t you have Hazel meet him, and let them talk like two grown-ups? I bet she’d love a chance to put him straight.”

“First of all, that’s the last thing we need. You know Hazel will go on the attack, like she did during the interview.”

“Can you blame her?”

“No, no, of course not. But we need a level head. Butterfield’s got a direct line to a lot of people at the top, including the FBI.”

I knew he was thinking of Floyd. And I knew I’d do whatever I could to help. While I hated going behind Hazel’s back, I could see Mr. Canby’s point.

The somber clerk behind the desk at the Pierre directed me to a suite on the thirtieth floor, where a woman sporting a bouffant hairdo that resembled cotton candy dipped in ink opened the door.

“Please, come in,” she said, without a trace of welcome. I followed her into the living area, where a slight man with a crew cut sat reading the newspaper. He folded it up carefully as he saw me coming, and we sussed each other out. His suit was too large for his frame, as if he was trying to emphasize shoulders he did not have. His profile disappointed further, with a chin that receded into his neck.

But when he stuck out his hand, an entirely different energy emanated from that skinny scaffolding. His grip was firm, and he spoke with a baritone that almost rattled the teacup next to him.

“I’m Larry Butterfield. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Mead.”

“Likewise.”

He ordered his wife to pour us tea and she did so, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind her.

“Miss Mead, I’ll get right to the point. I was listening to my favorite radio show and was very disappointed.”

“How so, Mr. Butterfield?”

“Don’t get me wrong, you were marvelous—I’ve seen a few of your movies and enjoyed them very much—but I didn’t like what I heard from that director girl.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but you see—”

He cut me off. “Canby says you know Hazel Ripley quite well, professionally and personally.”

“Yes. We met in the war, in Naples. She’s a talented actress, and a skilled writer.”

“I see. Her show—your show—opens soon. I’m surprised you’d be involved, a movie actress of your stature.”

“Have you read it?”

“I don’t need to read it, I already know everything I need to know about it.” Mr. Butterfield took a sip of tea and pursed his lips. Or maybe that was his usual tea-tasting face. “Canby’s making a huge mistake. Don’t think I don’t know what he’s up to, sending along a pretty gal to try to convince me otherwise. Let me tell you, your playwright-slash-director is not to be trusted.”

“Hazel? She’s one of the best people I know.”

“I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned in close. I had to stop myself from recoiling. “She reminds me of my wife back when we first met.”

That made no sense at all. The mousy woman who let me in?

“She was a journalist, wrote about garden clubs and the like, before getting caught up in the women’s right to vote, with all that pseudo-political grandstanding. When I asked for her hand in marriage, I explained I wouldn’t tolerate any of that rubbish, and now she’s a proper wife, a proper mother.”

I tried to keep my expression neutral, not let on how horrified I was. The way the story spilled off his tongue, it was obvious he told it frequently.

“I know a thing or two about the world that you ladies simply cannot, by virtue of your sex. I fought in the First World War—I was considered a war hero, if you must know—and after the war I told Coolidge to keep an eye on those Germans. I told that to anyone who would listen, but no one believed me. Proved right, I was, and before we knew it, we were immersed in another world war.” He stared out the window, where clouds scudded across the sky. “For years now, my gut has been telling me that the Russians are next, and every day I’m proven right a little more. This time, I won’t just talk. This time, I’m taking action to stop our country from attack.”

This clearly wasn’t a man to be underestimated. I tried a different tack. “I appreciate your service, sir. I can only imagine the things you’ve seen. But we’re just trying to put on a play, a little entertainment. I promise it’s not an attack against America, not in the least.”

He shook his head. “I’ve been working closely with the American Legion and we believe there is a terrible threat out there. A threat to our very way of life. We’ve seen the impact of the Hollywood Ten, we know that these tainted artists have infiltrated television and radio. Broadway is next.”

“If I may, Mr. Butterfield, what was the last show you attended on Broadway?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly recall the title—it was years ago. My wife and I don’t enjoy the theater, as a general rule. Matter of fact, several years ago, a local theater group in Syracuse tried performing some lefty propaganda, and the minute I got wind of what they were up to, I had the entire production shut down, the group banned. I vowed to my wife that we would never step foot in a theater again.”

I took a deep breath and remembered why Mr. Canby had sent me. Not to fight, but to flatter. “Tell me what you’re trying to do here in New York, if you don’t mind. I’m not sure I understand exactly.”

He brightened at the invitation. “I’ve made it my mission to ensure that Red Channels is in every advertising executive’s desk drawer up and down Madison Avenue. If they hire or represent someone who’s on that list, then I threaten to boycott all the products hawked by that particular ad agency.”

“You mean you won’t stock their cigarettes or toilet paper or whatever?”

“Exactly. Or sometimes, I keep a few of the products in stock, but I put them out on the shelves with a note for all the customers to see, so that they know they’re supporting the Communist Party if they purchase that particular product.”

“That seems extreme.”

“It’s my store, and my right to express my opinion.”

“Just as it’s the right of the artists to express theirs.”

“Not if they’re spies. We’re organizing a fight on all fronts, and I won’t rest until every last dirty Red has been exposed and brought down. I don’t care if we’re talking about a girl director, a producer like Canby, a musician, or an actor.”

He scared me, to be honest. I took a deep breath, softened my shoulders, and leaned forward conspiratorially. I would placate this madman, for Hazel’s sake.

“Look, Mr. Butterfield, would I be working with someone who was a tainted artist? Of course not, I’m American through and through. When Hazel and I were entertaining the troops in Italy, we saw the fight in our soldiers’ eyes, felt their love of our great country. That’s what inspired Hazel to write the play, which is far from un-American, by the way. You really ought to read it.”

“I don’t need to read it.” But my patriotic words had soothed him. He ogled me, breathing heavily. This was way too easy. The more uptight the man, the faster they fall under my spell, I’ve discovered.

“You’ve got to see our quandary, then,” I continued. “If you won’t read the play, or even come to the theater to see it once it’s running, what can we do to convince you that everything’s on the up-and-up? You must see how you’ve put us in a bind. Hazel’s a good person, she’s been unfairly targeted.”

“Unfairly targeted? Huh. Anyone who thinks so is free to visit the offices of American Business Consultants and request to clear their name.”

I sat back. Could it be that easy? “Well, then, I’m sure Hazel will want to do so.”

“You seem like a smart lady, Miss Mead. You must understand that we’re surrounded by a spiderweb of subversives that grows and grows. There are some nights I can barely sleep. I have children, I hope to have grandchildren. I want them to be safe.” His voice cracked. “Don’t you want that, too?”

“Of course I do.” I stood to go. I’d heard enough and if I stuck around any longer, I’d tell Mr. Butterfield to go to hell and toss his tea in his face. And if I did that, without a doubt, the show would be surrounded by picketers and close before it had a chance to open.

But with Butterfield placated, we’d have a chance.

“If Hazel goes to American Business Consultants to clear her name, will you give us a little breathing space, Mr. Butterfield?” I forced myself to let my hand linger on his arm as he showed me to the door.

“I just might, Miss Mead.” He offered up a slow, vicious smile, revealing a mouth of crowded teeth. “I very well just might.”