The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hazel

July 1950

While Arthur and Maxine roared around on the Cyclone, Charlie again apologized for his father’s behavior.

“You should be angry at him, too,” answered Hazel. “I can’t believe he left you behind.”

“He doesn’t like to be crossed. Once, when I was eight years old, I complained about something and he made me walk four miles home from my grandmother’s house.”

Always the city kid, Hazel did the calculation: Four miles was eighty New York City blocks. Almost unimaginable. “That’s horrible.”

“He’s not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type.”

“My mother isn’t either. Although she’d never send me on a forced march like that.”

He stared out at the sea, avoiding her gaze. “You made up an excuse about the roller coaster for me, didn’t you? Because you knew I couldn’t ride it?”

“I just figured it’d be easier that way. You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

“Thanks. It’s just, around a tough guy like Arthur . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. “How long have he and Maxine been together?”

“A long time. Years, apparently. The more I get to know him, the more I can understand why Maxine is drawn to him, even though there are aspects of him that I don’t like. He’s complicated, but then so is Maxine, who no doubt can be difficult at times.”

He lifted a brow. “You don’t say.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I know, she’s a diva. But she’s more insecure than she lets on.”

“She’s not like you, then.”

“Me? I’m very insecure.”

“You don’t show it.”

“I can’t afford to. Not when people like your father call me ‘little missy.’ I have to stay on my guard.”

“You are as far from a little missy as they come. Trust me.”

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

“It’s a compliment.”

His gaze was sweet, warm. She was used to seeing him in a suit, and his casual outfit—khakis and a short-sleeved linen shirt—made him seem far more approachable. “Have you read the play All My Sons?”

“I saw it on Broadway.”

“You should read it. There’s nothing like reading a play to understand how the theme gets woven through. I have a copy, I’ll bring it to rehearsal.”

“It’s about a son realizing the truth about his father. I already know the truth about my father, trust me.”

“Then why don’t you step out from under his shadow? Make your own way in the world?”

For a moment they stared at each other, as if trying to figure the other one out. He was about to answer, when Maxine skipped over, trailed by Arthur, beaming with exhilaration from the ride.

Rain poured down hard the whole drive back from Coney Island, and Hazel was happy to not have to make conversation above the din. Back in New York, Arthur dropped Hazel and Charlie off in front of the Chelsea and zoomed away with Maxine, off to a work party for his company up in the northern suburbs. While Hazel still had her doubts about Arthur, he did seem to be on his best behavior, and it wasn’t worth falling out with her friend and lead actress by making a fuss and insisting Maxine come back to the hotel with her, especially when she knew she wouldn’t listen.

Besides, she wanted to continue her conversation with Charlie.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Hazel as the sedan pulled away from the curb. “About your father.”

“I know exactly who my dad is, I don’t have any delusions about that. The work I’m doing now is only to help me get into the FBI.”

“So you can arrest actors, instead of just intimidating them?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“I doubt that.”

He looked up at the building. “Let me come upstairs, you can give me that play, and I’ll explain.”

“I’d be thrilled to be enlightened.”

Up in her apartment, she poured them both some Scotch and opened the windows to let in the post-storm breeze.

Charlie sat back on the sofa, drink in hand. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, I highly doubt the entertainment industry is rife with communists who are trying to overthrow democracy. That’s all a ridiculous sideshow.”

“Why on earth do you work for American Business Consultants if that’s what you think? You’re a part of the machine that’s tearing us all apart.” She thought of Floyd and Brandy, of the way baseless claims could be used to target innocent people.

“Because it’s a professional stepping-stone. You need to have three years of job experience after college before you can apply to be a Fed, and when I was offered a position as an investigator with Hartnett, it seemed like a smart place to bide my time. I’m proving I have the skills the FBI looks for.” He let out a sigh. “Look, I do think my father is partly correct about the threat we’re under. He has connections in the Bureau, and they’ve told us without a doubt that secrets are being relayed to the Soviets, that a network of spies is in place and has been in place for years. I want to be part of that fight. I couldn’t go to war, because of my epilepsy, but if the FBI will let me in, that’s how I’ll serve my country.”

He continued on, gathering steam. “If I can prove to the FBI that we can catch the actual spies without a witch hunt, it’ll all be worth it. Right now, yes, my father is persecuting innocents and has gone too far. I’m working to stop him from the inside, which, as his son, I know is the best way to change his mind. And if I can’t change his mind, at least I can try to protect the artists he goes after, since I admire them immensely.” He stared at her.

Hazel felt a blush spread over her cheeks. “Is that why you volunteered to watch over the show?”

“I felt I owed you, after your help on the roof. To be honest, I like being in the theater every day, watching as you whip them into shape.”

“Well, your instincts are good. I know you don’t say a lot of things because I’ve told you to keep it to yourself, but the ones I’ve let you offer up are pretty smart.”

“Like my idea to play Charlie Parker during scene changes?”

“Yes. That one was a good one.” She shifted so she was facing him, one leg bent across the couch and the other on the floor. Although she hated to admit it, Charlie was exactly the type of person who should be involved in politics or a government agency. Better him than the rigid, right-wing McCarthy any day. At least he talked sense. “You can see that we’re harmless, right? Admit that. At the very least, admit that.”

His jaw tightened. “You and your production, yes. I can admit that. But there’s so much else going on out there. Things that you don’t know about. That you shouldn’t know about.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t say.”

“Will we hear about it in the news one of these days? Or is this the kind of thing that’s going to stay underground, all conspiracy theory and conjecture?”

“Soon. You’ll hear something soon.”

She leaned in. “Ooo. So scary.”

He touched her chin with his index finger, lightly, like he was casting a spell. “Don’t make fun.”

The feather-like stroke rippled through her. He pulled back, placing both hands in his lap. Unnerved, she rearranged her features into a polite smile as the sound of firecrackers reverberated over the city.

“When I first came to the hotel, I was so worried about what my mother thought,” she finally said. “We’d had a big fight, and I moved out for what I thought was a few days but turned out to be permanent. I don’t regret it one bit. It was only the second time I went against her wishes—the first being the USO tour—and I’m glad I did. Maybe by working on the show you’re declaring your own independence.”

“I’m going to step out from under my father’s shadow, one way or another.” Charlie’s voice was soft but firm. “What the hell, maybe if I get rejected by the FBI, I’ll invest in your next production.”

“Now you want to become a producer?” She was going to tease him, but the look on his face was so sweet, so hopeful, that she pulled herself up short. “I think that would be grand.”

“You do?” He glanced out the window, at his drink, anywhere but at her.

She finally took his chin in her hand and made him focus. “Yes.”

They stared again, but this time neither broke away. He leaned in and kissed her, pulled back and whispered, “Is this okay?”

She moved into him. “Yes.”

For once, she wanted to be the bad girl, like Maxine. To let herself go and stop overthinking everything. Like the fact that Charlie was the worst possible choice as a lover, for many reasons. To just stop thinking.

They stayed on the couch for what seemed like hours, Charlie taking his time exploring her body and very slowly peeling off her dress, then her undergarments, until she was bare. The small part of her that was aghast at the exposure was quickly overwhelmed by her other senses. She became consumed by his inhale of breath, the touch of his fingers on her breast, the sting of Scotch on their tongues.

All thoughts of the play evaporated from her mind, just like the rainwater steaming off the black pavement of Twenty-Third Street.