The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Maxine

July 6, 1950

We’re in tech now, which means long, painful days for us actors. We stand onstage, say a few lines, then Hazel stops us while the lighting designer fiddles about and the set designer does the same. A few more lines, more fiddling. Of course, it’s not fiddling. Canby had hired master lighting and set designers who would transform the naked stage into a believably decrepit hotel in a war-torn country. But for the actors, it’s something to endure. We’re dying to run through the show with lights, sets, and costumes, but tech week ground all that to a necessary halt.

Floyd was missed, especially when we showed up for the costume parade at a cavernous warehouse in the West Thirties, where members of the cast dress in full wardrobe, for inspection by the creative team. Floyd’s assistant had taken charge, but her boss’s absence was palpable.

I worried about Floyd, about where he was hiding out, what was going on behind the scenes that none of us were privy to. He’d been such a sweetheart in Naples and I hated the thought that he was being bullied again, like he’d been bullied there. During the war, Hazel and I had been able to offer him a modicum of protection, but this time he’d pulled away, out of our orbit of safety.

I wanted to weep at the thought of Floyd lost and alone, fearing a knock on the door, with absolutely no one to turn to. I wanted to break things and inflict pain, but our enemies were unseen, amorphous. Evil.

As I walked into the space, the actors, still wearing street clothes, were huddled in one corner, looking at something that Brandy held in her hand, and every eye turned to me as I entered. Brandy, always the bearer of bad news, thrust an issue of Counterattack right in my face.

“You really should take a look.” Brandy spoke louder than she needed to.

“Already seen it, this ain’t new, dearie,” I said. “Same folks who published the Red Channels rag, I hear.”

“But you’ve been named.”

I glanced down. It was another list of people deemed as threats to America. While many of the others had at least five lines of “offenses,” mine only had one: that lousy rally that I went to with Hazel’s brother eons ago.

Inside, I admit I was quaking, just a little. This was bad. I handed it back to her. “I’ve been called a lot of names in my time, and commie won’t be the last, I’m sure.”

Hazel clapped her hands and called for attention. From the rough edge in her voice, she’d already heard the news. “We’re late. Everyone get dressed and let’s get this show on the road.”

Normally, a dress parade is an exciting event. The costumes make the show feel real. While we’d had a number of fittings over the course of the rehearsal period, this is when you see the big picture, the color palette, what visual delights the audience is in for. It also makes you look at your fellow actors in a new way, more as the character than as the person you got to know outside of rehearsal. Costumes are a blast. Usually.

This time, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. We lined up in front of Canby, Hazel, and the assistant costume designer. Hazel and Canby walked up and back, examining buttons and silhouettes, whispering with each other, while we all held still. No joking, no banter. All business.

Brandy stood tall, a smug smile on her face, in her tangerine dress. She’d gotten what she’d wanted, after all.

We were finally dismissed, and I lingered around after changing back into my street clothes, hoping to talk to Hazel privately. Charlie Butterfield had arrived, unfortunately. When I came out from the dressing room, Hazel, Canby, and he were talking in the middle of the room.

I barged right up. “How bad is it?”

Canby rubbed his face. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”

Hazel crossed her arms. “Now we have two of us listed. There’s nothing I can do about that, and trust me, I tried to get myself cleared. These charges are baseless.”

Charlie shook his head. “I’ll talk to Hartnett, try to find out what happened.”

We already knew what happened. The scene on the boardwalk with Charlie’s father was the reason for the escalation.

“What about me?” I couldn’t help myself. “I was dragged to some silly rally years ago and that gets shoved in there? We were there for all of five minutes. When I found out what it was, I insisted we leave.”

I wished I could take back the words as soon as I said them.

Hazel glanced over at me. “Can we talk alone for a second?” She held up a finger to Canby and Charlie.

I knew what was coming.

“Was that the rally I saw you at, with my brother?” Hazel kept her voice down as we walked into one of the dressing rooms.

I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t. But she could tell from the look on my face that I had been with Ben.

“This is terrible,” she said. “I hate that he was the one who got you listed.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now, except stay the course and see if this all dies down.”

My words rang a little hollower every time I said them. I felt terrible for Hazel. This should be her shining hour.

Instead, the show’s reputation was being sullied a little more each day.

We took a cab home together, both of us eager to put this day behind us. But as we waited for the elevator, a man who’d been sitting on the lobby’s couch rose and called Hazel’s name.

“Yes?”

“Are you Miss Hazel Ripley?”

“That’s me.”

He handed her an envelope with her name typed on it in capital letters. “I’m here to serve a subpoena from the House Un-American Activities Committee.”