The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Hazel

July 1950

Five hours to go until opening night. Hazel stared at the gown hanging from her closet door, the one Maxine had insisted she buy during a Bergdorf’s shopping spree a couple of weeks ago. It wasn’t her usual style, which was a subdued color and cut. This was flashy, more like something Maxine would wear, and she’d tried it on only because Maxine had insisted. Strapless, white satin with a tulle overlay that faded from black to pink and scalloped edging, it shouted, Look at me!

“I simply won’t allow you to show up as Hayseed Hazel for your Broadway debut,” Maxine had declared. “This dress is perfect for who you are now: Hazel Ripley, director and playwright.”

Hazel had bought it, happy that it came with a matching tulle shawl. Add long white gloves and she wouldn’t feel quite so conspicuous. Hopefully.

There was nothing more she could do. At this point in the game, her job as writer and director was over. It was up to the cast and crew to pull off the show, and then keep on doing it for however long Mr. Canby allowed it to run.

Hazel’s mother was coming to the show tonight, and she couldn’t wait for her to see the marquee with her name in huge red letters: “Wartime Sonata by Hazel Ripley.” Evidence of her success that was irrefutable, finally.

At five thirty, she knocked on Maxine’s door and they caught a cab uptown. Maxine was unusually quiet, but it made perfect sense that she was nervous. Hazel squeezed her hand. “Here goes nothing.”

“Thank you for this chance. You’ve done so much for me.” Maxine looked down at their clasped hands. She also wore white, in a pale floral pattern. Like two brides off to be married in a dual wedding. In many ways, it was true. The theater was like a church to both of them, a safe haven from the real world.

“Ever since Naples, we’ve been a team, and a good one at that,” said Hazel. “This play wouldn’t be nearly as great with Brandy in your role. Thank goodness you came to New York to save the day.”

“Yes, thank goodness,” she echoed.

Hazel couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to share her news. They’d come so far, from performing on a flatbed truck to mounting a show on a historic Broadway stage, that it seemed a shame to keep her secret on their big night. “There’s something I have to confess to you, the one bright spot in all this negative attention on the show.”

“What’s that?”

“Charlie and I, we’re in love. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but with the play and rehearsals, we were trying to keep it quiet. I know we seem like a mismatched pair, politically, but he’s really open-minded.”

“Really?” She tilted her head.

“You seem skeptical.”

Maxine spoke as if she were choosing her words carefully. “He’s the son of the big bad Butterfield. Maybe it’s smart to stay away from him, at least for the time being.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just think it would be prudent, for now, to stay away from Charlie. You don’t want to muddle things.”

“Charlie’s the one thing in my life that’s not muddled.” Hazel studied her friend. “This is the first time I’ve truly been in love. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“Of course I’m happy.” Maxine hugged her, hard. “Of course.”

Maxine’s obvious reluctance was about more than their superficial mismatch, Hazel was certain. She remembered Floyd’s caricatures in Naples: Hazel as the plain Jane and Maxine as the femme fatale. There was no question that Hazel’s countenance and carriage had changed with her newfound power, augmented by Charlie’s love. She’d finally blossomed. Could Maxine’s status as the most beautiful woman in the room be that easily threatened?

They separated once they arrived at the theater, Maxine to her dressing room and Hazel into the house, where Mr. Canby was looking over the seating arrangements with the press agent.

Opening nights were like high-stakes dinner parties: Where certain reviewers required the best seats, others could be placed a little farther back, all while accommodating backers and industry royalty and hoping that no one left the theater offended before the curtain even lifted. Gossip columnist Walter Winchell needed to be placed far from Dorothy Kilgallen, due to a long-standing feud about who knows what, while Brooks Atkinson, the reviewer for the Times, required an aisle seat not too close to the stage but not too far back, either. At curtain call, the reviewers would scurry up the aisles before the rest of the audience began filing out, in a race to make the late-edition deadline.

All looked good, and Mr. Canby and the press agent headed to the lobby to finalize the last-minute changes with the box office staff. Charlie passed them, shaking Mr. Canby’s hand, and did the same once he reached Hazel.

It was torture, to not be able to kiss properly.

“You look marvelous,” he said. “That dress is beautiful, as are you.”

Charlie looked dashing in his tuxedo, Hazel hated to pull herself away. “I should go see the cast and give them a preshow pep talk.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Right now I’d rather be anywhere else. Seriously, I have half a mind to run down to the basement and curl up in a ball in the corner.”

“Then you’d ruin your pretty dress, and you don’t want that, do you?” He took her arm. “Come with me.”

He pulled her up the stairs to the balcony, to the very back of the theater. In the shadows, he kissed her, long and slow, before drawing her in front of him and wrapping his arms around her waist. They looked over the rows of seats lined up like velvet soldiers down to the set, where the actors warmed up with stretches and vocal exercises, joking around and teasing one another, all in high spirits.

The tensions of opening night had succeeded in finally pulling the company together, in spite of the ongoing blacklist and the various factions that had developed among the cast. For the next three hours, the critics served as a common enemy, uniting all sides.

After the show, they’d all go to Sardi’s, as was expected after an opening, and drink to the show’s success, everyone wide-eyed and buzzed from the excitement as well as the anxiety of waiting for the first reviews. Mr. Canby would meet a messenger on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, get handed a stack of newspapers, and scan through each in search of the theater section. If he entered holding the issues aloft, champagne corks would begin popping. If he tossed them in the trash and came in empty-handed, the party would turn into a wake.

Hazel had to enjoy the moment, this moment. Because anything could happen. She’d done her very best, and that would sustain her.

“I should go.” Reluctantly, she kissed Charlie, before leaving him to gather everyone on the stage to thank them for all their hard work, for believing in her and in the play, and also to express her gratitude to Mr. Canby for giving them the opportunity to present it to the world. Everyone clapped and kissed, but then the stage manager called half hour and the moment passed, as the nerves kicked in and the actors scrambled back to their dressing rooms to finish getting ready.

In the house, she greeted her mother, who looked splendid in a pink gown Hazel hadn’t seen her wear since before her brother’s death.

“You look lovely.” She kissed Ruth’s rouged cheek, pleased to have given her a night out, the first one in a very long time. One of the neighbors was looking after her father that evening. She wished he could have come, to share in her success.

Hazel made sure Ruth was settled in and then popped over to where Lavinia sat with several residents from the Chelsea, who offered Hazel kisses and congratulations. Finally, she took her place next to Mr. Canby at the top of the center aisle, greeting the incoming agents, lawyers, and industry people. How far she’d come, from the shadows of understudying where no one really knew she existed, to this.

She checked her watch. Ten minutes after eight o’clock. Not bad for an opening night. The curtain finally lifted and she relished the collective gasp as the audience took in the set, an intricate replica of a war-torn, formerly majestic hotel, complete with a crystal chandelier, a scarred grand piano, and a pile of rubble stage left. That gasp was a good sign. It meant they would suspend their belief and enter the world of the play easily, happily.

The first act moved along fast, buoyed by the actors’ nervous energy, but not so fast that the lines got lost. Excellent.

At intermission, Hazel and Mr. Canby shared hesitant smiles. So far, so good.

The final act began well. But about halfway through, Maxine seemed off. Hazel couldn’t put her finger on it, and probably the audience, seeing the play for the first time, didn’t notice, but the other actors sensed it and became slightly more careful when they should be diving in, building the emotion and the tension. There was tension, sure, but it wasn’t the right kind.

Beside her, Mr. Canby straightened up, alarmed. Hazel clenched her fists, willing the cast to keep up the momentum, not lose it.

The audience began to cough. Never a good sign. It meant they were getting fidgety, bored. At the crucial moment near the second-to-last scene, Maxine paused. She’d never paused at that place in the script before. She turned out, facing the audience. Her face was frozen, eyes wide. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

She’d been thrown into that desperate oblivion, one every actor fears.

She’d gone up on her lines.

Hazel knew that horrible feeling from her acting classes. She imagined it was similar to a fighter pilot ejecting from a plane. One minute, you were the pilot, fully in charge, and the next you were drifting in the open skies, vulnerable, at the mercy of the winds.

When Hazel had gone up doing a monologue from Macbeth in acting class, she’d been thrust out of the world of the play, where she portrayed a Scottish noblewoman bent on murder, and was suddenly just Hazel, a plain girl standing all alone on a stage, everyone staring and judging her. Blood had pounded in her temples as adrenaline flooded her body. It had felt unbearable.

The audience began to murmur and shift in their seats. Hazel said the line quietly out loud, vainly hoping that somehow Maxine would pick up the cue and get back on track. Tears came to Maxine’s eyes, magnified by the lights, but she didn’t wipe them away.

Maxine stood there, in terror, lost, as the seconds stretched on and on.

After what seemed like hours, one of the other actors fed Maxine her line and the show finally lurched forward. Hazel swore she heard a collective sigh of relief from the audience members, but recovery proved futile. The cast was unnerved and Maxine overacted the final scene, as if to make up for her misstep.

The magic was gone. Maxine’s last line rang out over the theater, drifted up to the mezzanine and the top balcony, and dissipated. Where in earlier performances, Hazel had heard gasps—sobs, even—in the interval between the last line and the first burst of applause, tonight a splatter of limp clapping broke out. It grew louder as the cast assembled onstage for the curtain call, but not by much. Audience members were already scuttling out, turning their backs on the work of these actors who’d slaved so hard the past few months and tried valiantly to bring Hazel’s words to life.

If only the critics could have come the night before, or on any other night but this one. If only.

Without saying a word, Mr. Canby sprinted up the aisle before the curtain call was finished. Hazel sat for a moment, stunned, before slipping out the side door of the house and heading up to Maxine’s dressing room.

The door was ajar. Hazel pushed it open and stood there, unsure of what to do next. Maxine sat in front of her mirror, wiping off the stage makeup, her shorn hair sticking up as if she’d run her fingers through it in frustration.

“Sorry, Hazel. I blew it.” The bitterness in her voice brought tears to Hazel’s eyes.

“You went up on your lines. Happens to everyone, at some point.”

“Not on opening night, at the most crucial moment in the play. You should have never cast me, I was terrible.”

“What happened?” Hazel knelt down at her friend’s side, one hand on her leg and the other on the back of the chair.

The touch broke Maxine’s fierce defensiveness. Tears fell down her face, streaking her cake foundation. “I forgot one line. Then everything went blank, and then it was like I was paralyzed, frozen in place. Which made me panic even more. I’m so sorry.”

“It was over before you knew it.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course,” lied Hazel.

Maxine grabbed a tissue and wiped her cheeks. “Hey, the play is strong, so maybe the critics will see beneath my flub what a great script it is.”

“Exactly. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Think of all those times in Naples we made stuff up because we’d learned the play the day before and were completely lost.”

Maxine wiped her eyes. “We did, didn’t we? At one point, you did a monologue from George Bernard Shaw to fill the time. The guys loved it.”

“Hey, whatever works. See you at Sardi’s?”

“Thanks, doll. Let me get cleaned up and we’ll drink to Naples.”

Hazel congratulated the cast members she ran into on the stairway, a forced cheer in her voice. Charlie was waiting in the corridor. She craved Charlie’s touch, wanted to fall into his embrace and be comforted instead of having to offer comfort, but that wasn’t possible in public. He smiled at her and offered a “good show,” but they both knew it had been a disaster.

“Have you seen Mr. Canby yet?” she asked him.

“No.”

“Probably ran back to his office to calculate how much money he’ll lose if we get panned.”

“Stop with that. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

She couldn’t bear it. “Give me a moment, I should see my mother off in a cab.”

She found her in the lobby. Most of the crowd had thinned out, thank goodness.

“My darling. You poor dear.” The words were followed by an awkward hug, but the effect was as if Hazel had been slapped across the face.

Her mother was practically giddy. Hazel realized, in a sickening rush, that tonight’s debacle was everything her mother had dreamed of. Hazel had failed, miserably and publicly, which meant Ruth could come to the rescue and reinsert herself in her daughter’s life.

Hazel desperately wished her father could have attended and blunted the bitter impact of her mother’s joy. As quickly as possible, she shuttled her mother into a taxi, found Charlie, and together they walked to Sardi’s. Charlie didn’t say much but offered his arm, which she gratefully took, happy to feel the connection to him, the strength of his muscles underneath the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. Inside, the cast stood around the bar laughing as if everything were normal. Hazel worked her way into the middle of their group, clinked glasses and wound from one to the next, giving each a nugget of thanks. Same with the crew, from the wardrobe mistress to the stage manager.

Maxine finally arrived, Arthur skulking behind her. She looked radiant in her red wig, the bitterness she’d revealed to Hazel in the dressing room replaced with a wide smile and too-loud laughter. Hazel’s heart went out to her friend. Showing up at the bar tonight and acting happy was sure to be one of the toughest performances she’d ever delivered.

A movement outside the window caught Hazel’s eye. Mr. Canby. He took a pile of newspapers from a messenger and awkwardly tucked them under one arm as he rooted around in his pocket for some change. The messenger sprinted off as Mr. Canby thumbed to the arts section in the first paper. He scanned it, then tossed it in the trash. Same with the next one. And the next.

Hazel slipped out. Charlie was busy chatting with the soundboard operator and didn’t notice her leave.

“Let me read one.”

Mr. Canby whirled around, his face revealing nothing. “These critics know nothing, my dear. Trust me, I’ve been down this road many times before.”

“Are they that bad?”

He didn’t answer. “If you read any of this, the words will be embedded in your head for years to come. You’ll sit down to write another play and this is what you’ll think of. I don’t want to subject you to that kind of torture. You’re a gifted playwright. Go back home tonight and start on your next play.”

“Hand one over.”

He did, finally. She had to see it, had to know what people would be saying about her, thinking about her.

The review belittled her attempt, as a “woman playwright,” to handle a subject as serious as war, although the critic did say several moments in the early scenes held promise. Maxine was taken to task for trying to be a stage actress, when clearly she should stick to movies. Silent ones, preferably.

The door opened and Maxine came out, her wrap slung over one shoulder and a hand on her hip. Ready for a fight. “Let’s have it, then.”

Hazel knew better than to soften the blow for Maxine the way Mr. Canby had done for her. All those qualifiers made it worse. Maxine read through it and handed it back. Hazel couldn’t read her expression. If anything, she seemed almost relieved, the furrows in her forehead smoothed out as she rearranged her fur stole so it sat evenly on both shoulders. She seemed calm, serene.

“Sorry I blew it for you,” Maxine said. “I guess it’s all over now.”

Not the response she’d expected. Hazel stared at Maxine, confused. She wished Charlie were here, so she could get his reaction to Maxine’s lack of one. Something was off, and it wasn’t just the play.

In Naples, Maxine had been the strong one, the unflappable one. It was hard to believe that the opening of a play on Broadway had thrown her. Even in rehearsal, when she forgot a line, she’d blithely play through it until she found her way. Until opening night.

But the pressure had been enormous, on both of them.

“They didn’t like either of us, so you didn’t blow it alone,” offered Hazel. “They’d probably have hated the play no matter how splendidly you performed the role.”

“We can’t control the critics.” Mr. Canby balled up the last newspaper and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “I’m glad I took the risk on you both, and I don’t regret a thing.”

“Do you think word of mouth might make up for the reviews?” Hazel knew she came off as desperate, but had to ask.

“Not in July. Sorry, kid.”

Maxine rejoined the party, but Hazel wanted to get home. Charlie insisted on coming up, and as she sat on the sofa, her head resting on his shoulder, staring out into the night sky, she was glad he had.

“Well, that’s that, then.” She sighed. “My show was a bust.”

“So was Arthur Miller’s Broadway debut. The Man Who Had All the Luck closed after four performances. You’re in good company.”

She had to laugh. “How do you know that?”

“Because I went to the last performance.”

“I like the way you think.”

“Look, I know right now the bad reviews sting, but I have no doubt that you will write another play and get it up on Broadway, just like Miller. In the meantime, I’ll take care of you.” He cleared his throat. “I have some news.”

“What’s that?”

“I got my conditional letter of acceptance. They said my test scores were through the roof, which means with time, I might get a shot at the Soviet Espionage squad. It’s about as far from American Business Consultants as you can get. No more bungling amateurs, this is the real deal.”

She blinked. “You mean you’re joining the FBI?”

“Yes. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

His enthusiasm stunned her. “You should turn it down.”

“What? I can’t do that.”

“Can’t, or won’t? Stop trying to impress your father, running around after spies that don’t exist.”

He drew back, defensive. “We’ve been over this, Hazel, they do exist. That’s been proven. Just look at Julius Rosenberg. Sure, the HUAC is barking up the wrong tree, going after actors and writers, but our country’s secrets are being stolen. If more get into the hands of the Soviets, we’ll be in big trouble. We’re already in deep trouble, to be perfectly honest. Don’t you want someone like me on the inside, someone who sees the big picture? By going after the actual spies, I can put a stop to this insane focus on entertainers.”

A primal anger surged through her. She had to protect herself. Everyone was a suspect, anyone might betray her. Including Charlie. Maxine had been right. “You’re not on my side. If you were, you’d walk away from your job and your father. Now. This very moment.”

“Look, we’re both under a great deal of pressure. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared, but you don’t have to do that. Let things unfold as they will. I promise you, it will all work out.”

“What makes you think we could be together once you’re in the FBI? Federal agents aren’t allowed to be with blacklisted actors.”

“Maybe not at first, sure, but I promise you this witch hunt will pass over.”

“In what? One year? Five? Ten? I can’t believe I almost bought into your story. If you really love me, you’ll tell me right now that you’ll turn it down.”

He pulled away. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Then you should go.”

He tried, once more, to convince her, but the words meant nothing.

She sat, arms and legs crossed, fuming, until the door clicked softly shut.

Then she burst into tears. She walked over to the living room window and wept, letting the sounds and smells of New York wash over her through the open window, a reminder that she was just one of many who’d tried and failed, who’d been decimated by the city.