The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Hazel

July 1950

Hazel stared out at the city from her window. She’d sat there, motionless, for probably an hour now, watching the patterns the pigeons made as they burst into flight, then settled back down on the rooftops for minutes at a time before bursting off once more. She couldn’t really figure out what triggered the flights. Maybe one pigeon got a funny feeling, thinking that a hawk was scoping them out from far above, and jerked its head up, which caused another one to flap its wings, which caused another to leap into the air, until finally the entire flock fled in panic.

A hard knock on the door brought her to her feet, the sound like a shotgun in the quiet afternoon calm.

“Who is it?” She knew better than to open it right off.

“It’s me.”

Charlie.

She opened the door and ushered him inside. Confusion and panic crowded his features, and her worry overrode some of the anger from their last meeting.

Charlie looked her up and down. “I got your note that you wanted to see me. I rushed right over. Is everything all right?”

“What note?”

He pulled a folded piece of stationery from his jacket pocket. “Maxine said you were in trouble, to come right over.”

Hazel studied it. She hadn’t seen much of Maxine the past few days, and missed her. They’d run into each other in the elevator yesterday as Maxine was leaving for a quick trip to Los Angeles, for some preliminary costume fittings for her movie. She’d told Hazel that the meeting with the FBI had gone just as they’d expected, a formality. Thank goodness one of them was in the clear. Once filming began, she’d be moving to L.A. permanently; the very thought made Hazel heartsick.

The stationery had a cursive, flowery M printed at the top—Hazel recognized the stock from Maxine’s opening-night cards to the cast and crew—and underneath was a quickly scribbled note. “I guess she’s back from L.A. already. Strange, though. Why would she send this to you?”

“I have no idea. So you’re not in trouble?”

“Other than that I’ve lost my career while holding on to my principles, no. I’m bored, really, but otherwise okay.”

Charlie’s shoulders dropped several inches and he blew out a breath. “Thank God. I was worried.”

“I’m flattered. Look, I’m sorry about our fight, I was edgy and looking to blame someone. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I hated the way we left things. There’s so much to explain. So much to talk about. Do you have time?”

She laughed. “All the time in the world.” She sat on the sofa, and he did the same, leaving space between them.

“I’m not joining the FBI.”

She stayed quiet for a moment, studying him. “Why is that?”

“My father admitted he was behind your subpoena. He didn’t like the way you spoke to him in Coney Island, and decided to teach you a lesson. If this is what our government’s become . . .” He trailed off. “The way the politicians are going after every actor or director who ever said the word red is a waste of time and taxpayers’ money. I want no part of the country going off the rails like this.” He counted on his fingers. “Denial of due process, no impartial judge and jury, no cross-examination. It’s a travesty. You were right all along. I had blinders on, and didn’t see until it was too late how far the witch hunt had careened out of control.”

“I’ve been saying this for months.”

“Look, I was brought up to respect authority. My father, with all his government contacts, made me believe the nation was being kept safe by the FBI, by our politicians, that they had our best interests at heart.”

“What about you working from the inside to change things?”

“Maybe, eventually. But right now it’s too toxic. Anything I uncovered or did would be turned around to make their argument. Politicians like McCarthy and Wood have already made up their minds, I won’t be able to change them. Somehow, I had it in my head that this would blow over fast, that public opinion would shift when they saw how blatantly people were being persecuted. I was wrong, and I see that now.”

“Have you told your father?”

Charlie nodded. “He said that I’m a traitor to my country. Especially when I told him what I’d like to do instead.”

“What’s that?”

“Work in the theater.”

She gasped. “Really? You actually said that to your father?”

“His head pretty much exploded.”

“I can imagine. What kind of job are you looking for?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll reach out to Mr. Canby, see if he needs an assistant producer. Or I’ll assist you.”

“No one will be producing any of my plays, not after that flop.”

“Remember Arthur Miller.”

She smiled. “True. And he’s doing okay. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets summoned down to Washington one of these days. I’m glad you told me, Charlie. I’m glad we’re on the same side.”

“We are. Please understand that I want more than anything to be with you.”

“I do understand.”

He leaned in and kissed her. “I suppose that now we’re both out of a job, we’ll have to find something else to do to fill our time.” He ran a finger down her bare arm and she shivered.

“I can’t imagine what that might be.”

They barely made it to the bedroom, kicking off shoes, unbuttoning shirts, shedding every scrap of clothing between them. Their feverish start melted into a more sultry lovemaking that left Hazel gasping for breath. The afternoon faded into evening, the sky eventually turning all shades of purple as they dozed on and off.

A knock at the door brought Hazel out of her groggy sleep. Maxine, probably, here to explain her note. As she tied on a robe, Hazel laughed out loud at the thought of Maxine setting Charlie and her up to reunite in the most dramatic way possible. So typical of that girl. She was probably stopping by to find out how it all worked out.

“I’ll be right there,” she called out.

Charlie rubbed his eyes and rolled out of bed. “What time is it?” he asked, as he pulled on his pants. His chest was shiny with sweat.

The sight of him, along with the thick July air, made it hard for Hazel to think, to breathe. She was overcome with wanting more of him. She’d scoot Maxine out as soon as she could. “I have no idea. Around eight, I guess.”

She opened the door in her silky robe just as Charlie ventured into the living room, half his shirt unbuttoned, not yet tucked in. Instead of seeing Maxine, Hazel was blinded by the flash of several cameras. She blinked, uncomprehending.

“Miss Ripley, who’s your mystery pal?”

A reporter, pad in hand, leaned in. More flashes. Hazel stuck up her hand, trying to ward them off, before slamming the door, hard, putting her back against it. Charlie, all color drained from his face, began to shake.

The flashes had set off another fit. She rushed to him, crying out his name over and over again, as they slid to the floor in a crush.

Hazel and Lavinia scuttled through the tunnel that connected the hotel to the brownstone, following the stretcher where Charlie lay, falling in and out of consciousness. Up in Hazel’s room, as Charlie’s body flailed with no sign of subsiding, she’d managed to grab the phone and reach Lavinia, who’d immediately taken charge: calling for an ambulance, ordering the porters to toss out the press, and relaying the address of the brownstone on Twenty-Second Street so as not to attract attention.

The two women followed the ambulance in a taxi to the hospital, where they waited for an hour before being told that they wouldn’t be permitted to see him, but that he had stabilized and his family had been notified. Hazel stayed cooped up in the hotel all weekend, waiting for Charlie’s call and leaving notes for Maxine, but not hearing a peep in return.

The photos in the newspapers on Friday had been damning. Hazel’s loosely tied robe revealed an unseemly amount of cleavage—but not enough to keep it from being published—while Charlie stood behind her, buttoning up his shirt with an astonished expression on his face, tufts of hair sticking up, proof of their recent roll in the hay. COMMIE CHASER CAUGHT WITH COMMIE SYMPATHIZER, blared the headline. The article described Charlie as an employee of American Business Consultants, and the son of Laurence Butterfield.

The damage had been done. Over the weekend, Hazel tried to reach out to several of the actors from the play, who might understand her explanation, and had been rebuffed at every turn. Her mother had shaken her head with disdain, and refused to discuss the matter. Only Hazel’s neighbors at the Chelsea carried on as they always did. Thank goodness she lived here, where being ostracized at one time or another by the outside world was simply part of living an artistic life, something to be expected, if you were doing your job well.

Most everyone else had turned their backs on her because, in their minds, she was a traitor for being associated with American Business Consultants. Her theater family had no use for her, and her testimony in Washington had displeased all the right-wingers. She’d managed to be vilified by both ends of the political spectrum, no easy feat.

She had her part in it, of course. She should never have dallied with Charlie. A terrible idea from the start, but one she did not regret. He’d reach out to her as soon as the noise died down. Once he was back on his feet.

Finally, on Monday, Maxine reappeared and agreed to meet her at El Quijote.

Hazel slipped down to the lobby and through the side door that connected the restaurant to the hotel, grateful to avoid going outside. Mr. Bard had warned her the press was still gathered on the sidewalk, hoping for another ambush.

Maxine was already seated at a table in one of the back rooms. The place was empty save for the waiters, who couldn’t care less about the political leanings of their customers as long as they tipped well. Maxine looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes, and gave Hazel an awkward hug. “It’s awful, what they’ve done to you. I’m terribly sorry that I was away, and I have to go back tomorrow. I hate that I’m abandoning you in your moment of need. I really do.”

“Are you going with Arthur?” Hazel had to ask.

“No. Definitely not. How’s Charlie?”

“Who knows, now that he’s back in his father’s clutches? I thought he might have called by now. It’s been four days.” She took a deep breath, trying not to cry. “Maybe, since my life has come to a screeching halt, I’ll come out and stay with you in California. I could use a change of scenery.”

“Sure. But you’ll muddle through, I know you will.”

Not exactly a warm invitation. The waiter approached with coffee.

Hazel waited to continue until he’d poured two cups and was out of earshot. “What made you send Charlie to me last week? I have to ask.”

“What do you mean?” Maxine poured sugar into her cup and stirred it.

“You looked so relieved when I told you we’d broken up, I was surprised, that’s all. It seemed like you were trying to set us back up together, which was sweet. I wanted to thank you for doing that. It worked, until the press caught wind of it.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. How did I send him back to you?”

“With your note. He came rushing over as soon as he got it.”

“My note?”

It was as though they were speaking two different languages. “Yes. It was on your stationery, with that big flowery M at the top, and said that he had to come to me right away or something like that.”

“Do you still have the note?”

Hazel considered it. “The maids came on Saturday, so probably not.”

“I didn’t write that note.”

Was she joking? “Okay, then who did? I don’t know any other Maxines.”

“I’m not sure.” Maxine had gone white, which made the gray circles under her eyes even more pronounced. “Listen, I have to go back to California, like I said, because it’s better if I’m not around. You’ll be better off without me. At least for now. But know that I’m your very best friend, and always will be.”

“You sure? It seems like you’re pulling away, like everyone else.” Hazel couldn’t help it, tears of self-pity burned her eyes.

“I swear, no. Oh, please don’t cry. Please, Hazel. I adore you and I’d do anything for you.” Maxine leaned close, smelling of lemons and lotion.

Hazel took a deep breath and pulled back, exhaling for what felt like the first time in forever. “Is this about Arthur? Is he bothering you again?”

“No. Just, no.” Maxine was closing down again.

“Okay. Well, on the bright side, I’m excited about your new movie, Max. I guess that means you aced your interview with the FBI. Well done.”

“I suppose. Any word from Floyd?” It was as if Maxine wanted to change the subject, fast.

“Not a thing. It’s like he’s fallen off the face of the earth.” Enough with the bad news. She didn’t want to think about that right now. “Tell me more about your new job. What’s your part?”

“It’s a silly role that I could do in my sleep. Nothing like the amazing parts you’ve written. You’ve spoiled me.” Her words rushed out with an artificial burst of energy. “I leave this afternoon, but I had to say goodbye to you, and thank you for everything. You’ve been so generous, and this way I can be generous back. With this salary, I mean. It was all worth it, because now I can help you out and make sure you’re taken care of until all this craziness blows over. Which I’m sure it will.”

As Maxine rambled on, one phrase stood out.

“Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘It was all worth it’?”

Maxine delicately wiped her mouth with her napkin. “You know, all this craziness.”

“What exactly did they ask you at the hearing?”

“Oh, gosh. The usual, ‘Was I a communist?’ That sort of thing.”

“Did they ask you about anyone else?”

“No. Not really.” Maxine shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

For a moment, neither spoke. The truth rippled through Hazel, like a snake slithering up her spine and wrapping itself around the curves and dips of her brain.

In Maxine’s meeting downtown last week, the one that wasn’t really official, just a formality, she’d turned. Hazel was certain of it. The only way Maxine could have been offered such a juicy role was if she’d cooperated. Which explained why she’d been so elusive the past week.

Hazel stared at her in the dim light of the restaurant. This was a person she did not know. Another person entirely.

Maxine, from that first day in Naples, had inspired Hazel’s work. The play had soared because of her dear friend, and failed because of her. Hazel couldn’t imagine a life without Maxine in it, without her fire and flippancy coming to life on the page.

Yet Maxine had betrayed her.

When she finally spoke, her voice cracked. “Who did you name?”

“What?” Maxine looked down at the table. “It was just a formality, like I said.”

“You and I both know that’s not true. Tell me. Who?”

Hazel stared as her friend’s glamorous facade contorted into ugliness as she began to cry. The waiter looked over from where he was wiping down the bar and yawned, unconcerned.

Hazel slammed her closed fist down on the table.

“Tell me everything now. Everything.”