The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Hazel

December 1950

Hazel practically fell out of the taxi onto the pavement outside the Chelsea Hotel, she was so tired. A bellman took her luggage from the trunk and helped her over the curb. She tipped him as much as she could spare, knowing that the bellmen at the Chelsea rarely had the opportunity to perform the more profitable hotel duties of escorting guests and their belongings up to a room—one of the drawbacks of employment at what was really an artists’ commune.

The Christmas tree in the lobby had been commandeered by Winnifred and Wanda, Hazel guessed, glistening with baubles and tinsel that overwhelmed the poor pine. An enormous golden angel at the very top listed precariously to one side, ready to be toppled at any moment by a wayward gust of wind from the open door.

At least she was home, if only for a two-week break for the holidays. Hazel was back to understudying—the only job she’d been offered since the debacle, and only because the producer had been eager to see her grovel for the part—this time in a tour of an Ibsen play across the sadder towns of America in an effort to bring the classics to the masses. The masses didn’t care much for Ibsen, and the stage manager had whispered to Hazel that the second leg of the tour was up in the air as the big bus hurtled through New Jersey.

It was a paycheck, one that she could really use right now.

The thought of money stopped her from going right up to her room. She backtracked and knocked on Mr. Bard’s office door.

“There you are! Welcome home!”

His effusive greeting and hug almost made her weep. She attributed her silly emotions to the fatigue of travel, and dug into her purse for an envelope.

“Mr. Bard, I have rent money for you for the next couple of months. Thank you for being so patient with me.”

He shook his head. “No, my dear girl. You are a gift to our city, to our community, and I will accept half of it only.” His generosity moved her even further, and he chuckled and handed her a handkerchief. “No need to cry.”

“It’s been a long couple of months, and it’s so nice to be back. Thank you. I’ll be out again on tour in a couple of weeks, so there will be more money coming in.” Hopefully.

He plucked the envelope from her hand, gathered up half of the bills, and returned the rest to her. “Buy yourself something pretty for Christmas, all right?”

She turned to go but he called after her. “Wait a moment, I have some mail for you. Special delivery, one of them.”

Ugh. In the five months since she and Charlie had been caught in flagrante delicto, she’d hoped the hate mail had died down. That terrible summer seemed so long ago, and she hadn’t heard from Charlie since. One day she’d even stopped by the offices of American Business Consultants in the hopes of finding out where he’d disappeared to, but they’d rebuffed her, which came as no surprise. His absence, and that of Maxine, left a dark hole in her life, though she hated herself for thinking so.

She grabbed the stack of mail and thanked Mr. Bard once more.

Her preference would have been to fall into a tub of hot water and soak, letting the muscles tensed from days on the road work out their kinks. But two weeks wasn’t much time, and she had to make the most of it. She changed into clean clothes and refreshed her face with some cool water before heading uptown. Her mother hugged her and brought her inside the apartment, where the smell of a pot roast made Hazel’s stomach growl. For all Ruth’s faults, she was an excellent cook.

Ruth embraced Hazel and took her coat. “Come in, see your father, and we’ll eat right off.”

Hazel handed over the bag of groceries she’d picked up at the store on Broadway. While she was earning money, she wanted to share the largesse. Or perhaps it was a proud gesture, to prove that she was still a successful artist and that nothing had changed. Even though everything had changed.

“You are a dear.” Ruth kissed her on the cheek and laughed—a light, tinkling sound better suited to an ingenue. Hazel and Ben had been certain she’d cultivated the giggle as a schoolgirl and refused to part with it, despite her advancing years.

Both her parents had aged greatly since Hazel’s fall from grace. Their theatrical friends had mostly abandoned them after the news of Hazel’s affair with Charlie broke, and they were left outcasts. Her father had faded into himself more and more, no longer making any grunts of approval or even raising his eyebrows, while her mother had become a constant source of noise, either humming or talking back to the radio, as if to make up for the silence.

How far they’d come. When Hazel was a struggling understudy, Ruth had been angry at what she perceived to be her lack of ambition and refusal to take direction. When Hazel made it into the big time, Ruth resented her independence. Yet these days, her mother was nothing but supportive and kind, and no longer controlling. She’d stood by Hazel, unlike most of the others, and only wanted her daughter to be happy. Hazel’s trajectory had allowed her mother to finally work through her sticky grudges and come out the other side a softer woman.

“You don’t have to go back to that hotel, Hazel.” Ruth placed a large slice of beef on Hazel’s plate before turning to her husband and cutting his food with a practiced efficiency. “You could move back into your old room.”

“I’m fine there. Thank you, though.”

“Why pay all that rent money when you’re on the road most of the time, anyway?”

“Mr. Bard’s been very understanding.”

“He’ll get tired of it before long, trust me. I really don’t understand it.”

Hazel knew there was no point in explaining. True, economically it made sense to move back home. But there was no place like the hotel, her oasis of crazy calm. She loved hearing Mr. Kleinsinger’s piano compositions as they drifted down and around the serpentine stairway from his room on the tenth floor, like a melodious ghost. Sure, his pet boa constrictor occasionally turned up in the hallway, but no one really seemed to mind. Artsy and crazy were one and the same here, no questions asked.

It was the only place she could write, as well. The only place she wanted to write. Not that she’d had much luck lately. The two scripts she’d tried to submit under a different name had been rejected. No doubt the radio producers had asked around and figured out her true identity. All the blacklisted writers were trying the same scam.

Back at the hotel later that evening, determined to not waste a minute, Hazel sat at her desk by the window and rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter. Really, she should go to bed and start fresh in the morning, but waking up to a blank piece of paper tomorrow would be the end of her. Better to get something down now, even if it was just a page, something she could shape and edit, than to have nothing at all.

What, though? A new play? A novel?

She could write about her terrible experiences of the past year, but it was too close. No one cared, anyway. Her voice had been stifled and that particular fire within her extinguished.

For a split second, she thought of stepping down the hallway and talking it through with Maxine, before remembering that Maxine was gone and had betrayed her. On the tour bus back to New York, Hazel had opened a magazine that one of the actresses had left lying on the seat to a full-page spread of Maxine and her leading man somewhere in Europe, posing for photos, Maxine’s mouth wide and smiling. But Hazel knew that smile. That smile meant she had something to prove. That smile was her defense when she felt small.

Hazel ripped the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, rolled it into a tight ball, and pitched it across the room, before instantly regretting wasting a perfectly good piece of paper. The stack of mail sat on the very edge of the desk. A diversion.

Only one was an anonymous letter of fury, which she dumped right into the trash. A couple were from playwrights she knew in passing, offering their support. That was an unexpected surprise. Maybe eventually the tide would turn and she’d no longer be a pariah.

The one that had been sent special delivery had no return address. She sliced it open, wary, as if a goblin might jump out, but when she saw the scrawl at the bottom, she gasped.

Charlie.

He apologized for not reaching out sooner, but wrote that it was safer for him to remain at a distance. He’d sent the letter to Mr. Bard inside a larger envelope, with instructions for him to pass it directly to Hazel.

The note was terse, lacking any warmth. He said he’d be in town over Christmas and asked if they could meet December 26 at noon, at the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. He’d be waiting by the information desk in the Reading Room.

She imagined walking into the Reading Room, sun pouring in through the arched windows, and finding Charlie standing there. Maybe he’d smile and reach out his arms to her. God, how she missed him.

She shook off the image. Charlie had abandoned her right when she needed him most. He was probably upstate, doing his father’s bidding, or had joined the FBI after all and wanted to continue on with his spy hunt.

She put his letter to the side and opened the last one in the stack.

It was from Floyd, dated two days ago. He said he was in a terrible state and needed to see her, that he was staying at the Taft hotel in midtown.

The hotel operator put her through, but there was no answer in Floyd’s room. Hazel left a message, saying she was on her way, and rushed out into the night.

The Taft hotel rose out of the sidewalks of Seventh Avenue like a prison, brown and imposing. Hazel went straight up to the room number Floyd had given her and knocked on the door.

No answer.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

“Hazel, my darling!”

Floyd welcomed her inside as if he were throwing a garden party, all smiles and cheek kisses. He looked paler than she remembered, but maybe it was just from the dimness. Only one lamp over by the window was lit, the bulb too weak to reach the corners of the small room. Floyd gestured for Hazel to take a seat in the lone chair as he poured her a drink from the bar.

“Is the open window all right? I can close it if you like.”

The cool breeze offset the smoky, stagnant air inside. She didn’t remember ever seeing Floyd with a cigarette before, but the overflowing ashtray on the nightstand pointed to a serious habit. “No, it’s perfectly fine. Refreshing.” She took a sip of her drink, pure vodka. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“No matter. You’re here now.”

How he’d changed from that sweet boy in Naples, sketching caricatures of the men, handing the paper over with a shy smile that spread to a blush as the soldier burst into pleased laughter. Hazel wondered how he’d draw himself, now. His ears still stuck out like a schoolboy’s but his forehead was lined, his eyes puffy and red. He’d filled out since the war, his shoulders and arms thickening with muscles, but now seemed to be reversing course, his limbs and even his fingers longer and thinner than she remembered.

“What’s happened? We’ve been so worried about you.”

He perched on the bed with his drink. “I didn’t name names, just so we’re clear about that.”

Rumors had flown since Floyd had disappeared, that he’d turned on his friends, that he wasn’t who he appeared to be. Hazel had swatted down every one and defended him, and would continue to do so until she knew the truth. It was such a relief to see him, after all this time.

“I know you and Charlie were close.” He took a big sip of his drink, spilling a little and wiping it with his sleeve, like a kid. “I don’t blame you one bit for what came out in the papers, he is a delightful man. Not like his father.”

A flash of heat went through her. “We’re not together anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” They sat silently for a minute, before Floyd let out a sharp laugh. “Did you know they apparently have box scores for us now? They’re released every month and passed around to all the ad agencies.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a guide to who’s in and who’s out. For example, it’ll say, ‘José Ferrer: Avoid his latest movie.’ I was told that mine said, ‘Floyd Jenkins: Done for good.’”

So many decent people, like Floyd, were being bulldozed. “I know it seems awful now, but you must hang in there. You’re so talented and a delight to work with. You’ll have a bang-up career again, I’m sure.”

“They’re still bringing me in for interviews,” said Floyd.

She brightened. This was a good sign, that the producers were still seeing him. Maybe all was not lost. “That’s great, who?”

“No. Not anyone in show business. The FBI.”

The fight drained out of her.

“I keep telling them it was a silly comment in front of friends. ‘Oh, right, all of us are commies.’ It was sarcasm, I tell them. But they don’t care.” It was obvious Floyd replayed the conversation in his mind, over and over, reliving the moment when he’d unknowingly sealed his fate. “All because of an orange dress. Sorry, tangerine.”

Like Maxine, Brandy was working nonstop these days.

Hazel was still unsure of why he’d called her here. “Maybe I can help with your situation. Do you have a lawyer?” She opened her purse, searched for a business card, and laid it on the side table. “Mr. Stone was quite helpful to me. Here’s his number.”

He offered up a half smile. “Right, thank you for that. I’ll ring him.”

Floyd had no money to afford a lawyer like Stone, Hazel realized. She offered to loan him some, but he wouldn’t accept it.

Another uncomfortable silence.

Floyd’s gift as an artist was his sensitivity. But that same gift made the real world much harder for him than it was for Hazel. The terrible sanctions against him had wrecked him.

“Don’t lose hope,” she said. “You can do other things, you’re a brilliant artist. Let’s see what else we can find you. A job in an art gallery, perhaps. Or wait, what about teaching?”

“No one will hire me after next week. They’ve made that much clear.”

“Next week? Who’ve made it clear? What do you mean?”

“I’m not who you think I am. The deadline has finally arrived, and since I refused to cooperate, they’re going to tell the world who I am.”

By now she was utterly confused. “Who are you?”

“They called me back, week after week, hoping I’d cave in. I suppose they’ve finally realized who they’re up against. That I won’t turn on my friends.” He let out an anguished sob. “You see, they know that I love men. They have photos, proof.” He waved one hand in the air. “And with that, the curtain falls.”

A chill ran through Hazel. That would be the end of Floyd’s career, no matter what he chose to do. While Hazel couldn’t care less who Floyd loved, as long as he was happy, no one in the industry would hire someone who’d been exposed as a homosexual. He’d be shunned, even worse than Hazel was. That the FBI would stoop to this level infuriated Hazel.

“That’s not acceptable,” she said. “We will not be railroaded. I’ve got your back, Floyd, and don’t you forget it.” Floyd wavered a tiny bit from side to side. Hazel glanced at the vodka bottle, which was two-thirds empty. Tonight was probably not the best time to figure out his plan B. “Look, you get a good night’s sleep and I’ll come by tomorrow and take you out for breakfast. In the light of day, it won’t seem so bad. We’ll find you a decent job, I promise.”

His eyelids drooped and stayed closed. She rose and gently extricated the glass from his hand, placing it on the bar next to hers. “For now, lie down and get some rest.”

“Thanks, Hazel.” He was awake again, his blue eyes shining. “Thank you for coming to the rescue.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long. I know how lonely it can be when you feel like you’ve been abandoned.”

“We’ve all been abandoned. I hear Maxine’s star is ascending rapidly, just as ours is falling.” He began to cry. “They say she talked. She told them whatever they wanted to hear. How could she have done that?”

She didn’t want to discuss Maxine. “We have each other.” Hazel leaned over Floyd and gave him an awkward hug. “Enough being maudlin. One day I’ll write a zany comedy about this year and you’ll do the costumes and everyone will love us once again.”

“We’ll do that, Hazel.”

When she left, she closed the room door behind her, quietly, in case Floyd had already fallen asleep.

Not for the first time, she wished she had Maxine—the old Maxine—by her side. She would have cajoled Floyd out of his funk, got him back on his feet. With her film earnings, she also would’ve been able to help out financially. But neither Hazel nor Floyd would ever touch a penny, knowing that her riches came right out of their own pockets. She got to work precisely because she’d thrown them and others like them to the wolves.

The elevator opened but Hazel hesitated. The elderly couple inside glared at her.

“Sorry, I forgot something,” she called out as the doors slid shut.

She hurried back down the hall. It didn’t feel right, leaving Floyd so fast; he shouldn’t be alone.

She pushed open the door, quietly, and saw the curtains flapping in the breeze. She walked in intending to close the window so he wouldn’t wake up in the morning with a cold, but stopped short.

The bed was empty, the door to the bathroom shut. She stood next to the door, listening for sounds of water running, of movement. Nothing.

“Floyd?” She knocked gently. “I came back. I wanted to make sure you’re really all right.”

Nothing.

She opened the door a crack, embarrassed to be doing so. Then farther. The bathroom was empty.

She glanced around the small room as her throat closed with panic. The closet door was ajar, he couldn’t be hiding in there. The bedclothes were rumpled. As she leaned over to check under the bed, because that’s the only other place he could possibly be, someone outside screamed.

Hazel straightened. The window was fully open. She hadn’t noticed it when she first came in the room, that it wasn’t just cracked like before. It was wide open. Wide enough for someone to put one leg over, then the other.

She rushed to it, horrified and certain she was wrong. Floyd had decided to go down to the bar. He’d taken the stairs and that’s why she couldn’t find him. That’s why he wasn’t here.

More screams.

She made herself look down, where his crumpled form lay ten stories below. He’d landed on his side, and lay there like he’d just fallen asleep, hands tucked under his cheek, the only sign of violence the red blood pooling around him.