The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Hazel

April 1967

A memorial for Maxine was held at St. Malachy’s on West Forty-Ninth Street, a neo-Gothic sanctuary long considered the spiritual haven of New York actors, where Douglas Fairbanks married Joan Crawford, and where Rudolph Valentino’s funeral mass drew thousands. Maxine’s memorial didn’t draw quite as many spectators, but Hazel was sure she would have been pleased with the turnout.

Hazel sat next to Lavinia’s wheelchair near the back of the church. Curiously, the grand show of emotion by the people who barely knew Maxine canceled out any grief of her own for those two hours. After, she wheeled Lavinia back up to her room at the Chelsea, both of them eager to get out of the public eye. Only once they were back in the safety of the hotel did Hazel curl up on one of Lavinia’s armchairs and weep, a messy mix of sobs and crumpled tissues. So much had been lost.

“Oh, Maxine would have loved all this drama,” said Lavinia, patiently pouring out two cups of tea.

Hazel laughed in spite of herself. “Yes, she would’ve been very pleased.” She took a sip of tea and regarded her friend. “I have to ask you a question, Lavinia. Did you know she was a Soviet agent?”

Lavinia pursed her lips and didn’t answer right away. “I had moments when I thought she was, and others when I didn’t. She was a changeable creature, and she came from a tumultuous time.” She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and wiped away a tear of her own. “It was grand watching you both on the television, on the Tonys, what a speech you made. I’ve never been prouder. But I didn’t think it would end quite like this. I feel terrible.”

“None of this is your fault. Please don’t blame yourself.”

Charlie had told Hazel that with no official confession on record, the FBI had no real proof, so Maxine’s treasonous activities wouldn’t be made public. However, they had apprehended Arthur this morning in a raid, and taken him into custody. The spy hunt was over.

“I have something for you, Hazel.” Lavinia waved a hand at two packages that sat on her dining room table. “One I received directly from Maxine the day she fled the Chelsea for California, back in 1950. The other, a porter brought to me this morning. Apparently, Maxine left it on the nightstand last night, with my name on it.”

“Then you should have them.”

“In her note, she insisted they were both meant for you.”

Reluctantly, Hazel took the packages up to her room. For the rest of the day, she ignored them. It wasn’t until the sun began to set that she poured herself a Scotch, untied the string on the package that was noticeably older—the brown paper crinkled and thin—and began to read.

It was the first half of Maxine’s diary, beginning in Naples in 1945, a detailed account of her creative endeavors, both theatrical and treasonous. The other package continued on after her final move to California. It took Hazel a few days to get through all the pages, as she often had to stop and step away, catch her breath. Maxine’s accounts of her triumphs and failures were vivid, her fear leaped off every page. Of being caught, of being discovered. Of losing Hazel’s friendship.

It was almost as if Maxine were still alive.

Hazel always believed, deep down, that they’d find each other again someday. They’d be somewhere around Lavinia’s age, wobbly and croaky, but their prior tribulations would have smoothed over with time, like a rocky shore that’s been reduced to clattering pebbles. Maxine would move back down the hall at the Chelsea Hotel, begging forgiveness at every turn, and Hazel would pretend to hold out, but not really. They’d come back together.

Instead, Maxine had left Hazel alone to try to unravel the truth from the lies. She’d snatched away the possibility of reconciliation, and Hazel wanted to hate her for it. But really, she hated herself, for being cruel and not knowing how broken Maxine was. How desperate.

Hazel sat at her desk, staring dumbly at the sheaf of papers. To think, while Hazel had struggled with writer’s block, her friend had been scribbling away all these years, day after day.

Hazel laughed out loud, the sound a solemn echo.

Maxine had always pushed her to the precipice, whether onto a stage in Naples, or to mount and direct her own play. At the same time, Maxine was pushing herself, straddling two worlds and rising to the top in one while successfully escaping the other. Hazel couldn’t blame Maxine for getting caught up in a cause. After all, she’d done it herself, at Ben’s urging. But Maxine had fallen into a nasty web of characters, while Hazel had not. In spite of it all, Maxine had done what she could to take care of Hazel, including that ham-fisted attempt to protect her on opening night. There were more shades of gray to Maxine’s existence than Hazel had been able to see previously. With this diary, Hazel finally understood the larger struggle beneath the betrayal.

If Maxine were here right now, standing next to her, what would she say?

She’d tell Hazel to stop whining and write another play already. Get on with it, she’d snap, and meet me on the roof at sunset.

Hazel placed her palm on the top page. What a story lived within these words. A rip-roaring plot in three acts: Naples, the McCarthy reign of terror, the tragic aftermath and what could have been.

The last ray of sunlight shone on her typewriter, and she idly tapped the space bar.

What if?

She slid a blank piece of paper into the roller, her hand feeling as if it was being guided by someone else’s. A play in three acts. One that would speak of Maxine’s legacy, both good and bad.

The story of a friendship.

Hazel began typing.