The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Maxine

July 4, 1950

I waited for Arthur outside of the hotel, looking my summery best. I’d been asked to judge the strongman contest at Coney Island—another of Canby’s ploys to get some press for the play—and had picked out a pretty pink-and-green floral dress and a straw hat with a wide brim for the day’s outfit.

Arthur finally pulled up in a green Chevy and honked. I leaned through the open window and gave him a wide smile. “Looking for a date?”

He told me to jump in. For a moment, I considered telling him to get out and open my door like a gentleman, but I wanted our outing to get off on the right foot.

As I settled in, he snarled that I looked like his mother-in-law’s couch.

So that’s the way he was going to play it. Why was I surprised? Life with Arthur was a series of dips and rises, and right now we seemed to be headed into a dip. He’d be nasty or cut me down, and then the guilt would kick in and he’d fall over himself to right the wrong and make me feel safe and good again. We’d been through this before.

The first time Arthur lost his temper, I was completely unprepared.

We were returning to my very first room at the Chelsea—he was visiting from California for a few days—and his arms were full of wine and groceries that we’d picked up. The plan was to spend all weekend in bed together. As I fumbled with the lock, his patience ran thin, and after two exasperated sighs, he shoved his elbow into my back and bellowed, “Open the goddamn door!”

Shaking, I tried again and much to my relief the dead bolt slid away. I held the door open for him.

Once we were inside, his temper disappeared, and he actually hummed to himself as he put away the groceries.

I figured he was just stressed about work. After all, Arthur had never spoken to me like that before. He’d delighted in me, he’d said, over and over. Told me that I made him believe that anything was possible. And it wasn’t a big deal, really. I got better at sensing when he neared his breaking point, and did what I could to distract him: make him laugh, seduce him. Only recently had I started to call him out on his bad behavior.

In the car, I threw Arthur a hard look. “I thought we were done with the cutting remarks, now that you no longer drink.”

“It was a joke.” He leaned over to give me a kiss, but I turned my head. “Sorry, love. I was out of order. Thought I was being funny. Please forgive me.” He ran his fingers up my bare arm and I shivered.

I kissed him back, taking his prompt apology as a sign of progress.

“Hey, isn’t that Hazel?” He called out to her, practically blowing out my eardrum.

Hazel walked over. “Hey, guys. Where are you off to?”

“Coney Island,” he said. “You should come. Our movie star here is judging the strongman contest.”

Arthur’s invitation threw me. I thought we were supposed to be spending the day together. I glanced over at him, and Hazel probably picked up my hesitancy.

“No, I’m just heading back upstairs.” She took off her sunglasses and smiled. “Now, don’t get a sunburn today, Max. We don’t want you all pink onstage.”

Previews began next week. I was nervous, and I knew Hazel was, also. She could probably use some diversion. “You have to come along. It’ll be fun.”

Hazel looked me in the eye. “Really?”

“Please.”

She jumped in the back seat and we were off. Arthur kept Hazel laughing the entire time, talking about the food packaging business, of all things. By the time we hit the Ocean Parkway, I had relaxed, partly from hearing Hazel’s laughter from the back seat and also because that bitter edge had disappeared from Arthur’s voice. He’d reached over and rubbed my hand a couple of times, as a way of asking additional forgiveness.

The boardwalk was packed with families loaded down with blankets, chairs, and beach toys, the heat shimmering off the planks. I considered heading down to the beach and putting my feet in the surf to cool off, but one look out to the ocean put me right off that idea. Every inch of sand was taken up by sunbathers—it was as if a herd of flesh-colored seals had flopped out of the ocean to loll in the bright sunshine, braying every so often when stepped upon.

The contest was silly. I basically clapped and gave the winner of the contest a smooch on the cheek, but the announcer mentioned the play twice and had us take photos for the newspapers. After, Hazel, Arthur, and I walked by the entrance to the freak show, where a sign touted a peek at Anita, the elephant-faced girl, and Olga, the headless one.

“Wanna go in?” asked Arthur. I noticed him checking out décolletage on the drawing of the elephant-faced girl. Men.

“I doubt it’s cooler inside than out here.” Hazel fanned her face with her hat. “Maybe we should get something to drink?”

“Let’s head to Nathan’s.” Arthur took each of our arms in his. “You’ll love Nathan’s, it’s a New York institution. If we’re lucky, we can catch the hot dog eating contest.” He pointed to a huge booth set up across the boardwalk for the occasion.

Halfway across the boardwalk I stopped, bringing the other two to a halt. “Well, look who it is.”

Charlie Butterfield stood beside a small stand where a sign proclaimed CONTEST CONDIMENTS SPONSORED BY BUTTERFIELD SUPERMARKETS. He caught sight of us around the same time I did him. For a minute, I thought he was going to slink away, but instead he nodded and straightened up.

“Who’s that?” asked Arthur, the edge coming back into his voice.

“That’s my shadow,” said Hazel.

“Shadow?”

I filled Arthur in as we approached. Arthur stuck out his hand and shook Charlie’s as Hazel made introductions.

“You here shilling for your dad?” I asked.

Charlie, to his credit, looked miserable. “We do this every year on the Fourth of July, it’s a family tradition.”

“I bet it is.” I glanced down at the pamphlets scattered on the stand’s countertop: Americans, Don’t Patronize Reds, screamed the headline. No doubt Mr. Butterfield considered the Fourth of July the perfect day to promote his nasty cause.

I plucked one from the pile and read it out loud. “The Reds of Hollywood and Broadway have always been the chief financial support of Communist propaganda in America. Right now, films are being made to glorify Marxism and being piped into your living room via your TV set, and poisoning the minds of your children under your very eyes. Really, Charlie?”

Before he could reply, the elder Mr. Butterfield and his mousy wife came into view, Mr. Butterfield’s face as red as a tomato. I whispered a warning to Hazel. “That’s Charlie’s father.”

When Mr. Butterfield spotted me, he let go of his wife’s arm and straightened his tie.

“How do you all know each other?” Mr. Butterfield waggled a thick finger at us. He shuddered—actually shuddered—when told who Hazel was.

Charlie stammered out an answer. “Um, I’ve been assigned by Mr. Hartnett to keep an eye out on the production of Wartime Sonata.”

“Wartime what?” bellowed Mr. Butterfield.

“The play that Miss Ripley is directing and Miss Mead is acting in.”

“That travesty. I’m sorry, what exactly does ‘keeping an eye out’ entail?” Mr. Butterfield stuck his chin forward.

Charlie hadn’t told his dad what he was up to, and I almost felt sorry for him. “I make sure there’s nothing subversive going on and report back to Mr. Hartnett what I observe.” He dug his hands deep into his pockets, like a teenager who’d come in late for curfew.

“You’re saying that Hartnett is paying you to watch a play all day?” He let out a spiteful laugh. “I get you that job and you end up flitting around with theater folk? Again?”

Next to me, I could sense Arthur surveilling the scene, figuring out how to play it. “I respect what you’re doing, Mr. Butterfield,” he said. “You never know what’s around the corner, what’s going to happen in the international scene, never mind the domestic one. I respect the fact that we have to put up barricades against the communists. No one is safe.”

I thought right there and then Hazel was going to lose her mind. I put a hand on her arm, warning her to step down, let Arthur do his thing. There was no point getting this guy’s nose all out of joint, it would only harm the play.

“I think we’re all on the side of America,” Hazel said.

“Don’t assume anything, little missy,” said Mr. Butterfield. He turned to Charlie. “So this is why Hartnett told me to ease up on that play? Wish I’d known. You can find your own ride back to the city. I don’t want you in my car.”

Charlie’s mother, who so far hadn’t said a word, looked from her husband to her son, concerned. “Larry, no.”

Charlie kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll take the subway. Go with him, Mom.”

Hazel glared after the pair as they walked away. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but your father’s a bully.”

“You showed admirable restraint,” I said to Hazel. “You could have taken the Coke bottle and smashed it over his head. But you didn’t.”

Arthur put an arm around my waist. “By the way, I know I laid it on pretty thick with the rah-rah America stuff. I hope you know I was only trying to help you girls.”

“Why did you encourage him, Arthur?” Hazel said. “Do you actually think he’s right?”

“These days, you’ve got to be flexible, not make waves. I got him to back down, didn’t I? Isn’t that what we all wanted?”

“I disagree completely.” Hazel was stone-faced. “And I don’t think he was placated. Far from it.”

I pointed up. “Hey, let’s all hit the Cyclone. Think of the sea breezes up at the top. I think we all could use some cooling off.” Anything to stop this conversation.

Charlie and Hazel exchanged a look.

“We’ll wait here,” she finally said. “I don’t think my stomach can manage it.”

Hazel had bragged on the flight home from Naples that she had a stomach of steel, as the rest of us turned green after a turbulent takeoff. No doubt she was covering for Charlie, who probably wasn’t able to go on it because of his fits. She’d realized it right off and made up an excuse so he wouldn’t lose face in front of Arthur. Why she cared so much about the guy baffled, and worried, me.

“Your loss,” I said.

The roller coaster was the perfect antidote to Mr. Butterfield’s venom; I was sorry Hazel didn’t join us. The steady climb, the clicking of the wheels, up to the very top, where I grabbed Arthur’s arm hard and then we were flying down and around curves and back up and back down. I loved every minute of it, Arthur laughing and me screaming, and when we stepped off, we were giggling like kids, all cares forgotten.

A long roll of thunder cleared the boardwalk like a bulldozer. In the excitement, I hadn’t noticed the skies had gone black. A storm approached fast from the west, building to a crescendo of rain that poured down. We joined Hazel and Charlie under the awning of Hyman’s Bar & Grill. The two of them stopped whatever deep conversation they were having as we approached. Hazel explained that she’d offered Charlie a ride home with us.

“Of course,” said Arthur.

“I like the beach better now than before.” Hazel pointed out to the sea. The only person left was a young boy dragging a sack behind him, picking through the detritus of the beachgoers. I hoped he wouldn’t get struck by lightning, but he didn’t seem concerned and the storm did seem to be settling down. A steady rain drummed on the boardwalk, and the hollow sound of raindrops on the awning provided a watery symphony in stereo. The heat had dissipated and a cool, briny breeze lifted off the water. Arthur pulled me under his arm and I snuggled into his embrace.

“So are you nervous about your play, Hazel?” Arthur asked. His effort to make nice was pretty obvious, but I was glad he was trying.

“I’m as fine as I can be,” Hazel said. “I don’t think there’s anything that can calm my nerves at this point. We’re all in.”

“Hey, I’m jittery, and I’m not even a part of it.” Charlie laughed, watching Hazel for a response. When she smiled, he looked away, pleased. Something was going on between these two.

“I hear this guy’s been your secret weapon,” said Arthur, nodding to Charlie. “Maxine mentioned that he’d offered up some good advice.”

“Maxine!” Hazel poked me in the ribs with her elbow. “I can’t believe you.”

“What? I was just repeating what you’d told me.”

“Really, you think I helped?” Now Charlie was practically incandescent. On one hand, I was relieved that Hazel had him wrapped around her finger so tightly. That was where we wanted him. On the other, was it a good idea to be that close to your minder?

The rain was beginning to ease. I stuck my hand out and captured a couple of drops on my open palm.

“I’ve enjoyed watching the show come to life.” Charlie turned to Arthur. “And Miss Mead is terrific. You’ll love what she does onstage. There’s this moment in the second act—”

“No!” Hazel covered his mouth with her hand, then quickly withdrew it. “Have I taught you nothing?”

“Sorry.” He put his fingers on his lips, where her hand had just been.

“What? What’s going on?” asked Arthur, perplexed.

“If he says something,” explained Hazel, “it means that next time Maxine does the scene, she’ll be thinking about re-creating that exact moment, not discovering it fresh. That’s why it’s never a good idea to read reviews, good or bad. The words get stuck in your head and then you’re doomed.”

I pretended to pout. “But I want to hear it. You know how I feel about compliments.”

“Not a word,” warned Hazel.

“Not a word, maestra.” Charlie nodded. “I promise.”