The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hazel

March 1967

What’s with all the cameras?”

Hazel inched a little closer to Charlie as they wended their way down an aisle in the Shubert Theatre, past dapper gentlemen in tuxedos and women dripping with jewels.

“They’re televising the awards for the first time.” Charlie found their seats and led the way into the row.

“So all of America will be watching?”

“I suppose so.”

“Just great. As if Maxine needs more exposure.”

Hazel had been in a foul mood since Charlie had picked her up at the Chelsea. Going to the Tony Awards was a stupid idea on her part. First of all, she didn’t have the right clothes. She’d put on a black satin gown that looked frumpy and out-of-date among the stylish actresses surrounding them. Hazel’s hair was twisted back into a simple bun at the base of her neck, while all the other ladies had their hair teased up into fancy creations that, to Hazel, looked like wigs. What was the point? Just wear a wig.

Second of all, she’d figured their seats would be way up in the top tier, where she could observe the scene from afar. To her shock, they were seated three rows from the stage, right on the aisle.

She craned her neck around and looked up. Both balconies were packed, all the boxes full. So this was what it was like if you made it big. How nice for them all.

“Miss Ripley, I’m so glad you made it.” Jeffrey, the director of Wartime Sonata, swooped over, shaking her hand and introducing himself to Charlie, followed by several other producers doing the same. The bare-bones production of Wartime Sonata in a downtown factory building was all the rage, apparently. Too little, too late, though. Hazel was polite but curt. No doubt some of these folks had been around back in the day and pushed aside the scripts she’d submitted, scared of facing blacklist backlash. Say that three times fast. She chuckled to herself, her nerves rising to the surface.

“You all right?” Charlie asked.

“This is bringing back some strange memories.”

“I had the same thought. At one time, we sat in a theater much like this one and ran the show.”

“We?”

They both laughed. Those days, when they parsed her play against the looming deadline of opening night, were still a bright memory. Hazel hated to admit that she enjoyed sharing an armrest with him again.

“Do you have any new plays up your sleeve, Hazel?”

“Nothing came easy after Wartime Sonata. What about you, you consulting on theater productions in DC?”

He turned red. “I work with a small community theater, to be honest. Behind the scenes, not onstage,” he added quickly. “We do four shows a year, and some of them, I must admit, are quite good.”

“I think that’s wonderful. Good for you.”

“Seems neither of us can shake it, Mr. Pear.”

Hazel regarded him anew. Charlie was still full of surprises. “How did you know about that?”

“I’d recognize your particular turn of phrase any day. Your reviews always make me smile.”

The idea that he knew Hazel well enough to recognize her writing gave her a small thrill, but before she could question him further, the curtain rose and the hosts for the evening, Mary Martin and Robert Preston, came out and welcomed the crowd.

Hazel barely heard a word. Right now Maxine was probably getting her makeup touched up in a dressing room, flirting with the stage manager to kill her nerves before presenting whatever award it was she’d be presenting. Ridiculous.

After the first musical number—Joel Grey singing from Cabaret—they paused for a commercial break. Hazel rolled her eyes. “Next thing you know, all the Broadway shows will be televised, and writers will have to add in commercial breaks between scenes.”

“I doubt it will come to that.”

“How do you propose we approach Maxine? What’s your plan?”

“No plan. We’ll find her at the party afterward, at the Plaza, and I’ll pull her aside.” He cocked his head. “You’re going to behave, aren’t you? Don’t mess this up.”

“If you were worried about that, you should’ve come alone.”

“You’re the one who invited me.”

“So basically you’re using me.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “I wanted to see you. That article, the way it described how you’d been treated, it got me boiling with anger.”

“I don’t want people’s pity. I would have preferred to be able to work back when I was inspired and young.”

“You’re far from old. And things seem to be going better for you now, with the revival of the play.”

“I suppose so. Keep in mind the actors in this so-called revival had to compete with the rats for space in the dressing room.”

The ceremonies continued, with Cabaret and The Homecoming garnering most of the big awards.

“And now, we’d like to introduce the shining star Maxine Mead to hand out the award for best actress in a play.” Robert Preston motioned to the wings as Maxine swished out in a dress of silver lamé.

Maxine walked with confidence, her shoulders back. Her hair was longer, wavier, than Hazel remembered. In the past almost two decades, Maxine had carved out a respectable career. Her film with James Mason had been a hit, and since then, her face had graced all the magazine covers—Life, Time, Harper’s Bazaar.

Hazel wished she was sitting farther back. What if Maxine spotted her? While everyone else clapped, Hazel crossed her arms in front of her chest. Charlie gave her a sideways glance, checking in.

Up onstage, the reflected light from Maxine’s dress gave her a shimmering aura. Fake lashes had been plastered on her eyelids, while her lips glistened with a pinker hue than she used to wear. Maxine had kept up with the changing fashions. Yet while age hadn’t been exactly kind to Hazel, Maxine hadn’t been spared either. Her formerly sculpted cheeks were transitioning into jowls, and thin, horizontal wrinkles crisscrossed her neck. Her voice, though, with its familiar raspy tone, brought out of their interment all the memories Hazel had buried. That voice, booming in El Quijote, whispering a snarky comment backstage, speaking German in the radio room in Naples. The voice of a woman she had once adored.

Maxine listed the nominees for leading actress in a play, and called out the winner, Beryl Reid, for her performance in a show called The Killing of Sister George. Hazel had seen it and enjoyed it thoroughly. Nice to know that a play with an all-women cast could hit it big these days.

At the end of Reid’s speech, there was a moment of confusion as Maxine began to lead her offstage but was stopped by Robert Preston. Reid disappeared behind the curtain, while Preston guided Maxine back into the spotlight. A look of bewilderment flashed over Maxine’s face, but she kept a steady smile in spite of whatever glitch had occurred.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to give a special award.” Robert Preston pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

Dear God. Were they going to give Maxine a Tony for gracing their stage with her presence? If so, Hazel would storm off, never mind protocol. She tensed, at the ready. Maxine looked out into the audience with a raised eyebrow, as confused as the rest of them.

He read out loud. “After so many years, today is a day of reckoning. The theater community was, for the most part, unaffected by the terrible events of the blacklist, when the McCarthy era threatened the very creativity and freedom that America stands for.”

The blacklist? If they gave Maxine some kind of award and mentioned the blacklist in the same breath, Hazel wouldn’t storm off, she’d run screaming onto the stage, snatch the award away, and bludgeon Maxine with it.

“What the . . . ?” murmured Charlie.

Preston continued. “Yet while the film, television, and radio industries are best known for coming under direct fire, several of our theater community’s members were also affected. Tonight, we acknowledge them. We acknowledge brilliant artists, like Lavinia Smarts, Lillian Hellman, Uta Hagen, Zero Mostel, and Floyd Jenkins. We acknowledge that they suffered, that they were denied unalienable rights. We acknowledge that a terrible miscarriage of justice took place, and that too few spoke up, spoke out, at the time. Alas, some who’ve been harmed cannot be with us tonight. But we are lucky to have one virtuoso present who stood up to the madness.”

Maxine looked as if she were going to crack wide open, her smile turned to fear. Hazel’s heart pounded, and she gripped Charlie’s hand, as if that might stop what was coming.

Preston chuckled merrily. “I actually have two special announcements to make. First of all—breaking news, folks—I was informed earlier this evening that the acclaimed revival of Wartime Sonata will return to the Great White Way next season.”

Hazel had known the producers were trying to raise the money for a Broadway transfer, but had written it off to the misguided enthusiasm of neophytes. Very rarely would a play make such a leap, hardly ever. Yet they’d pulled it off. The audience erupted in applause. Her mind reeled, trying to process the unexpected good news. This was why Lavinia had insisted Hazel take the tickets.

Preston gestured to Maxine. “Even better, we’re lucky enough to have the star of the original cast here to present a special award. Once again, Maxine Mead.”

He handed the paper he’d been reading from to Maxine, who took it with shaking hands.

She scanned it and then looked out into the audience with a half smile. “Actors hate it when the playwright changes the script right before a performance. Or during.”

The audience laughed as the mood in the room shifted, curious to know what was next.

Maxine took a deep breath. “For valor and strength in terrible circumstances, the American Theatre Wing would like to award a special Tony Award to the playwright, and my friend . . .” Her voice cracked on the last word.

This was spiraling out of control, not at all what Hazel wanted. It was all a terrible mistake, a terrible mess.

Maxine looked out into the audience like a prisoner of war.

“Miss Hazel Ripley.”

Hazel turned to Charlie, confused.

What is going on? she mouthed.

Around them, people clapped and cheered.

“You’ve got to go up and say something,” Charlie finally said.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

She couldn’t hear his reply, the noise of the crowd was too much. He helped her rise to her feet. Once out of her seat, she located the stairs with what felt like tunnel vision, focusing only on what was directly in front of her. If she looked up, she feared she might trip or freeze. She didn’t want to go up on that stage, up to Maxine. Everything about this was wrong.

Trumpets blared a generic melody as she climbed the steps while holding her skirt in one hand, her mind racing. How could they have put her on the spot like this? They thought this was some kind of honor? That shaggy-haired director, she was certain, was behind all this. A way to get his show an injection of publicity. And a way for all of these people, the ones clapping until their hands hurt, to feel better about themselves for staying quiet when they should have stood up for justice when it mattered, or others who’d turned in their colleagues and stolen careers out from under them.

She wondered if Lavinia had been in on this. Over the years, Lavinia had inquired about the rift between Hazel and Maxine, gently encouraging Hazel to reach out and forgive her friend. But Hazel had shut down any further discussion, and eventually Lavinia had stopped bringing it up.

The stage. She’d made it. Maxine stood to the side of the thin microphone, clapping her hands. Another woman handed a small plaque to Maxine, who in turn handed it to Hazel, their fingers not touching.

The solidity and weight of the plaque helped ground Hazel. The applause didn’t die down; in fact, it grew even louder as the audience rose from their seats. A standing ovation. Well, isn’t that something?

For years now, in spite of the success she’d achieved as a reviewer, and in spite of the life she’d made for herself at the Chelsea, Hazel still walked around with a ball of fury deep within her, like a cancer. Fury that she’d never again had the chance to achieve much of anything on the stage, after so much early promise.

Unexpectedly, tears sprang to Hazel’s eyes. Looking out at these strangers, who stood cheering her on, acknowledging her existence for the first time in seventeen years, Hazel realized that her fury was in fact grief. Terrible, inconsolable grief, at what could have been. At the loss of her best friend, and her theater family, in one fell swoop.

She swore she wouldn’t break, she wouldn’t let them see her pain. She’d lived with it this long. But looking out over the crowd who’d gathered tonight to celebrate the splendid world of live theater, in all its eccentric, superstitious glory, her heart broke. She stifled a sob with her hand, the suffering of so many years now evident to all.

Which only made them applaud harder.

Hazel looked down at Charlie, who stood with the rest of them, his face beaming. Maxine waited awkwardly by Hazel’s side. They should kiss or embrace or something, that’s what the crowd wanted. Two best friends, reunited after all these years.

Hazel turned to look at Maxine, who had that same silly smile on her face, but her eyes revealed fear. Fear of what Hazel was going to do next: Would she play the game? Or attack her on live television?

Hazel’s fingers itched. She’d heard that expression a thousand times before but never really understood it until now. They itched to physically hurt this woman who’d betrayed her so terribly. Who’d left her behind. Who was a traitor.

As the cheering finally died down, Hazel looked out to Charlie again. He was sitting back down, her empty seat beside him. Something about that unsettled Hazel, but before she had a chance to figure out why, she heard Maxine weeping beside her, her mouth a grimace. The ugly show of emotion dried up Hazel’s own tears in a flash. Leave it to Maxine to draw focus on herself when this was supposed to be Hazel’s moment. Chewing the scenery, as always. Hazel refused to be upstaged, not this time.

She stepped up to the microphone and took a deep breath.

“Thank you for this remarkable, and surprising, honor.” Her voice rebounded up the balconies, up to the rafters, through the cameras and into the homes of millions of Americans.

For years now, she’d wanted a way to right all the wrongs, an opportunity to be heard. This was it. Maybe Charlie was right. It was a new era, perhaps her anguish hadn’t been for nothing.

“Back in 1950, when Wartime Sonata first graced a Broadway stage, we were young and full of hope. We’d won another world war, defeated the enemy, and were the leaders of democracy, of the free world.”

She didn’t want to lecture. How to make her point, make them understand?

“It’s true that secrets were being ferried out of the country back then, secrets that were shared with the Soviet Union when they should not have been. Brave federal agents hunted for those spies, and they should be commended.” She looked down at Charlie. Again, that empty seat beside him nagged at her. Reminding her of another time, another empty seat. On the third of July.

“But then a terrible infection took hold in America. One of paranoia and witch hunts. Others in politics decided to use the fearmongering as a way to decimate the entertainment industry. They said that communists were poisoning the minds of their children, were out to destroy democracy. And many of you bought the lies.” She looked right into the television camera. “You didn’t question them. You didn’t fight back. You let this happen.

“The entertainment industry was hounded by bullies as the rest of America, including its top newspapers and news organizations, went along for the ride. The press, who should have exposed the contagion for what it was, let it fester for far too long, cowed by the credentials of the bullies in charge. Because of this, we lost a generation of talent. Screenwriters became typists to earn a buck. Brilliant actors sold shoes to make a living. My friend Floyd Jenkins, who had so much hope and promise, was forced out of the career he loved because of an offhand remark, then killed himself.”

Her throat threatened to close up, but she swallowed, took a breath, and kept on. “This is how a society is corrupted, from the inside out. We must make a promise to not ever let this happen again. We must promise to be vigilant against our own worst tendencies. Only by doing so will our country sustain its ideals of freedom.”

She stopped. There was nothing left to say.

The men and women in the audience sat for a moment in silence, before a wall of sound, of cheers and stamping feet and clapping, surged forward.

Hazel looked up into the darkness to the very last row of the top balcony, grateful that her message had been heard.

She heard Charlie give a whistle, the same one he used to catch a cab, and caught his eye and smiled.

Again, the empty seat. On the night that Charlie had asked about, the third of July, Maxine’s birthday, they’d gone to a show. Maxine had been harassed by a fan and seemed out of sorts during the first act, fidgeting in her seat. Then she’d disappeared.

The seat next to Hazel’s had been empty the entire second act. Hazel had emerged from the theater to find Maxine waiting outside. And Arthur right across the street, watching them. Just enough time . . .

No. It couldn’t be.

In shock, Hazel drew back, as if a burst of feedback had screeched out of the microphone that only she could hear. She felt Maxine’s hand on her arm, steadying her.

Maxine leaned close, speaking directly into her ear. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry about all this.”

Hazel couldn’t speak. Sorry for what? For this muddled awards ceremony? Or for worse?

She felt Maxine’s hand on her waist, guiding her off the stage.

“That was a beautiful speech, Hazel,” Maxine said. “You’ve certainly got a way with words.”

Her delivery was wry, playful. She wanted to once again be in Hazel’s good graces now that Hazel was back in fashion.

But Hazel was having none of it.

“I know your secret, Maxine Mead.” Her tongue tasted of metal as she spoke. “I know the truth.”