The Chelsea Girls(17)
They’d exchanged letters for a while after the war, Maxine’s full of Hollywood gossip, Hazel with updates on the theater scene and her attempts at both acting and playwriting, but after a while, Hazel found it easier to stop replying than admit how dull her life had become. Meanwhile, she’d read all about Maxine’s exploits in Hollywood in the magazines, how she’d landed several decent parts in movies, been photographed in front of palm trees and on breezy beaches.
The Chelsea Hotel felt like a link to the Maxine she’d known in Naples, the girl who’d suffered with her at Paul’s death, who’d shared the horror and, at times, the strange joy of war. On top of that, the place tantalized her with creative promise, with the knowledge that so many actors and writers had stayed there and found inspiration. But Hazel couldn’t leave her mother, not after Ben had left and never come back.
Hazel hung her coat on the hook and took off her gloves. “Did you listen tonight, Ma? What did you think?” Hazel added an extra dose of enthusiasm to her voice, hoping that might change the course of the conversation.
“It was fine.” Ruth took a loud sip of tea. “I have no idea which one you were.”
No way was Hazel going to volunteer that she’d voiced a bovine.
“I made a list of casting calls for you for next week.” Ruth pointed to a notebook on the table. “First one is Monday at ten, for a revival of some Thornton Wilder one-act. Make sure you wear something pretty, put on some makeup. We’ve got to land you a theater job soon, or you’ll be out of the running completely.”
“That’s the wrong way to look at it. Radio and television are all the rage these days. There’s a ton of new opportunities.”
“I don’t know about that. The stage was good enough for your brother. By now he would have been starring on Broadway. Don’t forget, I know how this is done. After all, I built your father’s career. Without me, he’d never have hit the big time.”
No one could forget that fact, as Ruth brought it up every chance she got: that she had been his assistant at first before gradually taking over every aspect of decision-making—from choosing the color of his shirt to the part in his hair—and turning him into a major name. His helplessness later in life sealed her role as compassionate caretaker. Every neighbor who stopped by for coffee knew to praise Ruth for her self-sacrifice if they wanted an extra slice of cake.
Whenever Ruth got prickly, Hazel reminded herself that her mother lashed out only because she was terrified of losing another child the way she had lost Ben. Hazel had already disrupted her mother’s life once by impulsively auditioning for the USO tour, and Ruth would brook no more foolishness.
One evening, though, Hazel had seen a different side of Ruth, when she’d awoken to a strange sound and watched silently from the darkness of the hallway as her mother sobbed into her father’s lap. She was half kneeling on the cold tile floor, clutching his knees and weeping into his skinny thighs as he patted her head with his good hand, as one would an old dog. Her father lifted his eyes and met Hazel’s gaze. Even though he hadn’t said a word since the stroke, she knew exactly what that look meant. Do not enter, do not catch her in her grief. Go back to bed and leave her to me.
Hazel tried again. “The good thing about being on the radio is that no one knows how old you are, which opens up a lot of great parts.”
“Voices age just like faces. Don’t fool yourself.”
“Well, sure, eventually they do. But I’m only thirty.”
“You think thirty’s young?”
“Not young, no. But I don’t mind aging into leading lady territory. Much better than being a ditzy ingenue.” Hazel winked, trying to force Ruth into more lighthearted territory. If she could steer her mother into a laugh just as her rant gathered steam, the tension between them might fizzle. Hazel had used this method of circumventing Ruth’s tirades for years, but lately it hadn’t been working very well.
“What do you know about it?” Ruth scowled. “You’ve never played an ingenue.”
Hazel sighed. There would be no avoiding any tension tonight. “Mom, enough. I may not want to work onstage anymore. I may not even want to act.”
Ruth flinched, her lips in a long, hard line. “You don’t want to act? It was good enough for your brother.”
“But I’m not Ben. I’m not going to be Ben. I have to find my own way.”
“Exactly what do you think you’ll do instead? You’re in your room all day, typing away, like Hemingway. Do you think you can be a Hemingway? That’s not what’s in your blood. What’s in your blood is the theater.” She stood and dumped out the rest of her tea in the sink. “At this rate, you’ll be playing old harridans before you know it.”
Enough was enough. “Then I might as well stick around and learn from the best.”
The slap came as a complete surprise. Ruth had never raised her hand to Hazel before, and for a moment, Hazel wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. She put her hand to her cheek and then looked at her fingers, as if the answer could be found there.
“I’m sorry, Hazel. I didn’t mean it.”
Her mother tried to hug her, to pull her close, but Hazel stepped back, hands in the air, to block her. She needed space, time to think, without her mother fussing about and telling her what to do every minute of the day. Enough was enough. And there was one place where she might be able to find this reprieve.