The Chelsea Girls(22)

“Wartime Sonata.”

“Exactly. Who would want to see a play with that title?”

“So you think that my play is a bore?”

“Don’t take it personally.” He leaned forward. “I cried. Don’t tell anyone else that. If you can make me cry, think of all those weepy housewives out there. That’s what I’m banking on. We’ll do a table read in two weeks, onstage at the Biltmore. It’s one of the smaller theaters, which means I’m not taking that much of a risk. I gotta hear it out loud, then we’ll do casting and get it up by July. I got an empty theater and I gotta fill it, or I lose money. You in? Don’t go shopping this around on me. Any questions?”

He wanted her play. Barring any surprises at the table read, her play was going to Broadway. For a moment she was struck dumb; then she asked the first thing that came into her head. “Um, how do I get paid?”

He laughed. “I like the way you think. Like a man, not a girl. Here’s the deal: We give you an advance of one grand. I’ll have my secretary cut you a check today. Once the show makes money, you’ll get four and a half percent of the take, minus the advance. Got it?”

He held out his hand and Hazel shook it. One thousand dollars. An unimaginable amount, considering she’d thought the ten dollars a day she’d made on tour was a decent wage. Even better, she’d be able to stay on at the Chelsea.

All those words she’d typed and retyped over the past five years since her return from the war had finally paid off, in spades. She thought of the thousands of pages of dialogue that she’d reworked and then tossed aside in her effort to find just the right phrase, the right joke, the right mood. This play was a culmination of serious study and hard work, but still, after all that, she’d simply been in the right place at the right time. At the Chelsea Hotel.

Right off, she sent Lavinia an enormous bouquet of flowers to thank her for the referral, and told the folks at NBC that she had booked another job. The hardest part was telling Ruth, who considered her decision to stay at the Chelsea Hotel and not return home a personal betrayal. Ruth had said she was crazy to break away from acting, called the play a dangerous distraction, and warned that Hazel would regret not taking her advice. Hazel had stood firm, though, the memory of her mother’s hand on her cheek still fresh.

The day of the reading, Hazel knocked on the stage door of the Biltmore and was ushered inside to the house, where plasterwork in creams and light blues rose to an enormous dome. A long table had been set up in the center of the stage; a bare bulb atop a pole stood sentry near the wings. A group of actors had been assembled for the workshop, and Hazel knew from experience that they all hoped to get the roles they’d been temporarily assigned. They clapped politely as she was introduced, and she took the empty seat next to Mr. Canby.

The director, a short man with a nasal voice, named William Williams, stood to offer a welcome speech. “This is a remarkable play by a woman about war. I want the audience to feel the bullets, the fear, to smell the sweat. Make it big, don’t be afraid, my soldiers. Let us begin.”

Not the words Hazel would have used to describe her play, but she stayed mum. Let the professionals do their jobs. She’d given herself a pep talk before walking into the theater, telling herself that she had as much right to be here as anyone, and to take a seat at the table with confidence. But no one had really noticed her, even now.

“Act one, scene one,” read the stage manager.

Hazel cringed as the actress playing the female lead burst into high-pitched crocodile tears only a few lines into her first scene, when she was supposed to be pretending to be a man. The actor playing opposite her shouted to the rafters and gesticulated wildly as they hid from the search mob storming the hotel. Not the most effective choice. Thank goodness this was just a workshop.

Hazel raised her eyebrows at Mr. Canby, but he just nodded and leaned back in his chair, staring at the lighting grid in the rafters.

The revisions she’d done to the play held up, at least. Once she convinced the director to take it down a notch, she was certain it would work. She looked out at the empty seats. So many people to attract, to convince to buy a ticket. To entertain. This was her big chance, and she’d have to make sure she held the reins tightly so Mr. Williams didn’t run off in the wrong direction. But that’s what rehearsal was for.

They took a break after the second act. Hazel tried to explain her take on the play to Mr. Canby, but he just laughed and told her that the playwright always thought he knew best. But in this case, they would have to trust in the director, who, as Hazel would do well to remember, was the most experienced and successful artist in the room. Hazel knew then that her only hope was to appeal to Mr. Williams.

She discovered their illustrious director off in the wings whispering with the lead actress. They both jumped when she approached.

Mr. Williams shook her hand, squeezing hard. “Miss Ripley, we were just remarking on what a terrific work you’ve come up with, on the first try. Bravo.”

“Thank you, I am quite honored to be here, of course. But I was wondering, as we delve into the final act, what if you asked the actors to lower the tone a bit? I think the play will work even better. After all, the subject matter is serious.”

“Now, don’t you worry, little lady. I have it well in hand. You know, I’ve directed twenty-five shows on the Great White Way.”