The Chelsea Girls(37)
“Now, Miss Ripley.” The host swiveled around to Hazel. “You’ve come out of nowhere, it seems, and now will be not only directing your first Broadway show, you also wrote it. How can you explain your good luck?”
“Well, you have to remember I understudied on Broadway for several years, so I know the theater world pretty well. And as Maxine explained, it came out of our experiences during World War II, in Naples.”
“Right. Now, tell us what your little skit is all about.”
Unbelievable. She doubted they’d call a male playwright’s work a “little skit,” even if it were a debut. She soldiered on. “It takes place in a formerly grand hotel in an unnamed country that’s under siege, and the guests are trapped inside by the fighting. They start turning on each other, in fear and desperation, and make assumptions about each other that aren’t necessarily true. I’d say the general theme touches on the dangers of making assumptions about someone’s identity and political beliefs.”
“Intriguing. That’s a big subject to tackle, especially now. I hate to bring this up, but your name turns up in Red Channels, which if our listeners don’t know, is a list of people suspected of being communist sympathizers. What do you have to say to that?”
She looked over at Maxine, who’d turned gray. “I advise everyone to ignore it, it’s all hearsay.”
The host was only getting started, it seemed. He pulled a sheet of paper from his notes. “I also have here a letter from a producer in the Theatre Guild, saying that you shouldn’t be directing a Broadway show since you’ve been listed in Red Channels. It says that a half dozen Theatre Guild subscribers were unhappy to see the employment of a controversial artist.”
This was news to Hazel. The incriminations seemed to be coming faster and faster. She couldn’t help but wonder if William Williams wasn’t behind this, trying to stir up trouble ever since he’d quit as director.
“I won’t bother to defend myself against the spurious allegations you just mentioned,” she said. “In fact, I’m surprised, as a member of the press, you’d give them any credence without checking your facts first.”
“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”
After watching Floyd be taken away, Hazel couldn’t take Mr. Canby’s advice and stay under the radar. Not when she’d just been ambushed. This time, she’d channel Maxine’s innate courage and speak the truth, loud and clear. “May I remind you and your listeners that we have something called the First Amendment, the right to free speech? Directing a play should have nothing to do with my political views. America is a free country, after all. Am I right?”
Before he could respond, Maxine launched into a long monologue about the difference between acting in a movie and acting onstage, not letting the host get a word in edgewise. The clock ticked down until there were only ten seconds to go. “So be sure to come see Wartime Sonata,” Maxine said. “Previews start July twelfth, opening night is July twenty-first. See you at the theater!”
Hazel threw her headphones down on the table, with Maxine following suit, and together they walked out without another word.
CHAPTER TEN
Maxine
June 26, 1950
Hotel living definitely has its perks, especially when I camp out in the lobby and watch Mr. Bard’s reactions to every tenant passing by. You can tell immediately those he loves and those he abhors. If he loves them, he calls out a nickname, sometimes “dearie” and other times some kind of Hungarian endearment that sounds like it consists of all consonants. If he hates them, he’ll scurry into his office rather than suffer their presence. Worse off are the folks who owe him rent money. Those he’ll follow to the elevator, standing too close as it makes its slow descent, and speak about their “monetary delinquency” in a stage whisper that I’m sure he hopes will shame the poor resident into ponying up.
I was waiting in the lobby because I was tired of staring at my phone upstairs, wondering if it would ring. Not surprisingly, Arthur had resurfaced. More than once. The first time, he was standing across the street from the Biltmore, wearing a black fedora and matching raincoat. My eye went to him immediately, it always has. He nodded but didn’t beckon to me, and I jumped into a cab and escaped as fast as I could, heart pounding.
He was outside the Chelsea the next time, holding a bunch of flowers. Peonies. My favorite. We spoke, briefly. He was back in town for business, but said he couldn’t let me go, that he’d do anything to make it up to me. We made a date to talk further, and it was then he pulled out all the stops, bringing me to a glitzy nightclub, ordering champagne.
My grandmother had adored Arthur from the start, even though I was only sixteen. “I met your grandfather when I was a teenager,” she told me. “It’s better that way.” I asked her why, and she just smiled. She kept a photo of them on their wedding day on her bureau, and I used to creep into her room and study it. In it, they were looking at each other, laughing, my grandmother’s profile as delicate as a movie star’s and my grandfather’s eyes filled with longing. The same way Arthur looked at me that evening at the nightclub.
Arthur talked of our shared history, pleaded with me to not let our story end like this. Promised that he’d changed and we were meant for each other. Even though I knew it was only a matter of time before he wore me down and we were back to performing our sordid duet, I’d said I wasn’t ready, and walked out.