The Chelsea Girls(38)
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“What are you doing, lurking in the lobby?”
Hazel appeared out of nowhere, wearing a prim shirtdress with a matching cardigan. Like she was off to church or something.
I avoided her question with one of my own. “Where are you headed this fine evening?”
“Family dinner. Would rather jump in the Hudson, but duty calls. My mom’s still sore that I moved out, although I stop by once a week, to try to make it up to her.” She let out a funny sound, a cross between a hiccup and a gasp. “Hey. You should come along. Do you want to meet my parents? My mother will love you.” She didn’t wait for me to reply. “This is perfect. Come on.”
I agreed, curious. Not that I had anything better to do.
“Any news on Floyd?” I asked as the cab roared uptown. Yesterday, we’d hightailed it over to Canby’s office right after the radio show, and found him already on the phone with NBC, chewing them out for their attack on Hazel. He’d taken the news about Floyd badly, throwing a coffee mug across the room, and promised to track him down, do whatever it took.
“Nothing yet. I’m sure we’ll hear soon, though.”
I didn’t answer. None of us knew how these new rules worked, where someone could be taken away for questioning and then disappear. As if we were living under siege in some authoritarian state, not America.
The taxi dropped us off outside one of those grand Upper West Side apartment buildings that take up the whole block. Hazel nodded to the doorman keeping guard just inside the gates and we took a sharp left, up a flight of wide stairs. She shoved open a door and we were standing inside what felt like a rambling country house, not a New York apartment. An expansive foyer with a mosaic floor opened up to a dark wood library on one side and some kind of salon on the other, both with big fireplaces. Hallways led off other hallways, a maze of sharp turns and hidden nooks.
Hazel hung her hat and coat on the rack and I followed suit. “This is your home?”
“Yes. Back in the 1920s, when they moved in, it wasn’t a big deal. Everyone lived like this. Lucky for them, it’s rent-controlled, otherwise they might have to move in with me.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Bard would adore them, I’m sure.”
Inside the kitchen the aroma of a roast chicken greeted us. Her mother was stooped over, lifting it out of the oven, and when she caught sight of me, she squealed and dropped the roasting pan with a large crash.
She left it there, the chicken half in the pan and half on the floor, and dashed over, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re Maxine Mead. A true star, here in our home.” Hazel’s mother had the same blue eyes as her daughter, but they darted back and forth, studying me closely. Her jowls hung heavy on her face, as did the skin under her eyes, forming translucent half-moons.
Hazel was on her knees, cleaning up the mess and wiping the chicken’s backside with a towel. “This will be fine. It wasn’t on the floor for long.”
I moved to help, but her mother held me firmly by my elbows. “Maxine Mead, in the flesh!”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ripley.”
“That’s right, Hazel said she acted with you in Italy.” Mrs. Ripley turned to her husband, who sat in a wheelchair by the table. “Remember? Hazel acted with Maxine Mead in the USO tour.”
Her father, a skinny man with bony knees under his too-big slacks, nodded but stayed silent.
Hazel made the introductions and then Mrs. Ripley was off to the races, offering me a glass of wine and asking all about Hollywood. I swear she used the word starlet at least four times. We sat down and ate dinner, me answering her questions and Hazel looking quite pleased with herself and not saying a word. Unlike me, that girl shied away from attention, and now I knew why. Attention in this household was fierce.
“Hazel wanted to be an actress, but she wouldn’t listen to me.” Mrs. Ripley passed me the bowl of peas. “If she had taken my advice, she’d be in your position, doing movies and the like. I made Mr. Ripley’s career, you see, so I know of what I speak.”
I looked over at Hazel, who stayed silent. “Hazel is a wonderful actress,” I offered.
Mrs. Ripley shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen her act. Not once. She’s a bit of a joke in the theater world. ‘Always the bridesmaid,’ you know that saying?”
I was well aware of Hazel’s run as an understudy, and resented her mother for throwing it in her face. She seemed to take it personally, as if Hazel had refused to go onstage to spite her. There was no inquiry into her daughter’s play, or acknowledgment of the fact that Hazel’s work was soon to be performed on Broadway. The blinders on that woman annoyed the hell out of me.
After dinner, Mrs. Ripley attended to her husband, and I wandered around, eventually finding Hazel sitting in one of the bedrooms, looking out the window onto the rooftops of the city, the sky lit up with the last blast of sunset.
The room still smelled slightly boyish, a lingering hint of sweat and hormones. Or maybe that was just my imagination. “Was this Ben’s room?”
Hazel nodded, her hands folded in her lap. “How did you meet him?”
We hadn’t spoken much of him. I didn’t want to, as I barely knew her brother at all. I’m sure she wanted some dramatic love story, but that’s not what it was. Far from it. We were just kids, moving along in the world.