The Chelsea Girls(39)

“In a coffee shop, downtown. We dated here and there, but it wasn’t anything serious. I don’t really remember much about him, to be honest. I’m sorry.”

“What about the other man? He’s back, isn’t he?”

Of course Hazel would know. She’d been watching me onstage, day after day. Surely the resurgence of Arthur registered in my body language, my voice. Hazel of all people would know that.

“He is. Arthur’s in the city on business. I tried to fend him off, but he’s persistent. I finally agreed to meet him and we talked. He feels awful about what happened.”

“Why do you like him so much? He doesn’t respect you.”

“Why don’t you tell your mom to respect you? She’s awfully rude.”

I hadn’t meant to be so abrupt, but Hazel considered her answer before speaking. “She believes she knows the best way to go about things, and gets frustrated when I don’t listen. She was upset when I moved into the Chelsea, and feels abandoned. First Ben, then me.”

“You’re only a cab ride away, and you’re an adult, for God’s sake. Does she really feel abandoned, or is it just that you made an independent decision without consulting her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother is one of those people who comes across as selfless and caring, but only so others will recognize and laud her martyrdom. She craves control.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.” Hazel’s tentative delivery didn’t match the admonishment. She had to know it was true, deep down. “At least she doesn’t hurt me.”

The dig at Arthur hit home. “You so sure of that? It doesn’t just have to be physical, you know.”

We sat quietly, a détente of sorts. “My mother has been through so much,” she finally explained. “I guess I see it as my daughterly duty, and try not to let it bother me. How did you and Arthur meet?”

I appreciated Hazel maneuvering the conversation to a less fraught subject. “He knew the couple who ran Seattle Rep, and would often stop by and help out. All the girls had a crush on him.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. The smell of the theater—a mix of wood shavings and pipe smoke—came back to me in a rush. “I was sixteen, and he was twenty-one, with this curly dark hair and blue eyes, what a combination. A tough guy, all muscles and cragginess, except for those eyes. Anyway, I’d finally gotten a decent role in a play, where I had to sing and dance. No one expected me to land that part, but I’d been practicing day after day, really putting in the work. The other girls hated me for getting it and tortured me to no end. Whispered backstage as I was rehearsing, hid my costumes and makeup.”

“That’s terrible.” Hazel sat back against the headboard and wrapped her arms around her knees. “What did you do?”

“What could I do, really? The night of the first performance, they smeared lipstick on my shirt. I tried to get it off best I could but then I had to go onstage, wearing this white blouse with a huge water stain over my chest. My grandmother and father were in the audience. This was my chance to prove to them I could act, that I was worthy of going off to New York City after school. Instead, I froze. I warbled out the tune, feeling the tension in the room rise with every note, feeling horribly exposed. After, I ran into an empty dressing room and crawled under the counter, crying my eyes out.”

“Oh, Maxine. I’m so sorry.”

“Eventually, the door opened and I hoped it might be my grandmother, but no, it was Arthur. He didn’t say a word. Just sat on the floor with me and placed a hand on my ankle. My ankle, of all places.” The pressure of his hand had been wonderfully warm and calming, like he was staunching the flow of my shame. “Once I was okay, we headed out the back door and found a diner and drank milkshakes. And that was that.”

I could tell Hazel wanted to ask more questions about why I tolerated Arthur’s bad behavior, about his marriage, but I didn’t want to discuss it and ruin all those lovely memories.

Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Ripley was wiping Mr. Ripley’s chin. Even though she was a loud, brash woman, the way she gently cleaned her husband, dabbing at the corners of his mouth, moved me. I wondered if Arthur would take care of me like that, if it came down to it, and regretted my earlier harsh words.

“Where did you girls get off to?” asked Mrs. Ripley.

“I was just showing Maxine around the apartment,” said Hazel. “We really should go, though, it’s been a busy day.”

“Can’t be that busy. It’s not as if you have to memorize any lines, since you’re not acting anymore.” Mrs. Ripley finally acknowledged the play we were both working so hard on.

“A director has just as much work, if not more.”

Mrs. Ripley stepped forward and planted a kiss on Hazel’s forehead, her hands on either side of her cheeks. “I just wish you were onstage with Maxine, not hiding in the back of the theater.”

Hazel shook free. “I’m not hiding in the back of a theater. That’s not what directors do.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Your daughter runs the show. She gets paid more money than the actors, gets to say what she wants and how she wants it. You really ought to be impressed.”

“A lady director? I don’t know.”