The Chelsea Girls(45)

The news just kept getting better and better.

The lights dimmed, saving Hazel from further conversation. She spied an empty box seat and darted over, taking the one in front as Charlie shuffled into the one behind her. This had been a stupid idea. Now she had him staring at the back of her head for the next hour. For a fleeting moment she wondered if her hair looked all right, before dismissing the thought as frivolous. Still, she reflexively lifted a hand to smooth it into place as the curtain rose.

What to do? She couldn’t see any way out of it. Mr. Canby would get the call from Mr. Hartnett about having Charlie lurk about, and not be bothered one whit. Not if it meant no picketers, no controversy. Of course, she had nothing to hide. But it was the principle of the matter, the slippery slope into censorship, that irked her to no end.

By the end of the matinee, which turned out to be a riveting opera about fleeing European refugees, Hazel’s racing thoughts had finally settled down. Her play, like this opera, was timely and powerful, and audiences were obviously eager to be challenged. Hazel’s sole purpose was to get Wartime Sonata staged, and if that required Laurence Butterfield’s son to lurk about during the rehearsals, so be it.

She turned to face him as the rest of the audience filed out. “So, what did you think of the play? Russian propaganda?”

“I’d already seen it before, to be honest. I loved it then and I loved it today. You should catch the first act next time.”

“You go to the theater?”

“I do. I see practically everything that comes out.”

“What does your father think of that?”

“He doesn’t know.”

So Butterfield’s son was a theater buff. Maybe this would work, after all. Hopefully, he was dopey enough that she’d be able to manipulate him into giving the production a green light, while also putting her in the clear in terms of the blacklist. “Not that I have much choice, but I’ll allow you to sit in on the rehearsals. See you tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, sharp.”

“See you then, Miss Ripley.”

The next day, at rehearsal, Mr. Canby briefly introduced Charlie Butterfield as a consultant, one who was helping him assess various protocols. Perfectly vague and innocuous. Hazel had to hand it to him, Mr. Canby’s success in the cutthroat world of Broadway was in no doubt due to his ability to obfuscate when needed, either sweet-talking investors or puffing up the egos of the talent.

Most of the cast didn’t give Charlie a second glance, but Maxine bristled with anger. She shot Hazel a dark look and followed her to the table where a coffee urn stood. “I don’t like this idea one bit. Wolf guarding the sheep and all that.”

Hazel poured herself a cup and added some milk, keeping her voice low. “We have no choice. Trust me, this is the last thing I want. But we have to live with it, at least until opening night. Try to keep your Bolshevik declarations to a minimum.”

Maxine cracked a smile, in spite of herself. “Very funny.”

“Better to have him in sight, to be able to control what he hears and sees. Don’t you think?”

“You’re acting like you’re the guilty party.”

“Right. I’m a spy.”

Maxine’s eyebrows raised. “Stop it. You’re going to get yourself into even bigger trouble.” She sighed and poured herself a cup as well. “But I guess you’re right.”

“I am. Besides, he’s a big theater buff, apparently, sees everything.”

“Interesting. His father bragged to me about shutting down a theater company upstate. There must be a lot of friction there.”

“Let’s see if we can’t use it to our advantage.”

The run-through was rough, to say the least. The actors kept on having to call out “line” and have the stage manager feed them their words, and two of the men playing soldiers fumbled their prop guns. To be expected, Hazel knew. At this point in rehearsal, the actors were overloaded with sensory information: where to stand, what the overall arc of the scene was, and the fear of forgetting the next line. Which of course made them forget the next line. Over the next week, Hazel hoped, the stage directions would become second nature, the lines would become embedded in their pretty heads, and the acting would feel less forced.

As a playwright, to hear her words mangled was painful enough, but she tried to keep her director hat on and let the mistakes go. Right now the cast needed confidence.

Charlie sat in the very back row of the theater for the entire morning. But that afternoon, as they returned from lunch, he plopped himself in the seat next to her.

“Yes?” She was scribbling some notes in her script and didn’t look up.

“Is it all right if I sit here?”

“You are the consultant, you can sit wherever you like, I suppose.” She wasn’t about to give him an inch.

The cast launched into the final act. Whether they’d been energized by lunch, or the break, the scene took off with a bang. Maxine was on fire, and her energy invigorated the other actors. Finally, the play in Hazel’s head was beginning to match the one being performed on the stage.

“Fantastic, everyone. Take fifteen.”

“Wow. Just wow.” Charlie remained motionless, still staring at the stage.

“No subversive dialogue for you to report?”

“It’s amazing. That’s a great finale to the whole thing. Poor Lina . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. “Terrible, but it makes perfect sense.”