The Chelsea Girls(51)
Halfway across the boardwalk I stopped, bringing the other two to a halt. “Well, look who it is.”
Charlie Butterfield stood beside a small stand where a sign proclaimed CONTEST CONDIMENTS SPONSORED BY BUTTERFIELD SUPERMARKETS. He caught sight of us around the same time I did him. For a minute, I thought he was going to slink away, but instead he nodded and straightened up.
“Who’s that?” asked Arthur, the edge coming back into his voice.
“That’s my shadow,” said Hazel.
“Shadow?”
I filled Arthur in as we approached. Arthur stuck out his hand and shook Charlie’s as Hazel made introductions.
“You here shilling for your dad?” I asked.
Charlie, to his credit, looked miserable. “We do this every year on the Fourth of July, it’s a family tradition.”
“I bet it is.” I glanced down at the pamphlets scattered on the stand’s countertop: Americans, Don’t Patronize Reds, screamed the headline. No doubt Mr. Butterfield considered the Fourth of July the perfect day to promote his nasty cause.
I plucked one from the pile and read it out loud. “The Reds of Hollywood and Broadway have always been the chief financial support of Communist propaganda in America. Right now, films are being made to glorify Marxism and being piped into your living room via your TV set, and poisoning the minds of your children under your very eyes. Really, Charlie?”
Before he could reply, the elder Mr. Butterfield and his mousy wife came into view, Mr. Butterfield’s face as red as a tomato. I whispered a warning to Hazel. “That’s Charlie’s father.”
When Mr. Butterfield spotted me, he let go of his wife’s arm and straightened his tie.
“How do you all know each other?” Mr. Butterfield waggled a thick finger at us. He shuddered—actually shuddered—when told who Hazel was.
Charlie stammered out an answer. “Um, I’ve been assigned by Mr. Hartnett to keep an eye out on the production of Wartime Sonata.”
“Wartime what?” bellowed Mr. Butterfield.
“The play that Miss Ripley is directing and Miss Mead is acting in.”
“That travesty. I’m sorry, what exactly does ‘keeping an eye out’ entail?” Mr. Butterfield stuck his chin forward.
Charlie hadn’t told his dad what he was up to, and I almost felt sorry for him. “I make sure there’s nothing subversive going on and report back to Mr. Hartnett what I observe.” He dug his hands deep into his pockets, like a teenager who’d come in late for curfew.
“You’re saying that Hartnett is paying you to watch a play all day?” He let out a spiteful laugh. “I get you that job and you end up flitting around with theater folk? Again?”
Next to me, I could sense Arthur surveilling the scene, figuring out how to play it. “I respect what you’re doing, Mr. Butterfield,” he said. “You never know what’s around the corner, what’s going to happen in the international scene, never mind the domestic one. I respect the fact that we have to put up barricades against the communists. No one is safe.”
I thought right there and then Hazel was going to lose her mind. I put a hand on her arm, warning her to step down, let Arthur do his thing. There was no point getting this guy’s nose all out of joint, it would only harm the play.
“I think we’re all on the side of America,” Hazel said.
“Don’t assume anything, little missy,” said Mr. Butterfield. He turned to Charlie. “So this is why Hartnett told me to ease up on that play? Wish I’d known. You can find your own ride back to the city. I don’t want you in my car.”
Charlie’s mother, who so far hadn’t said a word, looked from her husband to her son, concerned. “Larry, no.”
Charlie kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll take the subway. Go with him, Mom.”
Hazel glared after the pair as they walked away. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but your father’s a bully.”
“You showed admirable restraint,” I said to Hazel. “You could have taken the Coke bottle and smashed it over his head. But you didn’t.”
Arthur put an arm around my waist. “By the way, I know I laid it on pretty thick with the rah-rah America stuff. I hope you know I was only trying to help you girls.”
“Why did you encourage him, Arthur?” Hazel said. “Do you actually think he’s right?”
“These days, you’ve got to be flexible, not make waves. I got him to back down, didn’t I? Isn’t that what we all wanted?”
“I disagree completely.” Hazel was stone-faced. “And I don’t think he was placated. Far from it.”
I pointed up. “Hey, let’s all hit the Cyclone. Think of the sea breezes up at the top. I think we all could use some cooling off.” Anything to stop this conversation.
Charlie and Hazel exchanged a look.
“We’ll wait here,” she finally said. “I don’t think my stomach can manage it.”
Hazel had bragged on the flight home from Naples that she had a stomach of steel, as the rest of us turned green after a turbulent takeoff. No doubt she was covering for Charlie, who probably wasn’t able to go on it because of his fits. She’d realized it right off and made up an excuse so he wouldn’t lose face in front of Arthur. Why she cared so much about the guy baffled, and worried, me.