The Chelsea Girls(55)

This time, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. We lined up in front of Canby, Hazel, and the assistant costume designer. Hazel and Canby walked up and back, examining buttons and silhouettes, whispering with each other, while we all held still. No joking, no banter. All business.

Brandy stood tall, a smug smile on her face, in her tangerine dress. She’d gotten what she’d wanted, after all.

We were finally dismissed, and I lingered around after changing back into my street clothes, hoping to talk to Hazel privately. Charlie Butterfield had arrived, unfortunately. When I came out from the dressing room, Hazel, Canby, and he were talking in the middle of the room.

I barged right up. “How bad is it?”

Canby rubbed his face. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”

Hazel crossed her arms. “Now we have two of us listed. There’s nothing I can do about that, and trust me, I tried to get myself cleared. These charges are baseless.”

Charlie shook his head. “I’ll talk to Hartnett, try to find out what happened.”

We already knew what happened. The scene on the boardwalk with Charlie’s father was the reason for the escalation.

“What about me?” I couldn’t help myself. “I was dragged to some silly rally years ago and that gets shoved in there? We were there for all of five minutes. When I found out what it was, I insisted we leave.”

I wished I could take back the words as soon as I said them.

Hazel glanced over at me. “Can we talk alone for a second?” She held up a finger to Canby and Charlie.

I knew what was coming.

“Was that the rally I saw you at, with my brother?” Hazel kept her voice down as we walked into one of the dressing rooms.

I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t. But she could tell from the look on my face that I had been with Ben.

“This is terrible,” she said. “I hate that he was the one who got you listed.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now, except stay the course and see if this all dies down.”

My words rang a little hollower every time I said them. I felt terrible for Hazel. This should be her shining hour.

Instead, the show’s reputation was being sullied a little more each day.

We took a cab home together, both of us eager to put this day behind us. But as we waited for the elevator, a man who’d been sitting on the lobby’s couch rose and called Hazel’s name.

“Yes?”

“Are you Miss Hazel Ripley?”

“That’s me.”

He handed her an envelope with her name typed on it in capital letters. “I’m here to serve a subpoena from the House Un-American Activities Committee.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


    Hazel


July 1950

After Hazel checked into the Washington, DC, hotel recommended by her lawyer, she put on a silk bathrobe and hung up her dress for the following day. One didn’t want to show up wrinkled in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee. She’d chosen a navy tailored suit with a relaxed silhouette that hit right below the knee, about as generic and unfeminine as one could get. Her aim was to meet the Committee, comprised all of men, of course, on their own level. Be straightforward. Not get pushed around.

Inside, though, she was terrified. If she angered the members of the Committee, her chances of getting the show mounted on Broadway would drop to zero. But if she placated them, she could never live with herself.

Everything had moved at lightning speed since the subpoena had been placed in her hand. She’d gotten the referral for her lawyer, Andrew Z. Stone, Esq., from Mr. Canby the next morning. “You’ll be in good hands with him. He’s an honest man and is agreeable to representing blacklisted artists,” Mr. Canby told her.

When she’d met Mr. Stone in his midtown office a few hours later, he’d made some calls in an attempt to get her a private meeting with the Committee, but had been refused. “In that case, the sooner you appear, the better,” he’d advised. “They’re thirsty for blood, and the longer you put them off, the angrier they’ll become.” The Committee members were feeding on the outrage generated by every appearance, getting nastier and less careful about legal propriety. So she’d agreed to appear the next Monday—the company’s last day off before previews began—in front of a dozen or so politicians, with the press documenting her every word.

Which was the following morning at 11:00 a.m.

A knock at the door broke the silence of the room.

“Who is it?”

“Me.”

She swept open the door and Charlie slipped inside.

“What on earth are you doing here? We said I’d do this on my own.”

He didn’t answer, but held her close. They’d decided after their first night together that the relationship had to be kept under wraps, at least for now, even from close friends like Maxine. No good could come from news of their alliance getting out, not with all the negative attention on Hazel, but they both hated the thought of being apart.

The feel of Charlie’s arms around Hazel made her wilt inside, just when she needed her strength. To let go, and let someone else hold her up, was too much, and she began to sob.

He led her to the sofa and pulled her down beside him, offering up a handkerchief, which she gratefully took.