The Chelsea Girls(64)
I swallowed. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m opening a play in three days. I know you want the reviews to be raves, and it’s a big role. Let’s just focus on that for now, all right?”
The man picked up his plate and tossed it into the sink, the sound of it shattering echoed in the tight room. No one moved. “Your first priority is the Party. You seem to be forgetting that fact, Miss Mead.”
“No, I’m not at all.” My denial sounded thin, even to me. “I’m simply trying to do what you’ve asked of me.”
Arthur pointed a finger in my face. “I’m not sure where you stand anymore. You and Hazel are joined at the hip these days. I don’t like it.”
“Really, Arthur,” said the woman, “first Caroline, now Maxine? Your track record with your agents is certainly problematic.”
I sat frozen in place, digesting this piece of information. I’d figured Arthur’s wife’s illness had developed out of the stress of being an agent. Not everyone was cut out for the job, and her psychological weakness certainly fed my own ego. But had she in fact turned on the Party, questioned her role? Was she mad, or had she been silenced?
The woman went to the sink, picked up the broken plate pieces, and threw them in a garbage can. When she was done, she brushed her hands together. I got the impression that she was the toughest of the three, her face pinched and mean.
“You’ve done so much for us already, Miss Mead.” She said the words without a hint of gratitude. “We are all indebted to your support and good work over the many years. So many years. Perhaps once this is all over, you deserve a reward, not a punishment.”
Arthur’s eyebrows raised.
She continued. “A journey to the Soviet Union, where you will be lauded and heralded and can continue your good work for us. We should have done so with Julius, but we left it too late. We ought to learn from our mistakes.”
They all observed me for my reaction to this glorious invitation. Go to Russia, a country I’d never been to and whose language I didn’t speak. This was a warning wrapped up in a big pink ribbon. The bologna sandwich in my stomach threatened to come back up. I coughed, covering my mouth as I did so, trying to rearrange my expression into something unreadable. I was an actress, after all. This was what I did for a living. But with someone else’s words. I didn’t usually have to be playwright, director, and actress on the spot.
I had to respond appropriately, make them believe me.
So I drew on a tried-and-true theater technique, sense memory. I thought back to a time when I was happy as a child, when I felt safe. My grandmother and I used to pick mushrooms on the shores of a lake near our house. We’d come home and sauté them in butter, and the crunch and savory flavor of the dish made me swoon with delight. I could practically taste the mushroom on my tongue and, like magic, a peaceful calm swept over me. I raised my head up high and let my shoulders fall. “I would be thrilled to accept such an honor.”
The woman seemed flustered. “You would?”
“Of course.” The words came out strong and sure. Confident. “The Party has been my family for many years now, and I’m here to do whatever you need, in whatever capacity you require.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.”
I silently gave thanks for my profession.
“Still, I like this idea of a distracting scandal. If we haven’t heard back about the movie by Friday, let’s use it to our advantage.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Arthur straightened, eager to prove his own loyalty. “We set up Charlie Butterfield and Hazel Ripley in a compromising position—no doubt Maxine can pull that off—and expose the fact that Butterfield’s son is sleeping with an accused communist who’s written a play that the Feds hate. The press will go mad at their hypocrisy, particularly if the show’s a big hit.”
And no doubt the show would close. Hazel would lose everything: her name, her livelihood.
The woman smiled, pleased. Arthur had redeemed himself. “Report back through the usual channels.”
I stayed silent during the long ride back to the city.
What had I done?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hazel
July 1950
Five hours to go until opening night. Hazel stared at the gown hanging from her closet door, the one Maxine had insisted she buy during a Bergdorf’s shopping spree a couple of weeks ago. It wasn’t her usual style, which was a subdued color and cut. This was flashy, more like something Maxine would wear, and she’d tried it on only because Maxine had insisted. Strapless, white satin with a tulle overlay that faded from black to pink and scalloped edging, it shouted, Look at me!
“I simply won’t allow you to show up as Hayseed Hazel for your Broadway debut,” Maxine had declared. “This dress is perfect for who you are now: Hazel Ripley, director and playwright.”
Hazel had bought it, happy that it came with a matching tulle shawl. Add long white gloves and she wouldn’t feel quite so conspicuous. Hopefully.
There was nothing more she could do. At this point in the game, her job as writer and director was over. It was up to the cast and crew to pull off the show, and then keep on doing it for however long Mr. Canby allowed it to run.
Hazel’s mother was coming to the show tonight, and she couldn’t wait for her to see the marquee with her name in huge red letters: “Wartime Sonata by Hazel Ripley.” Evidence of her success that was irrefutable, finally.