The Chelsea Girls(65)
At five thirty, she knocked on Maxine’s door and they caught a cab uptown. Maxine was unusually quiet, but it made perfect sense that she was nervous. Hazel squeezed her hand. “Here goes nothing.”
“Thank you for this chance. You’ve done so much for me.” Maxine looked down at their clasped hands. She also wore white, in a pale floral pattern. Like two brides off to be married in a dual wedding. In many ways, it was true. The theater was like a church to both of them, a safe haven from the real world.
“Ever since Naples, we’ve been a team, and a good one at that,” said Hazel. “This play wouldn’t be nearly as great with Brandy in your role. Thank goodness you came to New York to save the day.”
“Yes, thank goodness,” she echoed.
Hazel couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to share her news. They’d come so far, from performing on a flatbed truck to mounting a show on a historic Broadway stage, that it seemed a shame to keep her secret on their big night. “There’s something I have to confess to you, the one bright spot in all this negative attention on the show.”
“What’s that?”
“Charlie and I, we’re in love. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but with the play and rehearsals, we were trying to keep it quiet. I know we seem like a mismatched pair, politically, but he’s really open-minded.”
“Really?” She tilted her head.
“You seem skeptical.”
Maxine spoke as if she were choosing her words carefully. “He’s the son of the big bad Butterfield. Maybe it’s smart to stay away from him, at least for the time being.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just think it would be prudent, for now, to stay away from Charlie. You don’t want to muddle things.”
“Charlie’s the one thing in my life that’s not muddled.” Hazel studied her friend. “This is the first time I’ve truly been in love. I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Of course I’m happy.” Maxine hugged her, hard. “Of course.”
Maxine’s obvious reluctance was about more than their superficial mismatch, Hazel was certain. She remembered Floyd’s caricatures in Naples: Hazel as the plain Jane and Maxine as the femme fatale. There was no question that Hazel’s countenance and carriage had changed with her newfound power, augmented by Charlie’s love. She’d finally blossomed. Could Maxine’s status as the most beautiful woman in the room be that easily threatened?
They separated once they arrived at the theater, Maxine to her dressing room and Hazel into the house, where Mr. Canby was looking over the seating arrangements with the press agent.
Opening nights were like high-stakes dinner parties: Where certain reviewers required the best seats, others could be placed a little farther back, all while accommodating backers and industry royalty and hoping that no one left the theater offended before the curtain even lifted. Gossip columnist Walter Winchell needed to be placed far from Dorothy Kilgallen, due to a long-standing feud about who knows what, while Brooks Atkinson, the reviewer for the Times, required an aisle seat not too close to the stage but not too far back, either. At curtain call, the reviewers would scurry up the aisles before the rest of the audience began filing out, in a race to make the late-edition deadline.
All looked good, and Mr. Canby and the press agent headed to the lobby to finalize the last-minute changes with the box office staff. Charlie passed them, shaking Mr. Canby’s hand, and did the same once he reached Hazel.
It was torture, to not be able to kiss properly.
“You look marvelous,” he said. “That dress is beautiful, as are you.”
Charlie looked dashing in his tuxedo, Hazel hated to pull herself away. “I should go see the cast and give them a preshow pep talk.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Right now I’d rather be anywhere else. Seriously, I have half a mind to run down to the basement and curl up in a ball in the corner.”
“Then you’d ruin your pretty dress, and you don’t want that, do you?” He took her arm. “Come with me.”
He pulled her up the stairs to the balcony, to the very back of the theater. In the shadows, he kissed her, long and slow, before drawing her in front of him and wrapping his arms around her waist. They looked over the rows of seats lined up like velvet soldiers down to the set, where the actors warmed up with stretches and vocal exercises, joking around and teasing one another, all in high spirits.
The tensions of opening night had succeeded in finally pulling the company together, in spite of the ongoing blacklist and the various factions that had developed among the cast. For the next three hours, the critics served as a common enemy, uniting all sides.
After the show, they’d all go to Sardi’s, as was expected after an opening, and drink to the show’s success, everyone wide-eyed and buzzed from the excitement as well as the anxiety of waiting for the first reviews. Mr. Canby would meet a messenger on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, get handed a stack of newspapers, and scan through each in search of the theater section. If he entered holding the issues aloft, champagne corks would begin popping. If he tossed them in the trash and came in empty-handed, the party would turn into a wake.
Hazel had to enjoy the moment, this moment. Because anything could happen. She’d done her very best, and that would sustain her.