The Chelsea Girls(67)
“What happened?” Hazel knelt down at her friend’s side, one hand on her leg and the other on the back of the chair.
The touch broke Maxine’s fierce defensiveness. Tears fell down her face, streaking her cake foundation. “I forgot one line. Then everything went blank, and then it was like I was paralyzed, frozen in place. Which made me panic even more. I’m so sorry.”
“It was over before you knew it.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course,” lied Hazel.
Maxine grabbed a tissue and wiped her cheeks. “Hey, the play is strong, so maybe the critics will see beneath my flub what a great script it is.”
“Exactly. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Think of all those times in Naples we made stuff up because we’d learned the play the day before and were completely lost.”
Maxine wiped her eyes. “We did, didn’t we? At one point, you did a monologue from George Bernard Shaw to fill the time. The guys loved it.”
“Hey, whatever works. See you at Sardi’s?”
“Thanks, doll. Let me get cleaned up and we’ll drink to Naples.”
Hazel congratulated the cast members she ran into on the stairway, a forced cheer in her voice. Charlie was waiting in the corridor. She craved Charlie’s touch, wanted to fall into his embrace and be comforted instead of having to offer comfort, but that wasn’t possible in public. He smiled at her and offered a “good show,” but they both knew it had been a disaster.
“Have you seen Mr. Canby yet?” she asked him.
“No.”
“Probably ran back to his office to calculate how much money he’ll lose if we get panned.”
“Stop with that. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”
She couldn’t bear it. “Give me a moment, I should see my mother off in a cab.”
She found her in the lobby. Most of the crowd had thinned out, thank goodness.
“My darling. You poor dear.” The words were followed by an awkward hug, but the effect was as if Hazel had been slapped across the face.
Her mother was practically giddy. Hazel realized, in a sickening rush, that tonight’s debacle was everything her mother had dreamed of. Hazel had failed, miserably and publicly, which meant Ruth could come to the rescue and reinsert herself in her daughter’s life.
Hazel desperately wished her father could have attended and blunted the bitter impact of her mother’s joy. As quickly as possible, she shuttled her mother into a taxi, found Charlie, and together they walked to Sardi’s. Charlie didn’t say much but offered his arm, which she gratefully took, happy to feel the connection to him, the strength of his muscles underneath the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. Inside, the cast stood around the bar laughing as if everything were normal. Hazel worked her way into the middle of their group, clinked glasses and wound from one to the next, giving each a nugget of thanks. Same with the crew, from the wardrobe mistress to the stage manager.
Maxine finally arrived, Arthur skulking behind her. She looked radiant in her red wig, the bitterness she’d revealed to Hazel in the dressing room replaced with a wide smile and too-loud laughter. Hazel’s heart went out to her friend. Showing up at the bar tonight and acting happy was sure to be one of the toughest performances she’d ever delivered.
A movement outside the window caught Hazel’s eye. Mr. Canby. He took a pile of newspapers from a messenger and awkwardly tucked them under one arm as he rooted around in his pocket for some change. The messenger sprinted off as Mr. Canby thumbed to the arts section in the first paper. He scanned it, then tossed it in the trash. Same with the next one. And the next.
Hazel slipped out. Charlie was busy chatting with the soundboard operator and didn’t notice her leave.
“Let me read one.”
Mr. Canby whirled around, his face revealing nothing. “These critics know nothing, my dear. Trust me, I’ve been down this road many times before.”
“Are they that bad?”
He didn’t answer. “If you read any of this, the words will be embedded in your head for years to come. You’ll sit down to write another play and this is what you’ll think of. I don’t want to subject you to that kind of torture. You’re a gifted playwright. Go back home tonight and start on your next play.”
“Hand one over.”
He did, finally. She had to see it, had to know what people would be saying about her, thinking about her.
The review belittled her attempt, as a “woman playwright,” to handle a subject as serious as war, although the critic did say several moments in the early scenes held promise. Maxine was taken to task for trying to be a stage actress, when clearly she should stick to movies. Silent ones, preferably.
The door opened and Maxine came out, her wrap slung over one shoulder and a hand on her hip. Ready for a fight. “Let’s have it, then.”
Hazel knew better than to soften the blow for Maxine the way Mr. Canby had done for her. All those qualifiers made it worse. Maxine read through it and handed it back. Hazel couldn’t read her expression. If anything, she seemed almost relieved, the furrows in her forehead smoothed out as she rearranged her fur stole so it sat evenly on both shoulders. She seemed calm, serene.
“Sorry I blew it for you,” Maxine said. “I guess it’s all over now.”
Not the response she’d expected. Hazel stared at Maxine, confused. She wished Charlie were here, so she could get his reaction to Maxine’s lack of one. Something was off, and it wasn’t just the play.