The Chelsea Girls(68)
In Naples, Maxine had been the strong one, the unflappable one. It was hard to believe that the opening of a play on Broadway had thrown her. Even in rehearsal, when she forgot a line, she’d blithely play through it until she found her way. Until opening night.
But the pressure had been enormous, on both of them.
“They didn’t like either of us, so you didn’t blow it alone,” offered Hazel. “They’d probably have hated the play no matter how splendidly you performed the role.”
“We can’t control the critics.” Mr. Canby balled up the last newspaper and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “I’m glad I took the risk on you both, and I don’t regret a thing.”
“Do you think word of mouth might make up for the reviews?” Hazel knew she came off as desperate, but had to ask.
“Not in July. Sorry, kid.”
Maxine rejoined the party, but Hazel wanted to get home. Charlie insisted on coming up, and as she sat on the sofa, her head resting on his shoulder, staring out into the night sky, she was glad he had.
“Well, that’s that, then.” She sighed. “My show was a bust.”
“So was Arthur Miller’s Broadway debut. The Man Who Had All the Luck closed after four performances. You’re in good company.”
She had to laugh. “How do you know that?”
“Because I went to the last performance.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Look, I know right now the bad reviews sting, but I have no doubt that you will write another play and get it up on Broadway, just like Miller. In the meantime, I’ll take care of you.” He cleared his throat. “I have some news.”
“What’s that?”
“I got my conditional letter of acceptance. They said my test scores were through the roof, which means with time, I might get a shot at the Soviet Espionage squad. It’s about as far from American Business Consultants as you can get. No more bungling amateurs, this is the real deal.”
She blinked. “You mean you’re joining the FBI?”
“Yes. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
His enthusiasm stunned her. “You should turn it down.”
“What? I can’t do that.”
“Can’t, or won’t? Stop trying to impress your father, running around after spies that don’t exist.”
He drew back, defensive. “We’ve been over this, Hazel, they do exist. That’s been proven. Just look at Julius Rosenberg. Sure, the HUAC is barking up the wrong tree, going after actors and writers, but our country’s secrets are being stolen. If more get into the hands of the Soviets, we’ll be in big trouble. We’re already in deep trouble, to be perfectly honest. Don’t you want someone like me on the inside, someone who sees the big picture? By going after the actual spies, I can put a stop to this insane focus on entertainers.”
A primal anger surged through her. She had to protect herself. Everyone was a suspect, anyone might betray her. Including Charlie. Maxine had been right. “You’re not on my side. If you were, you’d walk away from your job and your father. Now. This very moment.”
“Look, we’re both under a great deal of pressure. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared, but you don’t have to do that. Let things unfold as they will. I promise you, it will all work out.”
“What makes you think we could be together once you’re in the FBI? Federal agents aren’t allowed to be with blacklisted actors.”
“Maybe not at first, sure, but I promise you this witch hunt will pass over.”
“In what? One year? Five? Ten? I can’t believe I almost bought into your story. If you really love me, you’ll tell me right now that you’ll turn it down.”
He pulled away. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Then you should go.”
He tried, once more, to convince her, but the words meant nothing.
She sat, arms and legs crossed, fuming, until the door clicked softly shut.
Then she burst into tears. She walked over to the living room window and wept, letting the sounds and smells of New York wash over her through the open window, a reminder that she was just one of many who’d tried and failed, who’d been decimated by the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Maxine
July 22, 1950
After getting the bad news from Mr. Canby and Hazel, I re-joined what was left of the cast party. Arthur hovered behind me, trailing me wherever I went, and I purposely ignored him and flirted with others, laughing too loudly and letting my hand linger too long on the stage manager’s arm. I took whatever champagne was offered and downed it fast, knowing that it was the only way to blunt what was ahead.
“Let’s go.”
Arthur at least let me bid goodbye to the group before yanking me out into the street and gripping my arm hard as we waited for a cab to pull over. When one finally did, he opened the door and shoved me inside, to the point that a man walking by called out, “Hey, that’s no way to treat a lady.” Arthur ignored him, went around to the other side, and directed the cabbie uptown.
I’d hoped he’d wait until we got wherever we were headed to start in on me, but his anger boiled over, fueled by our close proximity.