The Chelsea Girls(76)
She opened the door in her silky robe just as Charlie ventured into the living room, half his shirt unbuttoned, not yet tucked in. Instead of seeing Maxine, Hazel was blinded by the flash of several cameras. She blinked, uncomprehending.
“Miss Ripley, who’s your mystery pal?”
A reporter, pad in hand, leaned in. More flashes. Hazel stuck up her hand, trying to ward them off, before slamming the door, hard, putting her back against it. Charlie, all color drained from his face, began to shake.
The flashes had set off another fit. She rushed to him, crying out his name over and over again, as they slid to the floor in a crush.
* * *
Hazel and Lavinia scuttled through the tunnel that connected the hotel to the brownstone, following the stretcher where Charlie lay, falling in and out of consciousness. Up in Hazel’s room, as Charlie’s body flailed with no sign of subsiding, she’d managed to grab the phone and reach Lavinia, who’d immediately taken charge: calling for an ambulance, ordering the porters to toss out the press, and relaying the address of the brownstone on Twenty-Second Street so as not to attract attention.
The two women followed the ambulance in a taxi to the hospital, where they waited for an hour before being told that they wouldn’t be permitted to see him, but that he had stabilized and his family had been notified. Hazel stayed cooped up in the hotel all weekend, waiting for Charlie’s call and leaving notes for Maxine, but not hearing a peep in return.
The photos in the newspapers on Friday had been damning. Hazel’s loosely tied robe revealed an unseemly amount of cleavage—but not enough to keep it from being published—while Charlie stood behind her, buttoning up his shirt with an astonished expression on his face, tufts of hair sticking up, proof of their recent roll in the hay. COMMIE CHASER CAUGHT WITH COMMIE SYMPATHIZER, blared the headline. The article described Charlie as an employee of American Business Consultants, and the son of Laurence Butterfield.
The damage had been done. Over the weekend, Hazel tried to reach out to several of the actors from the play, who might understand her explanation, and had been rebuffed at every turn. Her mother had shaken her head with disdain, and refused to discuss the matter. Only Hazel’s neighbors at the Chelsea carried on as they always did. Thank goodness she lived here, where being ostracized at one time or another by the outside world was simply part of living an artistic life, something to be expected, if you were doing your job well.
Most everyone else had turned their backs on her because, in their minds, she was a traitor for being associated with American Business Consultants. Her theater family had no use for her, and her testimony in Washington had displeased all the right-wingers. She’d managed to be vilified by both ends of the political spectrum, no easy feat.
She had her part in it, of course. She should never have dallied with Charlie. A terrible idea from the start, but one she did not regret. He’d reach out to her as soon as the noise died down. Once he was back on his feet.
Finally, on Monday, Maxine reappeared and agreed to meet her at El Quijote.
Hazel slipped down to the lobby and through the side door that connected the restaurant to the hotel, grateful to avoid going outside. Mr. Bard had warned her the press was still gathered on the sidewalk, hoping for another ambush.
Maxine was already seated at a table in one of the back rooms. The place was empty save for the waiters, who couldn’t care less about the political leanings of their customers as long as they tipped well. Maxine looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes, and gave Hazel an awkward hug. “It’s awful, what they’ve done to you. I’m terribly sorry that I was away, and I have to go back tomorrow. I hate that I’m abandoning you in your moment of need. I really do.”
“Are you going with Arthur?” Hazel had to ask.
“No. Definitely not. How’s Charlie?”
“Who knows, now that he’s back in his father’s clutches? I thought he might have called by now. It’s been four days.” She took a deep breath, trying not to cry. “Maybe, since my life has come to a screeching halt, I’ll come out and stay with you in California. I could use a change of scenery.”
“Sure. But you’ll muddle through, I know you will.”
Not exactly a warm invitation. The waiter approached with coffee.
Hazel waited to continue until he’d poured two cups and was out of earshot. “What made you send Charlie to me last week? I have to ask.”
“What do you mean?” Maxine poured sugar into her cup and stirred it.
“You looked so relieved when I told you we’d broken up, I was surprised, that’s all. It seemed like you were trying to set us back up together, which was sweet. I wanted to thank you for doing that. It worked, until the press caught wind of it.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. How did I send him back to you?”
“With your note. He came rushing over as soon as he got it.”
“My note?”
It was as though they were speaking two different languages. “Yes. It was on your stationery, with that big flowery M at the top, and said that he had to come to me right away or something like that.”
“Do you still have the note?”
Hazel considered it. “The maids came on Saturday, so probably not.”
“I didn’t write that note.”