The Chelsea Girls(90)
Charlie wasn’t letting up. “Your play opened a few weeks later.”
A sharp memory came back to her, clicking into place like one of those View-Master stereoscopes. She was dressing to go out. Maxine was upset. “July third was Maxine’s birthday. She was weepy because Arthur hadn’t reached out to her.”
“I see.” Charlie waited. “Nothing else?”
“We went to an opening of a show, some awful musical revue. I took her to cheer her up.”
“Any sign of Arthur?”
“Later, after the show. We all went to a bistro and had coq au vin.” Hazel gave herself a mental pat on the back for her acuity. “Really, you actually think Maxine was dating a spy?”
As she said the words, a strange feeling ran through Hazel, like a shiver, or a warning. She remembered all the intrigue surrounding Maxine’s relationship with Arthur, the hold he had on her. The bruise. He’d been around that age—mid-thirties—give or take a few years.
No, Charlie was just getting her all worked up again. The idea was ridiculous. “Why don’t you ask Maxine about him? She’s the one who’d know if he seemed spy-like.” Still, after all these years, she couldn’t talk about Maxine without a bolt of fury shooting through her.
“Have you seen or heard from her recently?” asked Charlie.
“No. Not at all. Not once.”
“Right. I’d heard she gave names to Roy Cohn.”
“She certainly did.”
The waiter came by and dropped off the check. Charlie pulled out his wallet and left a few bills. “She’s in town, she’s been asked to present an award at the Tonys on Sunday.”
Hazel’s mouth went dry. She wondered if Lavinia knew and hadn’t told her. “Is that so? She hasn’t been on the stage since Wartime Sonata.”
“She’s a movie star now. Everyone wants a piece of her. Trust me, I’ve been trying to reach her through her agent and her manager to ask her some questions, but can’t get a response for the life of me.”
Hazel stifled the urge to punch Charlie in the face. A movie star. The idea of Maxine being welcomed back by the theater folk she’d betrayed, of all of them applauding while she glided onstage in some fancy gown, smiling and blowing kisses, of Charlie calling her a “movie star,” brought back everything Hazel had held so dear and lost. She’d suffered mightily, and no one cared.
How dare Maxine even show her face? The grudge Hazel had carefully nursed since the blacklist turned malignant and dangerous.
Charlie tucked his wallet into his pocket, oblivious.
Hazel kept her voice even. “I have two tickets to the Tonys. I hadn’t planned on going, but maybe you could speak to her there.”
Maxine wouldn’t get away with it, not this time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hazel
March 1967
What’s with all the cameras?”
Hazel inched a little closer to Charlie as they wended their way down an aisle in the Shubert Theatre, past dapper gentlemen in tuxedos and women dripping with jewels.
“They’re televising the awards for the first time.” Charlie found their seats and led the way into the row.
“So all of America will be watching?”
“I suppose so.”
“Just great. As if Maxine needs more exposure.”
Hazel had been in a foul mood since Charlie had picked her up at the Chelsea. Going to the Tony Awards was a stupid idea on her part. First of all, she didn’t have the right clothes. She’d put on a black satin gown that looked frumpy and out-of-date among the stylish actresses surrounding them. Hazel’s hair was twisted back into a simple bun at the base of her neck, while all the other ladies had their hair teased up into fancy creations that, to Hazel, looked like wigs. What was the point? Just wear a wig.
Second of all, she’d figured their seats would be way up in the top tier, where she could observe the scene from afar. To her shock, they were seated three rows from the stage, right on the aisle.
She craned her neck around and looked up. Both balconies were packed, all the boxes full. So this was what it was like if you made it big. How nice for them all.
“Miss Ripley, I’m so glad you made it.” Jeffrey, the director of Wartime Sonata, swooped over, shaking her hand and introducing himself to Charlie, followed by several other producers doing the same. The bare-bones production of Wartime Sonata in a downtown factory building was all the rage, apparently. Too little, too late, though. Hazel was polite but curt. No doubt some of these folks had been around back in the day and pushed aside the scripts she’d submitted, scared of facing blacklist backlash. Say that three times fast. She chuckled to herself, her nerves rising to the surface.
“You all right?” Charlie asked.
“This is bringing back some strange memories.”
“I had the same thought. At one time, we sat in a theater much like this one and ran the show.”
“We?”
They both laughed. Those days, when they parsed her play against the looming deadline of opening night, were still a bright memory. Hazel hated to admit that she enjoyed sharing an armrest with him again.
“Do you have any new plays up your sleeve, Hazel?”
“Nothing came easy after Wartime Sonata. What about you, you consulting on theater productions in DC?”