The Chelsea Girls(91)

He turned red. “I work with a small community theater, to be honest. Behind the scenes, not onstage,” he added quickly. “We do four shows a year, and some of them, I must admit, are quite good.”

“I think that’s wonderful. Good for you.”

“Seems neither of us can shake it, Mr. Pear.”

Hazel regarded him anew. Charlie was still full of surprises. “How did you know about that?”

“I’d recognize your particular turn of phrase any day. Your reviews always make me smile.”

The idea that he knew Hazel well enough to recognize her writing gave her a small thrill, but before she could question him further, the curtain rose and the hosts for the evening, Mary Martin and Robert Preston, came out and welcomed the crowd.

Hazel barely heard a word. Right now Maxine was probably getting her makeup touched up in a dressing room, flirting with the stage manager to kill her nerves before presenting whatever award it was she’d be presenting. Ridiculous.

After the first musical number—Joel Grey singing from Cabaret—they paused for a commercial break. Hazel rolled her eyes. “Next thing you know, all the Broadway shows will be televised, and writers will have to add in commercial breaks between scenes.”

“I doubt it will come to that.”

“How do you propose we approach Maxine? What’s your plan?”

“No plan. We’ll find her at the party afterward, at the Plaza, and I’ll pull her aside.” He cocked his head. “You’re going to behave, aren’t you? Don’t mess this up.”

“If you were worried about that, you should’ve come alone.”

“You’re the one who invited me.”

“So basically you’re using me.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “I wanted to see you. That article, the way it described how you’d been treated, it got me boiling with anger.”

“I don’t want people’s pity. I would have preferred to be able to work back when I was inspired and young.”

“You’re far from old. And things seem to be going better for you now, with the revival of the play.”

“I suppose so. Keep in mind the actors in this so-called revival had to compete with the rats for space in the dressing room.”

The ceremonies continued, with Cabaret and The Homecoming garnering most of the big awards.

“And now, we’d like to introduce the shining star Maxine Mead to hand out the award for best actress in a play.” Robert Preston motioned to the wings as Maxine swished out in a dress of silver lamé.

Maxine walked with confidence, her shoulders back. Her hair was longer, wavier, than Hazel remembered. In the past almost two decades, Maxine had carved out a respectable career. Her film with James Mason had been a hit, and since then, her face had graced all the magazine covers—Life, Time, Harper’s Bazaar.

Hazel wished she was sitting farther back. What if Maxine spotted her? While everyone else clapped, Hazel crossed her arms in front of her chest. Charlie gave her a sideways glance, checking in.

Up onstage, the reflected light from Maxine’s dress gave her a shimmering aura. Fake lashes had been plastered on her eyelids, while her lips glistened with a pinker hue than she used to wear. Maxine had kept up with the changing fashions. Yet while age hadn’t been exactly kind to Hazel, Maxine hadn’t been spared either. Her formerly sculpted cheeks were transitioning into jowls, and thin, horizontal wrinkles crisscrossed her neck. Her voice, though, with its familiar raspy tone, brought out of their interment all the memories Hazel had buried. That voice, booming in El Quijote, whispering a snarky comment backstage, speaking German in the radio room in Naples. The voice of a woman she had once adored.

Maxine listed the nominees for leading actress in a play, and called out the winner, Beryl Reid, for her performance in a show called The Killing of Sister George. Hazel had seen it and enjoyed it thoroughly. Nice to know that a play with an all-women cast could hit it big these days.

At the end of Reid’s speech, there was a moment of confusion as Maxine began to lead her offstage but was stopped by Robert Preston. Reid disappeared behind the curtain, while Preston guided Maxine back into the spotlight. A look of bewilderment flashed over Maxine’s face, but she kept a steady smile in spite of whatever glitch had occurred.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to give a special award.” Robert Preston pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

Dear God. Were they going to give Maxine a Tony for gracing their stage with her presence? If so, Hazel would storm off, never mind protocol. She tensed, at the ready. Maxine looked out into the audience with a raised eyebrow, as confused as the rest of them.

He read out loud. “After so many years, today is a day of reckoning. The theater community was, for the most part, unaffected by the terrible events of the blacklist, when the McCarthy era threatened the very creativity and freedom that America stands for.”

The blacklist? If they gave Maxine some kind of award and mentioned the blacklist in the same breath, Hazel wouldn’t storm off, she’d run screaming onto the stage, snatch the award away, and bludgeon Maxine with it.

“What the . . . ?” murmured Charlie.

Preston continued. “Yet while the film, television, and radio industries are best known for coming under direct fire, several of our theater community’s members were also affected. Tonight, we acknowledge them. We acknowledge brilliant artists, like Lavinia Smarts, Lillian Hellman, Uta Hagen, Zero Mostel, and Floyd Jenkins. We acknowledge that they suffered, that they were denied unalienable rights. We acknowledge that a terrible miscarriage of justice took place, and that too few spoke up, spoke out, at the time. Alas, some who’ve been harmed cannot be with us tonight. But we are lucky to have one virtuoso present who stood up to the madness.”