The Chelsea Girls(92)

Maxine looked as if she were going to crack wide open, her smile turned to fear. Hazel’s heart pounded, and she gripped Charlie’s hand, as if that might stop what was coming.

Preston chuckled merrily. “I actually have two special announcements to make. First of all—breaking news, folks—I was informed earlier this evening that the acclaimed revival of Wartime Sonata will return to the Great White Way next season.”

Hazel had known the producers were trying to raise the money for a Broadway transfer, but had written it off to the misguided enthusiasm of neophytes. Very rarely would a play make such a leap, hardly ever. Yet they’d pulled it off. The audience erupted in applause. Her mind reeled, trying to process the unexpected good news. This was why Lavinia had insisted Hazel take the tickets.

Preston gestured to Maxine. “Even better, we’re lucky enough to have the star of the original cast here to present a special award. Once again, Maxine Mead.”

He handed the paper he’d been reading from to Maxine, who took it with shaking hands.

She scanned it and then looked out into the audience with a half smile. “Actors hate it when the playwright changes the script right before a performance. Or during.”

The audience laughed as the mood in the room shifted, curious to know what was next.

Maxine took a deep breath. “For valor and strength in terrible circumstances, the American Theatre Wing would like to award a special Tony Award to the playwright, and my friend . . .” Her voice cracked on the last word.

This was spiraling out of control, not at all what Hazel wanted. It was all a terrible mistake, a terrible mess.

Maxine looked out into the audience like a prisoner of war.

“Miss Hazel Ripley.”



* * *





Hazel turned to Charlie, confused.

What is going on? she mouthed.

Around them, people clapped and cheered.

“You’ve got to go up and say something,” Charlie finally said.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

She couldn’t hear his reply, the noise of the crowd was too much. He helped her rise to her feet. Once out of her seat, she located the stairs with what felt like tunnel vision, focusing only on what was directly in front of her. If she looked up, she feared she might trip or freeze. She didn’t want to go up on that stage, up to Maxine. Everything about this was wrong.

Trumpets blared a generic melody as she climbed the steps while holding her skirt in one hand, her mind racing. How could they have put her on the spot like this? They thought this was some kind of honor? That shaggy-haired director, she was certain, was behind all this. A way to get his show an injection of publicity. And a way for all of these people, the ones clapping until their hands hurt, to feel better about themselves for staying quiet when they should have stood up for justice when it mattered, or others who’d turned in their colleagues and stolen careers out from under them.

She wondered if Lavinia had been in on this. Over the years, Lavinia had inquired about the rift between Hazel and Maxine, gently encouraging Hazel to reach out and forgive her friend. But Hazel had shut down any further discussion, and eventually Lavinia had stopped bringing it up.

The stage. She’d made it. Maxine stood to the side of the thin microphone, clapping her hands. Another woman handed a small plaque to Maxine, who in turn handed it to Hazel, their fingers not touching.

The solidity and weight of the plaque helped ground Hazel. The applause didn’t die down; in fact, it grew even louder as the audience rose from their seats. A standing ovation. Well, isn’t that something?

For years now, in spite of the success she’d achieved as a reviewer, and in spite of the life she’d made for herself at the Chelsea, Hazel still walked around with a ball of fury deep within her, like a cancer. Fury that she’d never again had the chance to achieve much of anything on the stage, after so much early promise.

Unexpectedly, tears sprang to Hazel’s eyes. Looking out at these strangers, who stood cheering her on, acknowledging her existence for the first time in seventeen years, Hazel realized that her fury was in fact grief. Terrible, inconsolable grief, at what could have been. At the loss of her best friend, and her theater family, in one fell swoop.

She swore she wouldn’t break, she wouldn’t let them see her pain. She’d lived with it this long. But looking out over the crowd who’d gathered tonight to celebrate the splendid world of live theater, in all its eccentric, superstitious glory, her heart broke. She stifled a sob with her hand, the suffering of so many years now evident to all.

Which only made them applaud harder.

Hazel looked down at Charlie, who stood with the rest of them, his face beaming. Maxine waited awkwardly by Hazel’s side. They should kiss or embrace or something, that’s what the crowd wanted. Two best friends, reunited after all these years.

Hazel turned to look at Maxine, who had that same silly smile on her face, but her eyes revealed fear. Fear of what Hazel was going to do next: Would she play the game? Or attack her on live television?

Hazel’s fingers itched. She’d heard that expression a thousand times before but never really understood it until now. They itched to physically hurt this woman who’d betrayed her so terribly. Who’d left her behind. Who was a traitor.

As the cheering finally died down, Hazel looked out to Charlie again. He was sitting back down, her empty seat beside him. Something about that unsettled Hazel, but before she had a chance to figure out why, she heard Maxine weeping beside her, her mouth a grimace. The ugly show of emotion dried up Hazel’s own tears in a flash. Leave it to Maxine to draw focus on herself when this was supposed to be Hazel’s moment. Chewing the scenery, as always. Hazel refused to be upstaged, not this time.