The Chelsea Girls(93)
She stepped up to the microphone and took a deep breath.
“Thank you for this remarkable, and surprising, honor.” Her voice rebounded up the balconies, up to the rafters, through the cameras and into the homes of millions of Americans.
For years now, she’d wanted a way to right all the wrongs, an opportunity to be heard. This was it. Maybe Charlie was right. It was a new era, perhaps her anguish hadn’t been for nothing.
“Back in 1950, when Wartime Sonata first graced a Broadway stage, we were young and full of hope. We’d won another world war, defeated the enemy, and were the leaders of democracy, of the free world.”
She didn’t want to lecture. How to make her point, make them understand?
“It’s true that secrets were being ferried out of the country back then, secrets that were shared with the Soviet Union when they should not have been. Brave federal agents hunted for those spies, and they should be commended.” She looked down at Charlie. Again, that empty seat beside him nagged at her. Reminding her of another time, another empty seat. On the third of July.
“But then a terrible infection took hold in America. One of paranoia and witch hunts. Others in politics decided to use the fearmongering as a way to decimate the entertainment industry. They said that communists were poisoning the minds of their children, were out to destroy democracy. And many of you bought the lies.” She looked right into the television camera. “You didn’t question them. You didn’t fight back. You let this happen.
“The entertainment industry was hounded by bullies as the rest of America, including its top newspapers and news organizations, went along for the ride. The press, who should have exposed the contagion for what it was, let it fester for far too long, cowed by the credentials of the bullies in charge. Because of this, we lost a generation of talent. Screenwriters became typists to earn a buck. Brilliant actors sold shoes to make a living. My friend Floyd Jenkins, who had so much hope and promise, was forced out of the career he loved because of an offhand remark, then killed himself.”
Her throat threatened to close up, but she swallowed, took a breath, and kept on. “This is how a society is corrupted, from the inside out. We must make a promise to not ever let this happen again. We must promise to be vigilant against our own worst tendencies. Only by doing so will our country sustain its ideals of freedom.”
She stopped. There was nothing left to say.
The men and women in the audience sat for a moment in silence, before a wall of sound, of cheers and stamping feet and clapping, surged forward.
Hazel looked up into the darkness to the very last row of the top balcony, grateful that her message had been heard.
She heard Charlie give a whistle, the same one he used to catch a cab, and caught his eye and smiled.
Again, the empty seat. On the night that Charlie had asked about, the third of July, Maxine’s birthday, they’d gone to a show. Maxine had been harassed by a fan and seemed out of sorts during the first act, fidgeting in her seat. Then she’d disappeared.
The seat next to Hazel’s had been empty the entire second act. Hazel had emerged from the theater to find Maxine waiting outside. And Arthur right across the street, watching them. Just enough time . . .
No. It couldn’t be.
In shock, Hazel drew back, as if a burst of feedback had screeched out of the microphone that only she could hear. She felt Maxine’s hand on her arm, steadying her.
Maxine leaned close, speaking directly into her ear. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry about all this.”
Hazel couldn’t speak. Sorry for what? For this muddled awards ceremony? Or for worse?
She felt Maxine’s hand on her waist, guiding her off the stage.
“That was a beautiful speech, Hazel,” Maxine said. “You’ve certainly got a way with words.”
Her delivery was wry, playful. She wanted to once again be in Hazel’s good graces now that Hazel was back in fashion.
But Hazel was having none of it.
“I know your secret, Maxine Mead.” Her tongue tasted of metal as she spoke. “I know the truth.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hazel
March 1967
Once backstage, Maxine was swept up in a sea of handlers, leaving Hazel in the wings. Soon enough, though, the stagehands surrounded her, thanking her for her rousing words and shaking her hand. If anything, that was the most gratifying moment so far at this insane awards show, that she’d made the crew proud.
More than ever, Hazel wanted Charlie to have a chance to confront Maxine. Especially now that Hazel had figured out the truth. But any kind of confrontation was sure to be noticed and covered by the press. This had to be played out very carefully.
“Hazel.”
Charlie appeared, and she’d never been more relieved to see his face. She waited until they were safely in a taxi, on their way to the post-awards party at the Plaza Hotel, to fill him in.
“Maxine was part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“Arthur’s spy ring. Silver’s spy ring. Whatever you want to call him. Arthur is Silver, I’m certain. And Maxine was a spy, too.”
Charlie frowned. “Maxine Mead, a spy?”
“That evening, July the third, when we went to the theater, Maxine wasn’t with me the entire time. I only realized it when I was onstage giving my speech and saw the empty seat next to you. I remembered that Maxine never returned after the intermission, leaving me alone for the entire second act. I saw her later, outside. I spotted Arthur across the street, watching us, and insisted we all go to dinner so I could finally meet Maxine’s mysterious beau.”