She’d come this far, and her only goal over the next few days was to rework the play, following this new inspiration. That accomplishment might spur her on to pursue a different path, a way out of the grind of playing barn animals on the radio. Once the play was ready, she even might work up the courage to gather together some actor friends to read through it, and get a sense of what worked and what didn’t. For now, though, in the quiet of her room, she would take it page by page.
On Hazel’s second day at the Chelsea Hotel, a desk clerk called her over as she entered the lobby on her way back from a quick lunch at the corner Automat. She’d been up all night, fueled by coffee and the words that tumbled out of her fingers onto the pages, and was eager to get back to work.
“Miss Ripley? You have a message.” He plucked a piece of paper from one of the cubbyholes.
It was an invitation to a cocktail party later that evening, up on the seventh floor, signed Miss Lavinia Smarts.
The actress who knew Maxine. “I’ve never met her. How does she know who I am?” she asked the clerk.
The clerk laughed. “Mr. Bard, of course. He’s been talking you up all around the place. As our new writer in residence.”
Considering Mr. Bard had never read a page she’d written, his enthusiasm was certainly misplaced. Still, she couldn’t help but puff up a little.
She’d planned on writing all evening. Going to a party might disrupt the flow of creativity that had invigorated her the past two days, the clacking of the typewriter the only sound other than the honks from the cars far below. Her revisions were almost complete.
The clerk shook his head, as if reading her mind. “Best not to decline. There are rules of etiquette at the Chelsea, you know.”
“What rules?”
“One never knocks on the door of a room during the day, when the writers are writing or the artists are at work. Instead, messages should be left down here. Once evening falls, all rules are off and you’ll find folks tripping from room to room as if it’s Mardi Gras. Oh, and never turn down an invitation from Miss Smarts.”
“I won’t know anyone. I’m not sure I’ll fit in.”
“You do already, my dear.”
She wasn’t sure from his raised eyebrow whether that was a good or a bad thing, but she decided she must attend. It would give her a good story to tell, and who knows who she’d meet? A few hours later, after another furious bout of writing, Hazel reluctantly pulled herself away. She put on her favorite lilac dress and powdered her nose before taking the elevator up to the seventh floor.
The party was already in full swing. Miss Smarts’s apartment was similar in layout to her own, but in the center of the salon stood a grand piano, piled with sheets of music spilling onto the floor around it. A drink was placed in her hand without her asking—a martini—and she made her way to a velvet couch, hoping to observe the goings-on without having to interact.
No luck.
Two older women, identical twins wearing matching dresses and bright pink shoes, plunked down on either side of Hazel and introduced themselves as Winnifred on the left and Wanda to her right. “You’re the new writer Mr. Bard is talking about, right?”
“News spreads fast.”
“Sure does,” said Winnifred. “We’ve lived here for ages. Anything you want to know, just ask us.”
Hazel looked about. “Where’s Lavinia Smarts?”
“She likes to make a grand entrance once the party’s in high gear,” answered Wanda. “In the meantime, let me tell you who is here. That man over there is Virgil Thomson, the composer.”
She pointed to a pear-shaped man standing by the piano, with a wide forehead and a grim look on his face. He was listening to an older man, handsome, who Hazel recognized as a well-regarded artist. “Is that the painter John Sloan?”
Winnifred gestured around the room, beaming like a proud mother. “She’s full of famous people.”
“The hotel, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
The Chelsea Hotel. A “she,” like a lumbering redbrick ship filled with foolish dreamers.
Hazel would have to use the phrase somewhere in her work.
“Oh no, watch out for fireworks.” Wanda and Winnifred spoke in tandem and giggled at each other.
“You dare to show your face, Ben Stolberg!” The words came from a woman of around seventy who appeared from the bedroom, with thick, swept-up hair and a profile that belonged on a Greek coin. Even though her skin was wrinkled and stippled with age spots, her mouth was still generous and her eyes a vivid green, matching the wrap that she tossed dramatically over one shoulder. Lavinia Smarts was even taller in person than she appeared onstage, a fact that surprised Hazel.
Miss Smarts glared at a man who’d just arrived through the front door and looked to be in his late fifties. The man opened his mouth to offer a retort, but someone turned up the music, so Hazel couldn’t hear his reply.
Wanda shouted into Hazel’s ear. “That’s your hostess, Lavinia Smarts. She and Ben are always at each other’s throats.”
“Why?”
“Politics. When things get crazy, everyone goes up to the roof to avoid getting decked by a flying ashtray.”
The music grew even louder, the sounds of violins drowning out any attempt at conversation. Across the room the argument carried on, like a silent movie. Hazel secretly rooted for Lavinia Smarts to win.
“Lavinia Smarts was a communist but is now a socialist,” shouted Wanda. “That’s what the fight’s all about. Ben Stolberg finds her political views abhorrent, whether communist or socialist.”
“He hates all ‘ists,’ really,” added her sister.
“Are you a communist?” Wanda asked politely when the orchestral music quieted down.
Hazel didn’t answer outright. “Why?”
“We have a number of them organizing on the first floor, if you’re interested.”
The thought made her smile. “Back in the day, my brother was active in the CPUSA. I went along for the ride, really.” Ben had joined the Communist Party of the USA in the thirties, after droning on and on at home about the imbalance of wealth during the Depression and the rise of fascism in Europe. He’d call her into his room to read from some Communist text or other, and she’d sit at the end of his bed, cross-legged, nodding as if she understood but really just enjoying his attention. He’d had the lashes of a girl, long and lovely, but the rest of him was all boyish exuberance, quoting Karl Marx the same way he’d once carried on about the Hardy Boys mysteries.
“I suppose everyone has a right to an opinion,” offered Hazel to the twins.
“Maybe not for long.”
Wanda had a point. In the years since the war had ended, political sentiment in the United States had turned hard to the right. Mr. Stolberg turned off the record player with a sharp scrape that made Hazel put her hands to her ears.
“Listen, Miss Smarts,” he said. “You want to know why the Screen Actors Guild insists that all members take an oath of loyalty? Because the entertainment industry is filled with pinkos.”
Miss Smarts wasn’t cowed. “Says who? Joseph McCarthy? He’s just making it up as he goes along. How can you not see that?”
Mr. Stolberg wagged a plump finger in her face. “The commie spies have already made inroads throughout America. It’s only a matter of time before they take over and destroy democracy forever. We must fight back.”
“How? By invading Korea? It’s on the other side of the world, for God’s sake. It has nothing to do with us.” She looked around the room, currying support, and Hazel nodded vigorously.