“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.”
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.