I rose and approached the counter. “Can I get a room?”
He looked at the wall of keys and plucked one from it. “How long you staying?”
“Just for one night.”
“It’ll be twenty-eight dollars and seventeen cents.”
“That seems like a very arbitrary figure.”
“Just saying what’s in the book here.”
“That’s fine.” I pulled the bills out of my wallet and counted out the change.
“You got any luggage? I can call a porter to take it up for you.”
I shook my head. “I’m traveling light these days.” I put my hand in my coat pocket, checking that my second-most important possession was still there. It was. The most important one was in my satcheclass="underline" my diary, which I’d kept writing even after turning over the earlier pages to Lavinia. How ironic that Hazel didn’t write anymore, yet I’d never been able to stop.
“The room’s on the second floor. You can take the elevator or the stairs.”
“I know the way.”
Room 225 was in the west wing of the building, the door located off a side hallway. The hotel had been carved up since I’d been in it, larger suites divided into two—more profit and less space. The chamber lacked all of the glorious details of my old room, with just a twin bed and side table squeezed between two dingy walls. Something sharp had sliced through the lampshade, leaving a six-inch vertical scar. The stained-glass transom above the door was the only reminder of the hotel’s original elegance.
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills, placing them carefully on the side table next to a smudged water glass. I carried the glass down the hallway to the shared bathroom and filled it up to the top.
Then back to my room. All was silent. The night sky outside the window had turned from turgid black to a dark gray. The sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours. I could feel the ghosts of the hotel gathering around me, keeping vigil.
I closed the curtain, a dusty damask that had seen better days, and sat back down on the bed. I undid the bottle, took a couple of pills in my hand, swallowed them down, took a couple of pills, swallowed. Over and over until there were none left. As I lay down on the bed, waiting for whatever was going to come next, a memory of my grandmother giving me a pill when I was sick came back to me. She’d crush the white tablet into a chalky powder and mix it with raspberry jam on a spoon. The pill was bitter, as I’d known it would be, but the sweetness of the berries and the pretty way they glistened on the spoon overrode my distaste.
I wished I had a jar of raspberry jam next to me now. And a spoon to taste it with. If only I had that.
If only.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hazel
March 1967
Hazel put on her most comfortable shoes and skipped the elevator—it was stuck on the second floor again—and instead plodded down the stairs, around and around, her hand gliding along the bannister, to the ground floor. After Charlie had dropped her off in front of the Chelsea last night, she’d yanked off her gown, not even bothering to hang it up. She’d never wear the dress again. It was as though it had been stained by Maxine’s denials and excuses, invisible damage that only Hazel could see. Sleep had finally come as the sun rose, and she’d awakened abruptly at ten to the garish ring of the alarm, checking the hands of the clock in panic, like a schoolgirl who’d missed an exam.
By now Charlie would be with Maxine at the Bureau’s field office in Foley Square.
Walking west until she could go no farther, Hazel turned south, the Hudson River sluicing along on her right and the crumbling elevated highway to her left. Not the most peaceful stroll, but she liked the idea that she was getting some fresh air, even if she was sandwiched between car exhaust and polluted waters.
Before she’d headed out, the phone had rung. It was Stanley, saying that he’d watched the Tonys and loved her speech. She’d thanked him before explaining that she wouldn’t be moving from her room, and that he’d have to find somewhere else to put his rock band.
She was done with getting pushed around, by anyone.
He’d quickly agreed, and asked how Maxine was, said that they’d looked swell together onstage. She’d thanked him and hung up.
Maxine. The panicked look in her eyes last night had haunted Hazel in her sleep. They’d cornered her. What a fall from the brash, brassy woman Hazel had met in Naples, who owned the joint and made no bones about it. The one who fearlessly drove a Jeep into a frenzied crowd in order to save a couple of frightened boys. Whom Hazel had once considered her best friend in the world.
She’d said she thought she was protecting Hazel. The way Maxine spun it, she’d tried to deflect dangerous attention away from Hazel. If only she’d opened up and told Hazel what was going on, about the depths of the abuse by Arthur.
Hazel had witnessed his crass bullying firsthand, and hadn’t done enough. Hadn’t said enough. She should have insisted that Maxine leave him, taken her somewhere safe and out of his clutches. Maybe that would have changed things. But she could never have guessed the wicked winds that were swirling around them both. And Arthur was a master at turning on the charisma, at hiding his true self, just as he’d done over dinner that warm summer evening. All shy smiles and self-flagellation.
Another call came through soon after she hung up with Stanley, this time from her agent, a husky-voiced woman who hadn’t reached out to her in years.
“Do you have a play ready to go? We’re getting lots of inquiries.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The Coast will want to know if you have any screenplays. Do you have any screenplays?”
Hazel had agreed to come in to her office for a meeting that afternoon. Over the past many years, a number of ideas had floated by, before dissipating in a puff of disapproval of her own making. Nothing had clicked. But even with all the newfound approbation, she knew better than to rush the process. She would never be bullied again, either by a movie producer or by a corrupt politician, that much she knew.
Her life hadn’t been the happiest, but it had been full, and Hazel was finally ready to appreciate that. Maxine and Hazel’s early definition of success, which had left Maxine corrupt, lost, and alone, would no longer be hers. This latest interest in Hazel’s work could be as fleeting as the last, but she would do this on her terms, relying on the grit and courage she’d always had, the rest of them be damned.
This time around, she’d please herself first. If that didn’t make the grade with the critics or audience, so be it.
She just needed an idea. A good one.
She also had Charlie back, possibly. Seeing him again had brought on a rush of emotions, one that she’d never felt for any of her other lovers. He’d kissed her lightly on the mouth as he dropped her off.
“You’re remarkable,” he’d said.
“I know,” she responded, which made him laugh. “You are, too, for sticking with this spy hunt for years and years.”
“I knew it was my way back to you.”
But she was getting ahead of herself, thinking about all that. Hazel stopped and stared out at the cliffs of New Jersey. She wondered when she’d hear next from Charlie. Maybe when they took a break for lunch. Turning back home, she picked up the pace.