“I have something for you, Hazel.” Lavinia waved a hand at two packages that sat on her dining room table. “One I received directly from Maxine the day she fled the Chelsea for California, back in 1950. The other, a porter brought to me this morning. Apparently, Maxine left it on the nightstand last night, with my name on it.”
“Then you should have them.”
“In her note, she insisted they were both meant for you.”
Reluctantly, Hazel took the packages up to her room. For the rest of the day, she ignored them. It wasn’t until the sun began to set that she poured herself a Scotch, untied the string on the package that was noticeably older—the brown paper crinkled and thin—and began to read.
It was the first half of Maxine’s diary, beginning in Naples in 1945, a detailed account of her creative endeavors, both theatrical and treasonous. The other package continued on after her final move to California. It took Hazel a few days to get through all the pages, as she often had to stop and step away, catch her breath. Maxine’s accounts of her triumphs and failures were vivid, her fear leaped off every page. Of being caught, of being discovered. Of losing Hazel’s friendship.
It was almost as if Maxine were still alive.
Hazel always believed, deep down, that they’d find each other again someday. They’d be somewhere around Lavinia’s age, wobbly and croaky, but their prior tribulations would have smoothed over with time, like a rocky shore that’s been reduced to clattering pebbles. Maxine would move back down the hall at the Chelsea Hotel, begging forgiveness at every turn, and Hazel would pretend to hold out, but not really. They’d come back together.
Instead, Maxine had left Hazel alone to try to unravel the truth from the lies. She’d snatched away the possibility of reconciliation, and Hazel wanted to hate her for it. But really, she hated herself, for being cruel and not knowing how broken Maxine was. How desperate.
Hazel sat at her desk, staring dumbly at the sheaf of papers. To think, while Hazel had struggled with writer’s block, her friend had been scribbling away all these years, day after day.
Hazel laughed out loud, the sound a solemn echo.
Maxine had always pushed her to the precipice, whether onto a stage in Naples, or to mount and direct her own play. At the same time, Maxine was pushing herself, straddling two worlds and rising to the top in one while successfully escaping the other. Hazel couldn’t blame Maxine for getting caught up in a cause. After all, she’d done it herself, at Ben’s urging. But Maxine had fallen into a nasty web of characters, while Hazel had not. In spite of it all, Maxine had done what she could to take care of Hazel, including that ham-fisted attempt to protect her on opening night. There were more shades of gray to Maxine’s existence than Hazel had been able to see previously. With this diary, Hazel finally understood the larger struggle beneath the betrayal.
If Maxine were here right now, standing next to her, what would she say?
She’d tell Hazel to stop whining and write another play already. Get on with it, she’d snap, and meet me on the roof at sunset.
Hazel placed her palm on the top page. What a story lived within these words. A rip-roaring plot in three acts: Naples, the McCarthy reign of terror, the tragic aftermath and what could have been.
The last ray of sunlight shone on her typewriter, and she idly tapped the space bar.
What if?
She slid a blank piece of paper into the roller, her hand feeling as if it was being guided by someone else’s. A play in three acts. One that would speak of Maxine’s legacy, both good and bad.
The story of a friendship.
Hazel began typing.
EPILOGUE
The sound of typing draws the ghosts close, watching, nodding. The woman, their newest member, stands apart, weeping. She cries in grief because her absence is so much worse than what she’d escaped. She cries in happiness to see her friend, head bent forward, furiously typing away once again. Her friend would have forgiven her—the ghost understands that now—but it’s too late; they will not embark on this new journey together.
She cries for all the souls of the Chelsea Hotel, who climbed the stairs, opened the door, and found their way home.
As she has now.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For over a decade, beginning in 1947, the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) set out to rid the entertainment industry of suspected communists. The names of individuals accused of being members of the Communist Party were compiled on index cards, a stack that ultimately stretched ten feet high. During those terrible years, careers were derailed, finances drained, and lives destroyed. Although this is a work of fiction, I hewed closely to the stories of several blacklisted artists. For example, much of Hazel’s experience with the HUAC parallels writer/director Lillian Hellman’s, as described in her memoir Scoundrel Time.
The publications Red Channels and Counterattack, as well as the organization American Business Consultants, existed, as did Vince Hartnett and, of course, Roy Cohn. The character of Laurence Butterfield is based on Syracuse grocer Laurence A. Johnson, who threatened to lead boycotts of programs that hired blacklisted artists, demands to which the advertising firms of Madison Avenue readily yielded. The despicable “clearance industry” described in the novel, where artists could pay the people who blacklisted them to get exonerated, is also factual.
Books that proved vital to my research include Inside the Dream Palace by Sherill Tippins; Naming Names by Victor S. Navasky; Unfriendly Witnesses by Milly S. Barranger; Red Spy Queen by Kathryn S. Olmsted; Red Channels: The Bible of Blacklisting by Jason Hill; In the Enemy’s House by Howard Blum; It Happened on Broadway by Myrna Katz Frommer and Harvey Frommer; The Chelsea Affect by Arthur Miller; I Said Yes to Everything: A Memoir by Lee Grant; Just Kids by Patti Smith; and Over Here, Over There by Maxene Andrews and Bill Gilbert.
Despite early threats from the American Legion and the HUAC, New York’s Broadway community proudly welcomed blacklisted artists to continue working in the theater. Many found refuge on the stage as opportunities in film, radio, and television dried up. Still, the impact of the blacklist—the many movies and television programs never made, the careers and lives ruined—is immeasurable, and remains a heartbreaking loss.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Several survivors of the McCarthy era blacklist were kind enough to talk with me about their experiences, and I’m indebted to the late Virginia Robinson, Michael Howard, and Lee Grant for taking the time to recall a turbulent period in their lives. Thanks also to Florie Seery and Jim Joseph from the Manhattan Theatre Club for giving me an insider’s tour of the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre (formerly the Biltmore) and offering a peek into its history. I’m indebted to Sherill Tippins, Gerald Busby, Judith Childs, Patricia Lancaster, Andrew Alpern, Martin Davis, Kathleen Carter, Hannah K. Davey, Madeline Rispoli, Brian and Dilys Davis, Molly Steinblatt, Adam Hobbins, Nikki Terry, and the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.
Huge thanks, as always, to the team at Dutton, including Stephanie Kelly—your creative input is a crucial part of every novel, I’m truly indebted to you—as well as John Parsley, Christine Ball, Amanda Walker, Carrie Swetonic, Alice Dalrymple, Becky Odell, Elina Vaysbeyn, and Christopher Lin. Stefanie Lieberman, I’m so grateful for your wise guidance and generous support. Finally, a shout-out to all the former members of the Willow Cabin Theatre Company for memories and friendships to last a lifetime.