The train of thought shuddered to a stop. The other big reason people got on the blacklist was because they were in a union. All of the Hollywood Ten screenwriters weren’t just suspected Communists. They had also been active in the Screen Writers Guild, which the studio heads loathed more than a poor box office return. Phoebe wasn’t a member—she was still too lowly even for Writers Guild membership—but during the war, at the airfield, she’d helped organize a union to fight for equal pay. It had infuriated the bosses, and memories could be long. Maybe someone somewhere did read the show’s credits. Though anyone could lose any job if they were fingered as a subversive.
Of course, it doesn’t have to be the bosses. It could be Dolores Goldstein. It could be any one of them.
Phoebe gripped the edge of the little table. She knew it made her look weak, but she’d look worse if she fainted, or asked to sit down, or threw up. None of that could happen. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose control right now.
Hank’s touch on her arm jolted her back into the moment. It was a kind touch, solicitous. She felt herself exhale. Hank would still fight for her.
“Sure, of course, we can’t have the wrong sort of people on staff,” Hank said. She knew he was just trying to mollify the producer, beginning with a hedge. A smart move that did nothing to abate her chills. “I’ve worked with Phoebe a long time, she’s always been a good kid. Maybe there’s something we can do to sort this out?” But he wasn’t saying this was madness. He wasn’t saying it was wrong.
Mr. Kelvin turned jovial again and waved a piece of paper at Hank.
“I thought you might say that. I was sent this to offer her to sign.” (Phoebe noted automatically the man was talking about her, not to her.)
He laid the paper on the table and Phoebe read the heading. A loyalty oath.
“More and more are signing them these days,” Mr. Kelvin said conversationally. He might have been talking about a new style of hat. “High school kids, if they want to graduate. Workers. Probably it’ll be everyone, soon.”
Phoebe glanced at Hank again. She didn’t know if she was looking for his approval or for him to say if he’d signed such an oath. His face was carefully blank.
She gripped the pen. She could not lose her livelihood, she could not be blacklisted from the industry. She could not have her name destroyed. If there was only herself to consider, that might be one thing, but there was Mona.
Mona. She read ten newspapers a day, and a story just a few weeks ago about loyalty oaths had sent her into a lather. “That’s something Stalin would make people sign, isn’t it, and then throw them in the gulag anyway because their handwriting wasn’t nice enough.” Which was easy for Mona to say, because she wasn’t out in the world, and the hospital staff liked her and could shrug off “subversive talk” as the ramblings of someone ill and unlikely to live much longer, things they’d said about Mona for the last fifteen years.
She’ll understand. She won’t want to risk being booted to a state institution. Anyway, I am a loyal American, so what difference does it make?
Phoebe didn’t bother to read the paper. She gripped the pen tightly, forcing her hand to stay still. Then she looked into Mr. Kelvin’s eyes.
“And this will clear my name?” she asked. “I’ll have my job?”
Mr. Kelvin threw back his head and laughed again. Phoebe felt like she was the hero in a bad horror movie, confronting an evil villain.
“Don’t you read the papers, sweetheart? I’d have thought anyone who knew they were in danger of being blacklisted would know this score. We can’t have you back till the boys at HUAC or the FBI or wherever say you’re clean. Worst case, you go for one of those Congressional hearings, but you’d be a good girl, right, play smarter than those Ten boys and keep yourself out of prison.”
The pen fell out of her hand. She gazed back down at the oath. She should sign it. A drowning person grabs what they’re handed. But it was saying they had a right to force her to do this, to effectively admit she was guilty of something she wasn’t. She didn’t give a fig about politics, she’d always said so. But this was different. This was her name.
“Phoebe.” Hank’s voice was low, both a question and an urging, though it was impossible that he was suggesting she go through with this. She looked at him, seeing her own trapped expression reflected in his eyes. Whosever side he was on, she couldn’t guess, and he couldn’t say.
She turned back to Mr. Kelvin. “I think I’d better get some advice first.”
He smiled broadly. “Well, well. I must say, I thought if we’d ever get a Red, it’d be a man. Please leave the building. I’m assuming I don’t need to have you escorted out.” That was meant to be kind. A favor, a final shred of dignity he was allowing her. She knew she was supposed to be grateful.
“I can walk just fine on my own, thanks,” she said, but with nothing like her usual swagger. It was hard to talk after being sucker punched in the gut.
“I’ll see you out,” Hank said. Probably this was also meant to be kind.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said stiffly. She had to move fast, before she lost control and started to cry. She turned and saw that the actors and crew had all edged as close as they dared to the proceedings, attracted by a drama in real life.
She locked eyes with a pale, openmouthed Geraldine. Phoebe knew it would be dangerous to acknowledge their friendship, dangerous and unfair. But she wanted to assure Geraldine what no one else there, except hopefully Hank, knew. That she didn’t deserve what was happening to her.
Phoebe stepped forward, and the little group took several giant steps back.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Phoebe boomed. “I don’t have the plague.”
“But you are a dirty Red,” Geraldine said. “The sooner you’re gone, the better.”
Phoebe knew now that she was wrong. What she’d thought was a sucker punch was nothing compared to this. She bit her lip and turned away from all those eyes, then walked as quickly as she could without looking as if she was running. She didn’t feel herself breathe again until she was out on Sixth Avenue.
She stormed down four blocks, but could still hear it. Dirty Red. What an extraordinary way to slap a person across the face without raising a hand. Geraldine would remember this feeling of power forever, would use it in her acting till her last job. Phoebe understood. It was known they were friends. Geraldine had a lot to lose. She had to make a stand, make her own position clear. Now she would be admired instead of suspected. Whereas Phoebe would just be dirty.
It was apt. She had never felt so dirty, like all her skin needed to be scraped off before she could feel human again. “Red” was accurate too. The color of humiliation. The scarlet letter.