The Swans of Fifth Avenue

by Melanie Benjamin

  He was at the top of his game, he knew. He’d never doubted he’d be there, not even when he’d been fired from The New Yorker. And he loved a darling man, who loved him in return—in his own gruff way.

  But it wasn’t enough, and late that night, as Truman turned away from a softly snoring Jack, there was a dancing flame inside of him that would not be extinguished, could never be extinguished no matter how many sleeping pills he took. No matter how many times he told himself that it could be lit again by the morning sun. But there was always more. More beauty to be seen, more places to travel, more acclaim to be won. More love to earn, to barter, to exchange or withhold. To miss, always.

  Outside, looking in. Why did he always feel that way, every moment of every day?

  Even when he was at the center of attention, standing at a lectern reading, slicing into a cake with the cover of his book depicted in the icing—it was never completely his. There were always other things going on; two heads bent in conversation in a dark corner of the room; a secret smile between lovers; a peal of laughter prompted by a joke he hadn’t heard. People exchanging telephone numbers—not his. A whispered “I’ll get a taxi for us all,” and suddenly a group of four had vanished with a hurried waggle of their fingers in his direction, blown kisses in perfumed air that never quite reached his cheek.

  Leaving him behind. He was always left behind.

  So he had to try harder. Be more. Be better, more sparkling, more vibrant—a spotlight shining up to the heavens, lighting the dark, drawing everyone to his brilliant beacon. If he only dressed a little more outrageously—why not a velvet cape to go with a velvet suit? If he only danced a little more vigorously—doing the Charleston when everyone else was doing the two-step. If he only leapt into a room, arms outspread, legs kicking up behind him, instead of merely walking into it.

  If he only told the best stories, dished the most delicious gossip, dropped the grandest of names.

  Then, perhaps. Then. Would he truly belong?

  Would Mama come get him so that it would be the two of them, finally? And he would be loved, embraced, and see only pride and understanding in those eyes, those shining, shining eyes, brown, almost black, peering out of a face sculpted out of marble, high cheekbones, aquiline nose, a slender neck, a swan’s neck, black, black eyes like a swan, feathers ruffling, arms beckoning.

  Babe’s eyes. He began to relax, finally, thinking of Babe’s eyes, and how they looked at him, and only him; how they shared a hurt deeper, maybe, than his own.

  And how they might shine with love. True love. True Heart.

  Truman.

  And finally, thankfully, he was asleep.

  —

  BABE, IN HER LOFTY pied-à-terre at the St. Regis hotel, Fifty-fifth and Fifth Avenue, the epicenter of glittering Manhattan, was not.

  Bill, in bed beside her, had taken up the entire mattress with his tall, restless body. Hard, unyielding—and a stranger to her now. Two children together, and that was enough; she didn’t mind that. Two with him, two with Stanley; Babe was a mother of four. Yes, that was enough.

  But Babe, idealized and idolized, perpetually on the “Best Dressed” lists, always mentioned in columns that began, “The most beautiful women in New York,” was not desired by her own husband. Oh, yes—coveted, perhaps. Prized. Displayed, like one of his Picassos. “Mr. and Mrs. William S. Paley,” dazzling together at charity events, balls, highly sought after at dinner parties.

  But Babe was not desired. Holding herself still, so stiff and light she wondered if she even made an imprint on the mattress, she knew only rejection, colder than the air conditioner blowing stale Manhattan air over her body. Bill hadn’t reached for her tonight, as he hadn’t last night, nor any night that she could remember. It wasn’t as if sex was something she craved; frankly, sex with Bill was strictly a one-sided affair. She couldn’t even remember it, to tell the truth—no real details, no exquisite rapture, no lovely, sated feeling after. But rejection is rejection is rejection, as Gertrude Stein might have said. And the truth was that Bill Paley rejected his own wife’s body, if not her needs. Babe! Beautiful Babe! Rejected like a common wallflower by her own husband, whose roving eye was legendary.

  She thought bitterly of those who had wanted her. Condé Nast, back when she worked for Vogue. How many times had he chased her around his desk? And he was quite handsome for his age, she could now realize. Very trim, sharply chiseled features. But at the time she thought him absurd, old enough to be her grandfather.

  And Serge! Serge Obolensky! She’d adored Serge, loved his passion, his exoticism—a real Russian prince!—yet he was so courtly. Quite old-fashioned, yet so dashingly handsome with that little brush of a mustache that tickled; suddenly Babe couldn’t keep still on her side of the bed. She squirmed, flexed her toes, stretched her hamstrings, turned over so that her pelvis pressed into the mattress, remembering how Serge kissed her one day, the two of them lying, entwined, upon a gorgeous velvet swooning couch in his apartment. A kiss so deep, stirring so many yearnings. And she would have given in to them, too, had she been able to stifle her mother’s voice in her head.

  But that she could never do. “Sit up straight.” “Don’t fidget.” “Write a thank-you note the minute you receive a gift or return home from a party.” “Always have fresh flowers, no matter the cost.” “Clean gloves and shoes are the sign of a lady.” “Never let the help get the upper hand.” “Be discreet.” “Be above gossip.”

  “Be a perfect little angel for Papa, because he’s so rarely home, and when he is, he wants to see only the very best of you.” “Be a perfect little debutante because sister Betsey is now married to the president’s son.” “Be a perfect little wife to Stanley, because he’s old money, Tuxedo Park.”

  “Be a perfect wife to Bill, even if he is a Jew. Because that’s what he’s paying for, and if you’re not perfect, he’ll replace you so fast your head will spin, and then where will you be? Divorced twice, with four children and no money of your own.”

  “Be perfect. Because that’s what people expect of you now. Because what are you, if not that? Who are you?”

  Perfect. Babe must be perfect, in every way. She had been born to be a rich man’s wife, decorative, an asset. She never remembered being allowed to dream of anything else. When she was very small, Betsey and Minnie—Minnie nine years older, Betsey seven—allowed her to play at being a flower girl for their fabulously staged weddings. It was the only pretend play that her mother sanctioned. “Now let Babe catch the bouquet,” her mother would admonish her older sisters. “Babe has to catch the bouquet, so that she’ll be next.”

  Babe didn’t want to catch the bouquet. She wanted to pretend that she was someone else—Odeal, that was the name she told her brothers and sisters to call her, while she pretended to be an ordinary scullery maid, dirtying her hands, calling them “m’lord” and “m’lady” in a terrible cockney accent. Odeal was an orphan, admired by all for her pluck and wit.

  But her mother was so furious, she forbade anyone to talk to Babe while she was pretending to be Odeal. “Do not encourage her,” her mother hissed. “We can’t have that kind of behavior. What will people think?”

  Babe gave up being Odeal, after a while. She couldn’t remember just when her imagination left her, flew away like a bird; she just knew she was happy being alone, in her own dreamy world, for a time. And then she was not; she missed her sisters telling her what to do, her brothers coaxing her along in their games. She burned with shame at the dinner table, when no one would speak to her or pass her the salt. So she gave it up, and accepted that she was Babe, only Babe. She would never be anyone else, anything other than what her mother wanted for her. She willed herself not to imagine or dream, because there was no profit in it. The only profit was in being the best, most perfect little girl in the world, then the best, most perfect debutante, then the best, most perfect wife. Because if she wasn’t perfect, precisely who others expected her to be, no one would talk to her. Or even ack
nowledge her existence. She would simply wink out, disappear like a vapor.

  All that energy she’d had as a child, as Odeal—she remembered running just to feel the wind blow through her hair; she recalled rolling down a hill, miraculously not getting grass stains on her dress, and she was so thankful for that, she never did it again, but oh, the dizziness! The delicious head rush, the scratching of twigs against her cheek, the feeling that the sky was on the bottom and the earth was on top but she remained where she was, by some mysterious force called gravity—all that energy, she learned to channel into the one thing she could count on, as her mother drilled her over and over. Her face, her appearance, her decorative quality. Her mother never stinted on praise when it came to how Babe looked, if her clothes were neat and pressed, if her skin was clear and her cheeks flushed and her hair glossy. If she attracted the stares of the rich young men she met at her sisters’ parties and dances.

  Even now, now that she was forty and Gogs was dead, she felt the heavy weight of her mother’s admonitions, her quick disapproval, her religious appreciation of beauty and grace and manners. The pulse-racing terror that if she didn’t live up to everyone’s expectations, she would be shunned, abandoned. So Babe had to rise early, long before Bill, to put on her makeup and take out her hairpins, so he would see her at her absolute best when he awoke. As he always had, and always would. And to tell the truth, she was dependent on her cosmetics as others might be dependent on alcohol, in a tactile, pleasurable way. She loved the faint, flowery smell of her favorite blush; she delighted in the heavy silver of the brushes, the silkiness of the bristles against her skin. She enjoyed applying foundation, personally mixed for her by Elizabeth Arden herself, taking the sponge and dabbing it on her skin, each dab like a scale of armor, of power. She never grew tired of seeing her cheekbones come into sculpted glory with each swipe of the brush; she stared into the mirror as she blended and stroked and dabbed, and little by little, like pointillism, her face, the face she knew and depended on, emerged into a complete portrait. Perfection.

  No one had ever seen her without makeup. Not even Bill on their wedding night. Just the thought of showing a bare face to the world—Babe squirmed again, turning away from Bill as if he could read her thoughts and might wake up, despite the fact that he was still snoring steadily. This was one reason why she didn’t like the tiny apartment at the St. Regis; she and Bill had to share a bed, as there were only three rooms. At least at Kiluna, and the summer house up in New Hampshire, and in Round Hill, their place in Jamaica, they had separate bedrooms. So there was never a chance he might awaken in the middle of the night and see her naked, exposed: imperfect.

  Had she ever loved Bill enough to show him her true self? Had she ever loved anyone? Or was this another of her defects, something else to hide from the world beneath the latest Chanel jacket? She didn’t know if she loved her husband, although she appreciated him, and enjoyed his company, and ached to be touched by him, noticed, wanted for something other than being a very glamorous concierge.

  Which was what Babe was, really.

  And so, every morning, her makeup and hair immaculate, clad in a fresh negligee and fabulous quilted housecoat, she sat at her desk and compiled her lists. First, she planned all the day’s meals, resigning herself to hours of scavenging in the most obscure markets for some new, exotic vegetable or fruit to tempt him. Bill loved food, had a voracious appetite, ate several meals a day. She had to make sure they were memorable, each and every one. Seated at the dinner table, she took notes in her custom-made palm-sized notebook from Tiffany’s, jotting down Bill’s comments about the food, what he liked, what he didn’t. So that next time, she would not repeat any mistakes.

  She had lists pertaining to clothes—Bill’s blue suit needed its buttons tightened. His shoes needed polishing. Her coats needed storing. The lace on her negligees needed repairing.

  Her mind, even knowing how early she had to rise, was a list now, as she rolled back on her side, gingerly, so as not to disturb her husband. Tomorrow night was dinner at Quo Vadis with the Guinnesses. Bill wanted her to pick him up at the office before. She must send the chauffeur out to buy supplies to take back to Kiluna this weekend: mundane, necessary supplies such as toilet paper and cleaning sprays and new hand towels for all the guest bathrooms—supplies Bill would never imagine needed to be procured. His hand reached—for a bar of soap, a paper clip, a length of toilet paper to wipe his ass. And it was there. Because of her, Babe, concierge extraordinaire. And he never, ever thanked her for it.

  She began to grind her teeth, even as her mind raced on. Her hair needed to be done by Kenneth tomorrow, before the weekend. The Agnellis had had to cancel their visit to Kiluna, so she must find a replacement couple, because Bill couldn’t stand it if the house was less than full, the weekend less than jam-packed with activities. If he despised anything more than pontificating newsmen and disgruntled advertisers, it was boredom. Which reminded her, she must buy a new pair of tennis shoes because she’d torn her old ones playing softball last weekend. Every Saturday, either the Paleys or the Whitneys—sister Betsey and her husband, Jock, whose weekend home was adjacent to the Paleys’ in Manhasset, Long Island—hosted a softball game for their combined guests.

  Softball. Babe wrinkled her nose. She detested the sport, but Bill didn’t know. He’d never know, for she played it determinedly, a serene smile on her face, taking care not to get dirt on her pressed dungarees or muss up her makeup, which she had to set with a spritz of water to ensure it would last outside. How she’d torn her tennis shoes, she had no idea, but after the game, as they all sat out on the veranda with tall, cool drinks—Pimm’s Cups—she’d noticed it and quickly excused herself to go change, before Bill or anyone else could see.

  Truman had immediately followed her, though. He’d played surprisingly well, fielding balls with a fawnlike grace, and Bill had even given him a rare “atta boy!” when he’d hit a home run. But she’d known that Truman had detested playing as much as she had; they’d exchanged looks in the outfield. He’d made such a funny, wry face that she’d laughed out loud.

  Truman.

  He’d join them again this weekend; he’d promised, crossing his heart as solemnly as a child. And the realization finally allowed her to relax her limbs, so stiff her joints ached; her jaw, too, was released so that she was no longer grinding her false teeth, a necessity after that long-ago car accident—Babe shuddered at the memory, still. Always. Her hand reached up to trace a line along her jaw, where the skin was just slightly tougher, imperceptibly raised; her neck began to throb, reminded of how long she’d had to hold it still in that hospital bed, not move a muscle, or else. “Don’t you want to look as beautiful as before, Babe? Hold still, or you’ll scar even more. And we can’t have that, can we, dear? Your face is your fortune.”

  Who’d said that? Papa or Mother? It was so long ago. The scars remained, though. Only Babe had ever seen them. And her teeth—oh, how she hated having false teeth! It was so cruel to be reminded of the inevitability of old age, teeth in a glass, when you’re only nineteen, as she had been. And no matter how much she spent, how many new dentists she saw, the teeth were always the same. They ached incessantly, rubbing against her gums, forcing her to nibble at food; she’d not bitten into an apple since before the accident. She had no choice but to sleep in them, whenever Bill shared her bed.

  But, of course, he didn’t. Not in the most intimate sense, the most coveted, beloved sense. And no one knew this. No one. She was lonely in her own home, in her own bed—in her own skin—and she couldn’t tell a soul. “Don’t air your dirty laundry outside the family,” Mother had said a million times.

  But Truman. Did he suspect? The way he looked at her, adoringly—but more. Or was it less? Sympathetically. Understandingly. He’d actually taken the time, that first weekend at Kiluna, to write down a reading list for her—suspecting the truth. That Babe was unfinished, as most decorative objects are; scratch the surface and all you see is a bla
nk piece of porcelain or a canvas. And that she was ashamed of it, deep down.

  “Just for you, Bobolink. I think you would enjoy these books. A mind, a heart, can’t be neglected.”

  How did he know? They’d not discussed much of anything, beyond his childhood. After Bill had come home, and she hadn’t been ready for him, the rest of the weekend had passed in a blur of company and arrangements, meals and games and drinks and minor crises, like the mystifying disappearance of one of the game cups for the Parcheesi set, a dress strap of Slim’s breaking, requiring a last-minute stitching before Saturday’s dinner. She and Truman hadn’t had another opportunity for conversation, although she had longed for it the entire weekend.

  And yet, before he left, he’d presented her with this reading list; Madame Bovary had been underlined twice. His eyes, behind the thick black-framed spectacles he wore while reading, were preternaturally wise and solemn, studying her as she scanned the list. Seeing right through her—the makeup, the clothes she’d picked out so carefully. He didn’t notice all that, didn’t care for it, except to admire her artistry. But surface wasn’t what mattered, not to Truman. Was it?

  She wished that it wasn’t. She shut her eyes, determined to dream that it wasn’t. For Babe longed to confide—her true self, her hopes, her fears, yes, even her imperfections, Odeal in middle age—in someone; she yearned for it so desperately that her heart swelled with pent-up fears and frustrations to the point where she wondered if it could be seen beneath her tailored shirts and couture dresses, this pulsating, swollen, disgusting sac of desire. If the world only knew! Perfect Babe. Full of ugliness on the inside, teetering on the side of her bed, unable to sleep; unloved, unwanted.