The Swans of Fifth Avenue

by Melanie Benjamin

  Except by Truman. She had known it from the first moment they’d met, on the plane. Someone had arrived. Someone very important to her. How does one know that, before the first hello? It’s a heaviness in the air combined with a lightness of step. It’s a slowing down of the past, and a speeding up of the future. A desire to both giggle and cry. A table for two, not one. But tucked away in the darkest corner of the restaurant, curtains drawn tight about it, the table groaning with enough wine to loosen tongues and hearts.

  “Don’t air your dirty laundry,” her mother whispered in her ear, one last time, as Babe’s mind finally slowed down, welcoming blanketing, numbing sleep.

  “But Truman doesn’t count,” she protested softly, even in her drowsiness taking care not to disturb a sleeping Bill.

  “Truman. He might be a friend, I think. And I haven’t had a friend in so long.”

  And Babe finally went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  …..

  Tell me about—your first kiss.

  “A boy in second grade.” Babe grinned slyly. “He told me I was too pretty not to kiss, so, of course, I let him! Mother sent me to private girls’ school after that.”

  “A boy in second grade,” Truman said, and cackled. “Me, too! He didn’t tell me I was too pretty. He had no idea what I was doing to him. Neither did I! But I saw his lips, his rosy lips, and I simply had to taste them, to see if they tasted like roses or cherries—something candied. Something sweet. I was hungry for that, for sweetness. In my life.”

  “And did they? Taste sweet?”

  “No. They were lifeless, stunned. Flat as old champagne. It was the greatest disappointment of my childhood.”

  Tell me about—your favorite pet as a child.

  “My dog, Bobo. I loved that dog! He was a black poodle. He wasn’t supposed to sleep with me, but I always snuck him up when no one was looking. Betsey knew, and once, because I’d borrowed a sweater from her and ruined it, she told Mother. Bobo was banished outdoors after that, for good. I guess he ran away. Like most dogs do.” Babe, whose gaze had been so grave and thoughtful, suddenly smiled. “I haven’t thought of Bobo in years. We have English bulldogs now. Bill thinks they’re very chic. Purebred, of course, kept in heated and air-conditioned kennels. I don’t even know all their names. Someone else takes care of them, and brings them in once a day to be petted, maybe walked, if I’m about to take some exercise. It’s not the same, though, at all.” And her eyes widened, as if realizing this for the first time. “We have dogs. But we don’t have pets.”

  “We had so many animals back in Monroeville! Sook had a fat old bird she kept in a cage in the kitchen. I always had a lizard or two in a shoe box. Cats simply draped themselves about the house, on the porch, the windowsills, the eaves and rain barrels. Most everyone had an old hound dog, just because. That’s how the South is. I don’t know that I had a favorite, though. I finally persuaded Jack to let me have a dog about a year ago. Now the dog loves Jack more than he loves me—typical!” Truman laughed, but there was a hollowness to it that made Babe impulsively grasp his hand in sympathy.

  “Why do they always love the one that doesn’t love them?”

  Truman shrugged. “Bitches. We’re all the same, after all.”

  Tell me about—your guiltiest pleasure.

  “Sex,” Truman said immediately, his eyes sparkling. His pink tongue darted between his white teeth, and he licked his lips, as if tasting candy on his own flesh.

  “That doesn’t count,” Babe retorted, squirming slightly even as she managed to look very prissy. Like the most fabulously dressed Puritan, her Roman nose tilted very high, her fastidiously lipsticked mouth pursed. Truman noticed her discomfort. And said nothing, for the time being.

  “All right, then,” he drawled. “Chocolate milk shakes. I adore chocolate milk shakes, with whipped cream and sprinkles.”

  Babe’s eyes widened. “I do, too! Ice cream of any kind! Oh, we should go to Berthillon in Paris sometime!”

  “Paris would be too magnifique with you! We could go to the Latin Quarter and see the most divinely decadent shows, and then go backstage and talk to the girls and boys. I love talking to them. They have the most fascinating stories, you know.”

  “I, well—” Babe frowned. Of course, she could never do that! Bill would have a fit! What if someone recognized her and took her picture? What on earth would people say? Oh, but it would be fun, wouldn’t it? Although entirely out of the question.

  Tell me about—your most amazing accomplishment.

  “It’s not yet happened.” Truman tilted that stubborn chin, steeled those blue eyes. “But it will. The Pulitzer. Of course.”

  “Of course,” Babe agreed, thrilled. That her friend, her intimate new friend, would win a Pulitzer Prize! That she should know someone—be sitting by the side of her pool at Round Hill with him, their bare feet cooling off in the silky water—who was an intellectual, a writer of such stature! How had this happened? No one in her life, save her father, had ever been what you could call an intellectual. Not even Bill, for all that he had accomplished. Bill moved through life like a shark, fueled by sheer instinct. His instincts were sound—miraculous, even—but still. One of his most endearing traits was that he was the first to admit he did not have the kind of mind of, say, an Ed Murrow. That was why Bill worshipped Murrow so, had tried to emulate him to the point of wearing the same trench coat and hat, London-made, when they first became friends during the war.

  But Truman, with his shrewd eyes, his interest in everything yet an ability to home in on the most intriguing, unusual aspect, his talent for understanding people and what made them tick, his vast knowledge of literature and craft, his precise, yet expansive vocabulary—Truman was an intellectual, she was certain of it. An intellectual with a love of gossip and high society and low life, to be sure. But still an intellectual. And he was her friend.

  Hers, not Bill’s. She’d seen him first.

  “My greatest accomplishment?” Babe repeated the question. “My children, of course.”

  “No. That’s bourgeois. No woman should mistake nature for an accomplishment. It’s distasteful, this emphasis on reproduction. It’s biological, and that is all. Besides, I’ve never met your children, so how can you be so proud of them?”

  Babe colored. “I am. All mothers are.”

  “Yet you let others care for them? You leave them all week, while you’re in the city or traveling, and they stay out at Kiluna with their keepers?”

  “It’s better that way, Truman. More stability. And there’s no room for them in the apartment, you know.”

  “And whose idea was that? To live in such a tiny little space with no room for anybody else?”

  “Bill’s,” Babe admitted, her throat suddenly tight, unwilling to allow the disloyal words. “Bill wanted that. It’s close to his office.”

  “What about you?”

  “You don’t understand. Bill needs me, and women always go where they’re needed. I have to take care of him. I have to make sure he eats well, and is entertained, looked after.”

  “Your children need you. They need you to take care of them, even with all the nurses and nannies. Children need their mothers, Babe. Oh, honey, that is one thing I do know!”

  “Stop!” Babe held up her hand, her breath coming heavily, gearing up for flight. “I don’t—how dare you say these things?”

  “I say these things because I’m your friend,” Truman replied with a shrug that threw off her anger and bewilderment—and with a smile that melted the ice threatening to encase her.

  And then she knew, with a clarity that echoed some long-forgotten childhood sense of justice, of knowing right from wrong, because it was the simplest thing, because it was true. She knew that he was right. And that he had the right to say this to her.

  Because Truman is your friend. Truman is a real friend, the only one who has ever talked to you like this. The only one who cares enough to tell you the truth. The only one who wa
nts to see past the surface. This moment is important. It is the template for the rest of your life. Don’t run away from it.

  “I’m not used to having friends,” Babe finally confessed, kicking a foot up so that it broke the surface of the water, like a porpoise. “I have acquaintances.”

  “Not anymore,” Truman said solemnly. He crooked his little finger and held it out to her. “Best friends. Pinkie swear.”

  Babe smiled, and crooked her own finger through his. “Pinkie swear.” Then her heart—that swollen sac of regret—tore, and she felt something slide down her cheek. She swiped away a tear, as astonished to see it as she would have been to see a lizard floating in the clarion-blue pool, as blue as Montego Bay itself, just down the lush, verdant hill. The air was silky, warm on winter-parched skin; Truman was paler than smoke, while Babe’s flesh was tawny, from years spent following the annual migration of her flock—several long stays each winter in the Caribbean, summers in the country, an annual yachting trip in the Mediterranean. A year spent chasing the sun, in golden chariots. “I’ve never done that before—pinkie swear, I mean. Not with my sisters. Not with my children.”

  “There are a lot of things you’ve never done before, but that you’ll do with me. I just know it. We’re good for each other, Bobolink. Perfect, actually. We’re so alike.”

  And Babe, searching the face of her new friend, so brash and confident, yet because he believed in that confidence, touchingly vulnerable, wasn’t so sure. And then, suddenly, she was. Because, of course, that was how she’d recognized him in the first place, when he, all five feet four of him, wrapped in an absurd plaid scarf, his hands nonchalantly in his pockets as he stood in the front of her plane, blinked to adjust his eyesight from the dark outside to the light within.

  He was exactly like her. Rare and exotic and yet so completely messy and ordinary. Disgustingly ordinary. So ordinary that great pains must be taken to disguise the fact, to protect the feelings of those who invested so much in exoticism and perfection.

  How could anyone else but the two of them ever know the cost?

  “Let’s get out of here.” Truman stood up, shook his tiny white feet, and helped Babe rise. “I want to buy you something. A present—it’s only proper. Your hospitality, as advertised, is legendary and I have to pay you back.”

  “No, Truman, you don’t have to. You have already given me more than you can know.”

  Truman threw his arms about her.

  “Of course you’d say that! But still, isn’t there some divinely picturesque market around here? I’ve heard so much about the colorful Jamaicans—I want to see some! It’s exquisite up here on your mountain, but a tad—well, you know.”

  “A tad isolated and exclusive?” Babe laughed; just down the hill from their cottage was Noël Coward’s. And up the hill, Oscar Hammerstein sometimes vacationed. “Yes, there’s a lovely little market down the hill in Montego Bay. I’ll drive—it will be fun. I so rarely get to.”

  Babe went inside the luxurious villa—all filmy white curtains and palm fronds and wicker, but weighed down by English antiques, a nod to the colonial history of the island—to “freshen up.” She emerged minutes later in the chicest pink linen sundress, not flouncy, but a cool column. She had on white leather sandals, carried a straw bag, and had subtly adjusted her makeup so that her lipstick now complemented the pink. She’d brushed some kind of iridescent powder on her cheekbones, to catch the sun. Truman clapped his hands at the sight of her, causing Bill Paley to look up from a hammock on the veranda and grunt.

  “Darling Bill, we’re just going down to the market for a bit. Would you like me to get you anything?”

  “How about some conch? Do we have any of that around? I like those little conch balls that the cook makes, rolled up and fried in that batter.”

  “I’ll make sure you have some for dinner! We’ll be back before then.”

  Babe leaned over to kiss her husband, who said, “Don’t wreck the car,” before he closed his eyes and resumed his nap.

  The warning was not unfounded, Truman soon discovered. Babe was a terrible driver; he found himself clutching the dashboard and squeezing his eyes shut as she took the hairpin corners down the mountain to the bay. They roared past palm trees so fast, they were just blurry giants with fuzzy green hats; the dusty road was full of ruts, which launched the car into the air before it landed with a jolt that caused Truman to bite his tongue, hard, and wince in pain.

  But Babe was jubilant; she had a fierce grin on her face the whole time, and when she roared to a stop outside a small courtyard in the middle of the town of Montego Bay—a collection of cobbled streets and brightly painted buildings—she brushed her hair out of her eyes, adjusted the Gucci scarf about her throat, threw back her head, and laughed.

  “My, that was fun!”

  “I’m glad one of us enjoyed ourselves.” Truman grimaced, gingerly tested his tongue, and Babe instantly stopped laughing. She whipped off her sunglasses and laid a hand on his arm, her gaze grave, a pucker between her eyes.

  “Oh, was my driving terrible? I suppose it was—I don’t get to do it very often. Bill doesn’t think it’s fitting. I’m so, so sorry, Truman. Bill’s right. I never should have driven, because I scared you, and oh, that’s the last thing in the world I want to do!”

  “No, no, it was fine. Really. Just fine.”

  But Babe seemed troubled, and stayed that way as they strolled through the market. It was small, a cluster of stands made out of wooden crates or palm fronds, piles and piles of the most tempting fruit—bananas and papayas and kumquats and peaches and limes and lemons and oranges, ruby grapefruit, pineapples as big as Truman’s head. There were adorable little Jamaican children, their clothes vivid white against their dark skin, dancing around for money. Women in brilliantly colored dresses, turbans on their heads, sat at their stands, spreading their wares; there were scarves and straw hats and bags, gauzy cotton dresses in vivid tropical colors, leather sandals.

  But Babe’s mood remained downcast, despite Truman’s running narrative—“Oh, my, I’ve never seen such fruit, not even down in the Village!” “These little children are simply gorgeous—look at how graceful the girls are, the way they carry themselves, so tall and proud. Mrs. Vreeland would want to collect them all!” “Do you hear that music? It’s Calypso, isn’t it? It reminds me of Harry Belafonte—who is divine, by the way. A gentleman, and a true artist. I’ll introduce you to him.”

  Then Truman stopped in his tracks; they’d come upon a stall overflowing with colorful paper flowers. Blossoms burst out of baskets, carpeted a small rattan table, were pinned to the grinning vendor, covering her so that she looked like a float in the Tournament of Roses Parade.

  “Oh, Babe—look!”

  Babe did; she smiled, but her eyes were dull with remorse.

  “No, I mean really look.” Truman reached up and grabbed her by the shoulders and marched her right into the middle of the stall, so that they were surrounded by cheerful, vibrant flowers. “Now, how can you stand here and not be simply awash in happiness? Just try to frown right now—I dare you, just try it!”

  And Babe did, finally, grin; she began to touch all the flowers, picking them up one by one, and then Truman was doing the same. He proceeded to scoop up huge, messy bouquets and pile them into Babe’s arms, showering her with the delicate, vivid blossoms—there were paper roses and orchids and tulips and impatiens and begonias and poppies, reds and purples and oranges and yellows and greens and blues. Babe began to giggle, and then she was glowing with happiness, her cheeks as colorful as the blossoms. They spilled out of her arms, stuck to her shoulders, her skirt, her shoes, even.

  “Voilà! You are a work of art, darling!”

  “Oh, Truman!” Babe gasped, her eyes wide, crinkling up in pure pleasure.

  “Oh, look—look at this one!” Truman plucked a snow-white rose from her arms. “Do you know what this reminds me of?”

  Babe shook her head.

  “When I w
as a little boy. Back in Monroeville. One Christmas, we had a parade of all the children. We all had to dress up—Nelle and I were stars, twinkling little stars. My cousin Sook made me a white jumpsuit, and she fastened pasteboard points on my head, my arms and legs—the five points of a star. She painted them snow white, as white as this flower. And I was so thrilled, because Sook whispered that my mama and papa were going to come see the parade. Oh, Babe, you don’t know how much that meant to me—I hadn’t seen them, you see, in months! Most of the brats in school didn’t actually believe I had parents, to tell the truth. And so I spent the entire week leading up to the parade telling everyone my parents would be there—why, they were even bringing a talent scout from Hollywood! Just to watch me! Or so I told everyone.” Truman studied the flower in his hands, twirling it.

  Babe stood still, afraid to move. She didn’t want to spill any of the flowers. She didn’t want to break Truman’s spell.

  “Well, anyway,” Truman continued, “the day of the parade, Sook walked me and Nelle to the school, where we were supposed to line up. ‘When will they be here? When?’ I kept asking, and Sook kept shaking her head and saying, ‘Truman, I just don’t know. Soon, I hope. Soon.’ She left me with the teacher, who lined us all up, and then we started walking down Main Street, toward the old courthouse. The high school band was playing Christmas songs, and there was a Santa Claus, and ranks of angels, and then, finally, us stars. I didn’t really concentrate on what I was doing. I just walked along, searching the sidewalks for any sign of my parents. Finally, I saw Sook and Jennie—the other cousin who cared for me. Jennie was scowling, as usual. I never saw that woman smile! But Sook, she just looked so sad, and when she caught my eye, she shook her head. So I knew that my parents weren’t coming, after all.”

  “Oh, Truman!” Babe, her arms still full of flowers, felt helpless to comfort her friend, who looked so young, so vulnerable, a golden wisp, as he twirled the flower, his blue eyes soft, mired in sad memories.