The Swans of Fifth Avenue

by Melanie Benjamin

  “Then why don’t you?” Truman felt he had to at least pretend to be affronted. Bill wouldn’t respect him if he didn’t.

  “It’s distasteful to be direct in this matter, I’ve found. Girls don’t like it so much. They like to be wooed, to think they’re special. And they need time to come around to the idea themselves.”

  “Bill Paley. The world’s greatest lover.” Truman arched an eyebrow, and Bill laughed.

  “Okay, okay. I just fancy that little blonde. I like blondes, all right? I like them dishy and squishy and blond and pale. And earthy. I like earthy, in bed.”

  “Same here. We’re a lot alike, you know.”

  “What?” Bill was startled; he nearly spilled his drink as his face paled.

  “Well, for instance. Clubs.” Truman cocked his head and gestured around him. “There are certain clubs neither one of us can get into. Am I right?”

  Bill’s face hardened, but he nodded. Truman had heard about the awful debacle after Phil Graham had nominated Bill for membership in the F Street Club in Washington; Graham had been told, in no uncertain terms, that they did not accept members of the Hebrew race. Not even those in charge of immense media empires.

  “And we both enjoy earthy—lovers.”

  Bill again nodded. Carefully.

  “And we both love Babe. Or, at least, I do.”

  “Of course I love my wife.” Bill sipped his drink slowly, deliberately placing it back down upon the ring of condensation. “I don’t want you to make a big deal out of this, because it’s not one. If you don’t want to, fine. But we’re friends, and friends do each other favors.”

  “There are favors, and then there are favors.”

  “Look at it this way. If you take care of this, find me a nice girl who won’t make a fuss—as I’ve unfortunately experienced in the past—it would make everyone involved happy. Everyone. We would be keeping it in the family, in a way. And I’m sure you know how much that means to us. Keeping it quiet. Not inviting a mess.”

  “Yes, I know how much that means to—us.”

  “Truman, you’re a levelheaded man. You also know some interesting people, particularly women. You have a lot of influence over them. And I’m very generous; I’m always eager to help those who help me. But as I said, it’s up to you.”

  Bill’s eyes had taken on that reptilian look; he leaned back and gazed at Truman steadily, coldly. Truman had no idea what the man was thinking.

  Then Bill leaned forward and clapped Truman on the shoulder. “I just thought of another way we’re alike,” he said with a conspiratorial grin. And despite himself, Truman was thrilled to see it; thrilled to see that William S. Paley thought of him as his equal. His pal. A real boy. The old experience in military school, the old wound of never being man enough—God, it was tiring, wasn’t it, how these things took roost and never, ever left? Like squatters. Yes. The traumas of childhood were like squatters. They took advantage of negligence, weakness, until the point where you couldn’t imagine your life being whole without them.

  “How?” Truman asked with a melancholy sigh. “How are we both alike?”

  “We’re both collectors. Collectors of women. You and your—what do you call them, Babe and her friends? Your swans?”

  “Ah, but this is where we’re different,” Truman replied with a cool smile.

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t treat them like shit.”

  Bill, who had been about to take another drink, froze. He sat for a minute—an eternal, bone-rattling minute—staring at Truman, his eyes betraying no emotion, no anger—but no friendliness, either. Then Bill rose abruptly, told him he had to meet a sponsor for dinner but Truman should take his time and linger, if he wanted. And then he was gone, with a quick but crushing handshake.

  Truman watched him stride out of the room. Then he did take his time finishing his drink. He wasn’t going to be hurried by any insufferable waiters’ stares or whispers by shocked members. Right now he belonged here, with them, with men who controlled empires, who hobnobbed with presidents and kings. Men who needed him. Men who asked him to do them manly favors.

  But then he felt his face burn; he was being ridiculous. He didn’t want to be these men, not really, for their lives were much more deceitful, full of darker corners where no light ever shone, than his. He was better than them, yes, he was; he had a desperate urge to jump up on the table and scream, “Yes, I’m a homosexual! And I’ve invaded your clubhouse, and you can’t do a damn thing about it! Does anyone want to take a picture, you men with your obsession with giant clubs and little balls?”

  He chuckled to himself, wishing with every outrageous cashmere fiber of his being that he could do so. But he couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t. It was his choice, not theirs.

  But he did take his time with his drink, inciting the maximum amount of discomfort possible. And on his way out, he whispered in the ear of the man he had seen dancing with the Puerto Rican, “Your secret’s safe with me, darling.”

  But when he left, he had asked himself the question he hadn’t quite asked Bill Paley.

  What about Babe?

  Was it a betrayal to help her husband cheat on her? Well, yes. At its essence, it was.

  But Bill was his friend, too. Bill was going to cheat on Babe with or without Truman’s help; he’d been doing it for years. Babe knew it. Hell, the entire city knew it.

  Bill cheated on Babe and Slim cheated on Leland and Gianni cheated on Marella and Gloria cheated on Loel and Loel cheated on Gloria—and Loel had cheated on Gloria with Pam Churchill, come to think of it—and Truman, yes, cheated on Jack and Jack cheated on him. But it wasn’t cheating for the two of them because they both knew about each other’s conquests, discussed them in detail. The thing is, though, everyone stayed together. Everyone, for the most part, behaved, kept it quiet, out of their social circle—don’t shit in your backyard, Slim had once advised to him cryptically, her eyes red.

  Everyone came home to each other, at the end of the day, and sailed out into the world and had their photographs taken together—Mr. and Mrs. William S. Paley at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, celebrating the opening of a new wing. Because that was what mattered, that was what counted.

  And if he, Truman, could keep Bill happy so that he would keep coming home to Babe, who would be devastated if he ever did anything so old-fashioned as to divorce her, as Leland was apparently going to do to Slim, then wasn’t Truman performing a good deed?

  Wasn’t he being a real man, helping out another man?

  Wasn’t he being a true, loyal friend to Babe, ensuring that at least Bill wasn’t going to get the clap, and wouldn’t he be there for her, always, whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart and glue them together in a beautiful mosaic, something as glittering and gay and gorgeous as she was, giving her back her heart as a present? One that she would cherish forever, and be reminded of him—Truman—every single day that lovely heart beat gallantly, and never, ever hurt or leave him? And love him, love him as he deserved to be loved, finally?

  Yes. Yes, that was it. He was doing it for Babe.

  So he called up his longtime friend Carol Marcus Saroyan Saroyan (for she’d married Bill Saroyan twice) Matthau and invited her to lunch at 21. And after they had finished their salads, he asked her, “Do you know Bill Paley?”

  Carol, an ice-cream blonde, all melting curves, creamy skin, and big, brown little girl eyes, shuddered. She and Truman had been friends ever since they were children, neglected children of Manhattan mothers clawing to gain a foothold in society. Carol was built for men; she was a vessel for every lustful thought, sentimental notion, they possessed. Truman was quite upset that she’d recently married some poor actor—Matthau what’s-his-name—instead of marrying into money. It seemed a colossal waste of assets, pure and simple.

  “Bill Paley?” Carol pouted. “Yes, I know him. Slightly. He chased me around a table once.”

  “Every man wi
th a pulse has chased you around a table once, baby doll.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You must have made an impression, because Bill asked me about you. He wanted you to know that he thinks you’re extremely special. His ideal, I believe is how he put it.”

  “So?” Carol barely touched the Manhattan in front of her, other than to suck on the cherry, like Lolita.

  “He would be quite honored if you’d consent to be his guest at dinner some evening. Soon. Just the two of you, of course. A quiet tête-à-tête.”

  “He wants to seduce me?”

  “Well, I’m not sure Bill is much of a seducer, darling. He’s more of a ‘launch an offensive’ kind of man, I suspect. After all, he’s friends with Eisenhower.”

  “Those World War Two men! They never stop preparing for battle.”

  “No, they don’t. But to get to the matter at hand, dearest Carol, I know you’re just mad about this actor of yours—although, for the life of me, I can’t understand why—but I thought this would be good for you. Bill can pull some strings, of course; he’s a very influential man in the industry. And really, he’s quite enamored. You’re just his type.”

  “Married?”

  “Silly! No, blond and dishy.”

  “He’s married to Babe, for God’s sake! Babe Paley! I couldn’t even come close to her—look at me!” And Carol gestured to her frilly peasant dress, the type she liked to wear in order to emphasize her femininity. Truman was tired of trying to get her into more tailored, stylish clothes; he’d simply given up on it.

  “Darling, Babe is perfection. And my dearest angel of a friend, so you must know how this pains me. But between you and me, Babe and Bill—well, they aren’t exactly intimate in that way. You know these jet-setting married couples! They are very his and hers. It’s in their blue-blooded DNA.”

  “No, Truman, I won’t do it. Tell Bill Paley to—well, tell him to do whatever you think he should do, but I’m not going to be his conquest. I like Babe. I admire her.”

  “Yes, I foresee that’s going to be the trouble,” Truman agreed sadly. “Most of the women I know do. What about your dearest friend Gloria? Gloria Vanderbilt? She’s not exactly Paley’s type, but she might do. Do you think she’d be interested?”

  “Truman, dear, listen to me.” Carol rose, reaching for her handbag, leaving Truman the check. He was very generous to his longtime friends, those whose star hadn’t risen to his heights. He was always happy to pay.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be a pimp. It doesn’t suit you. You’re too short.”

  Truman clapped his hands delightedly and reared his head back, roaring with laughter.

  “Oh, Carol, you are divine!”

  He was still laughing as Carol traipsed out of the restaurant. But he also still had a problem. Until he saw Pamela Churchill enter the room and spot him seated alone at his table. She broke into her fake smile, her British teeth perfectly capped, courtesy of one lover or another. Truman couldn’t help but appreciate her porcelain British complexion, but that dress! Satin in the daytime? God, the woman really was just a common tart dressed up in sheep’s clothing—he couldn’t believe that anyone would be serious about marrying her. She’d been kept by every important man alive—Gianni Agnelli, Averell Harriman, a Rothschild or two. Even Paley had paid for her, during the war, or so the rumor went—when he wasn’t sharing her with Ed Murrow. And now, Leland Hayward—

  She saw him, waved regally, and started his way.

  “Pamela! Darling! You look divine!”

  “Oh, Truman, you love,” Pamela murmured in her posh British accent. She exuded her famous charm; she fluttered her eyelids at him like a baby lamb, blushed like a schoolgirl, made him feel as if he were the only man in the world for her.

  Truman appreciated the effort; he had to admire the woman for putting on the full act for him, knowing quite well he’d never take her to bed. Or buy her a piece of jewelry.

  “I was just going, sweetheart of mine, but do have a wonderful lunch, won’t you?”

  “I’m meeting Leland,” she purred. “He simply can’t allow me out of his sight for a minute! The poor man was absolutely neglected by Slim, who is a darling girl, but a trifle flighty.”

  “He’s a wise man,” Truman replied, wagging his finger at her naughtily. Pamela giggled, and he paid his check, kissed her on the cheek, and left.

  It was raining, a chill fall afternoon, the kind that made even Fifth Avenue look sordid and cheap, the sidewalks slick and carpeted with matted, moldy newspapers and trash. People were in a hurry to be anywhere but outside, so he found himself bumped by passing shoulders, poked at with umbrellas. But he walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed, glasses blurry, streaked with rain. And by the time he got to the Waldorf, his mind was made up; he removed his coat, shook his head like a spaniel, dried his glasses, and took the elevator up to a top floor. Then he knocked on a door.

  “Truman!”

  “Big Mama! You poor darling!”

  Slim Hawks Hayward looked awful. Simply awful. She had lost weight—living up to her nickname for the first time in years—but it made her look haggard, and not sleek and feline, as she’d been in her youth. Her hair was quite unkempt: stringy, and not freshly colored, so that you could see the darker roots coming in. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses, as she did most everywhere these days, and so he could see that her eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

  “Now, Big Mama, you haven’t been crying, have you? Over that son of a bitch? For shame!”

  “No, I haven’t. Not since breakfast, anyway. And by the way, come in.”

  “Dearest, I just had to tell you. I saw Pamela at lunch. I cut her dead, of course. Out of loyalty to my Big Mama! I just cut that thing dead. Dead as a doornail.”

  “Were that the literal truth.” Slim, clad in an oversized man’s shirt with the initials LH embroidered on the pocket, and dungarees that hung on her, walked over to the sofa and picked up a cigarette that was burning in an ashtray.

  “Oh, Slim!” Truman’s eyes filled with tears, to behold what she was reduced to. Living in a suite at the Waldorf, wearing her soon-to-be ex-husband’s clothing. It might as well have been a hair shirt.

  Slim was always the most vibrant of the swans. She had such a sense of humor, such a genuine love of life. She’d traveled with him back to the Soviet Union a couple years ago, when he was thinking of writing a follow-up article to The Muses Are Heard. She’d managed to rustle up Cary Grant to come along, too. Cary Grant! Slim Hayward! Truman Capote! A merry band of travelers!

  Except that Cary Grant proved to be too preoccupied with people recognizing that he was Cary Grant. If ever someone didn’t stop and do a double take at that famous puss, he’d do something to his face that somehow made the cleft in his chin even deeper, and say something very loudly in that distinctive cockney voice of his. It got so that Slim and Truman couldn’t suppress their giggles at the absurdity of it, and Cary Grant had decided to sulk the rest of the trip, until he got off the train abruptly in Finland and went back to Hollywood.

  But Slim was absolutely without vanity. She didn’t care if Truman saw her first thing in the morning or last thing in the evening; she didn’t fix her makeup constantly. She wrapped herself in a fur coat and sunglasses and faced the world head-on, and she never stopped telling him stories.

  And Truman, like most storytellers, enjoyed listening, almost as much as he enjoyed doing the telling.

  Slim told him of the time Hemingway’s wife—the latest one, whom nobody liked—tried to drown her in a swimming pool after Papa was too openly flirtatious. She told him about her one-night stand with Frank Sinatra—“He sang when he came. Honest to God. I thought I’d die laughing but I didn’t dare. He has that Sicilian male thing going on. I had to tell him he was the best I’d ever had.” She told him about the tryouts of South Pacific, which her husband Leland had produced; how so many people told them all, very seriously, not to take it to Broadway because it
was “too damn good and nobody would ever understand it.”

  One time, the two of them had gotten very drunk and decided to call Babe, long distance, and tell her something shocking, something very un-Babe-like; they’d asked the operator for the trunk line, waited for the connection—drinking vodka shots all the while—and when Babe finally was on the other end, Slim had slurred a lurid little tale about having her period while having sex one time, and how horrified the man was, and then Slim started giggling so hard she was suddenly crying, so that Truman took the phone and told a shocked Babe that Slim must be on her period now, the poor baby, so please forgive her and kiss kiss, Bobolink, you’re my one and only and I miss you!

  And then he hung up and begged Slim to tell him the story again.

  Slim had been on top of the world then. Secure enough in her marriage to leave her husband at home while she traveled. Stupid enough to believe that she could have an affair or two—and tell him about it, the fatal mistake, and one that he, Truman, had begged her not to make—and believe that it wouldn’t matter. She took off soon after for another trip, this time to Italy with Betty Bacall. More drunken phone calls to friends in the middle of the night, but nobody minded, because it was Slim! And she was keeping Betty company, making her laugh, which she needed, since Bogie had so recently died.

  But that Italian trip was when it happened. And now, look at her.

  “Darling Slim, I just want to carry you around in my pocket all the time and take care of you. I have a wonderful idea! Let’s make something up about Pamela and start spreading it around! I could make up some dreadful disease or something!”

  “How about the clap?”

  “Perfect!”

  Slim smiled wanly. But then she turned her head away, and Truman knew she was crying.

  “Babe is devastated, of course. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, yes. Babe comes here every day. She cleans up, has food delivered, makes sure I bathe. She invites me to Kiluna every weekend, said I could stay at Round Hill, in Jamaica, anytime I want. Babe is, well—Babe. The kindest friend I’ve ever had. And I don’t deserve her.”