Yes, it all came back to that, didn’t it? His greatest achievement. His greatest failure. Because the only thing he’d written since was this; this bitchy little story in Esquire that apparently was bringing hellfire and brimstone down around Truman’s pudgy little head. And that had murdered one of her tribe, if all the gossip was to be trusted. At least that’s what Slim had said this morning when she’d called, furious, to ask if C.Z. had read it.
“La Côte Basque 1965.” Christ. Even the title was dreadful.
Well, she’d have him down here when he was finished shooting that terrible movie in California, make a fuss over him, coddle him, protect him. For a while, anyway. But he’d have to sink or swim on his own, as she had, as she’d taught her children to do. She rather doubted that he’d swim, however.
He didn’t have the breeding, the pedigree. He wasn’t a thoroughbred. It was a damn shame, but there it was.
C.Z. shook her head, rose, and went off to find the gardener.
That dandelion simply didn’t belong.
CHAPTER 11
…..
Babe put down her signed copy of In Cold Blood, which Truman had pressed into her hand only last night. His own hands had trembled; his entire body had pulsated with pride, accomplishment, and, perhaps, a touch of fear?
“I do hope you’ll like it, my dearest Babe,” he’d whispered, gazing up at her with his solemn eyes after he dated his inscription January, 1966. “Your opinion means the most to me, truly.”
And she had been touched, as always; touched, and made to feel special and needed and important, and those were feelings that she cherished, clutched to her heart, polished up, and took out to marvel over with more pride of ownership than her finest pearls.
Babe had stayed up all night to finish the book—when it had first appeared in four parts in The New Yorker last fall, Truman had implored her to wait until it was published in book form, so she could read it all in one sitting. And so she had, although before settling down with it, she’d first tiptoed around the house to make sure all the doors and windows were locked, for she was sure it would be rather a frightening book to read alone, at night. And while it was, initially, soon that wore off and she became simply fascinated by the character studies. Yes, the portraits of the killers, Perry and Dick, were mesmerizing, but it was the characterization of one of the victims—Mrs. Clutter, Bonnie—that Babe couldn’t get out of her head.
For Bonnie Clutter was something of a mess, in Babe’s opinion. Frail and neurotic. Unable to cope with life, beset by doubt and inadequacy and fear. Bonnie Clutter hid in her room, slept all day, didn’t run the house—all that was left to her daughter, poor doomed Nancy. And the thing is—everyone in Holcomb, Kansas, apparently knew all about it! And accepted Bonnie, and worried over her, and didn’t seem to judge Bonnie Clutter for being who she was—weepy, fragile, depressed, withdrawn.
All traits that had threatened Babe, in her darkest moments when she felt she couldn’t put up with Bill, with her high-profile life, with the image she herself had spent so much time perfecting. But never, not once, had she given in to the temptation to do what Bonnie Clutter had done right up until the night she was murdered—allow the mess, the darkness, to triumph.
Babe picked up the book again and turned to the photograph insert; there was a picture of Bonnie Clutter in better days. A plain, unfortunately bespectacled woman in one of those dreary Mamie Eisenhower getups, with the full flowered skirt, the enormous corsage pinned to her shoulder, the unflattering, lacy hat perched on tightly permed curls. Bonnie was smiling, with a beguiling dimple. She looked happy.
But Truman’s portrait was of a woman who was anything but; a woman who once explained to a friend that she regretted not finishing nursing school despite the fact that she was no good at it, “just to prove that I once succeeded at something.”
Oh, how Babe could relate to that! She had a diploma, but it was merely decorative; Gogsie had decreed that all her girls attend Westover, a finishing school, rather than a college. And while Babe had graduated at the top of her class, still—it was just a finishing school. Her years as a fashion editor had given her a taste of accomplishment at something other than being her own fabulous self, but they’d been fleeting. Marriage had been her destiny, as it had been Bonnie’s, as it was for most women. At least Babe had succeeded at that, in the only way her mother defined success: marriage to wealthy, desirable men. But Bonnie had done that, as well; Herb Clutter, as portrayed by Truman, had been the alpha male of Holcomb, Kansas, a leader in the community.
But Bonnie couldn’t keep up, couldn’t cope, and while Babe understood this more than anyone but Truman ever suspected, she didn’t give in, she didn’t allow anyone to see her life as anything but a triumph. That was how Babe would be remembered, at least; unlike poor Bonnie, who was now immortalized, vanquished by the life determined for her. How did her surviving daughters feel about this? Did Bonnie Clutter herself somehow know that Truman had stripped her naked, bare? Exposed her for who she really was?
But Bonnie Clutter was dead. No, of course she didn’t know.
Babe shuddered, stamped out her cigarette, lit another. She was alone at Kiluna; Bill was in Los Angeles for business. The children were at school, but even if they’d been home, she wouldn’t really know it. They were housed in a separate little wing of their own. And so, isolated, Babe indulged in dark thoughts; it was as sinful, as clandestine, as if she’d eaten an entire cake by herself, and just as satisfying. And disgusting.
Would her children mourn her, were she to die suddenly, horrifically? Babe was no fool; she knew they would not, and it was her own fault. She was close to her oldest son, Tony, now that he was an adult, but she hadn’t been when he was a child. She didn’t like children very much, she had to admit; her arms simply didn’t ache to hold her babies; she wasn’t tolerant of the odors and stains of childhood. And as the children grew, each with their special problems—Amanda terribly shy; Bill Junior hyper, afraid of his father; poor Kate so permanently stressed she’d lost her hair as a child, something Babe could never fully accept despite the fact that she and Bill had had every specialist in to examine her, and the finest, most natural wigs made—Babe found herself letting each one of them down, incapable of fixing them, molding them, as her mother had molded her. So she withdrew from her own children, and hoped others could do it for her. She employed the very best nurses and nannies and governesses and tutors, interviewing them herself, treating the help like family, making sure they were well compensated—she’d even had a separate pool put in just for these helpers, away from the main pool, so they’d have some privacy, some release. She saw that her children attended the best schools. She oversaw their playmates, invited them to stay at Kiluna or Kiluna North; she filled the children’s wing with all the newest toys and record players and televisions and games. She made a point of dropping in once a day, spending time with each child when they were small, reading or playing board games or applauding swimming prowess, new dance moves.
And then she left them—oh, what was that line in Truman’s book? Babe scurried over to the bed and picked it up; yes, there it was. Bonnie was talking about her youngest son—“And how will he remember me? As a kind of ghost.”
Babe shook her head, lit another cigarette. She’d never have thought she’d have so much in common with a plain neurotic housewife from Holcomb, Kansas.
Yet surely that was how she was to her four children: a ghost. A fabulously dressed, unattainable ghost. She left them to their own devices so that she could tend to herself, and to Bill. So that she could tend to her guests, her house, her gardens, her clothes, her charitable organizations. And so that she could tend to Truman; she let him into her heart as she’d never let her children, and she knew it, and they knew it, and so she understood that if she were murdered in the middle of the night as Bonnie Clutter was—messy, imperfect, frail Bonnie Clutter!—she would not be mourned half as much.
Except, of course, by Truman. Astonishing, great
little Truman. Who had written an astonishing, great big book that had taken the world by storm, and now she had a new fear—oh, she was afraid of everything, wasn’t she? She was just like Bonnie Clutter! Only a few cigarettes away from retreating to her room, never to emerge in the daylight. Her parents had not raised her to be afraid, but she was; she was constantly beset by uncertainty, nibbled by doubts. If only the world knew! But Truman did know; he knew everything about her, every tough scar and tender wound, except this—
He did not know that she was terrified of losing him.
Despite her education practically at his own knee—the reading of Dickens, Proust, Faulkner—she honestly didn’t know how she was going to talk to him now. Sharing her doubts and dreams with this great man seemed absurd. Tickling him, dancing with him, exchanging confidences and gossip—how on earth could she continue doing that? Now that she had read this book, this book by someone else, not her confidant, not her soul mate. This was a book written by a man—and she had ceased to think of Truman as that. He had become an extension of herself: her analyst, her pillow, her sleeping pill at night, her coffee in the morning.
The phone rang, jolting her out of her reverie. Babe padded over to the gilded French provincial phone on her bedside table, not waiting for the staff to answer. For she knew who it was.
“Bobolink! Darling! So—tell me! Tell me what you think!”
Babe almost gasped with relief. Truman sounded just like—Truman! Her heart, her soul, her twin. And not the great man of letters.
“Truman, dearest one, I loved it. I devoured it, every word. I’m in awe of your talent—I always have been, but now! This really is it. Your masterpiece.”
“I know!” Truman giggled, and Babe did, too. She wished he were with her, so she could see his expression, even as she knew what it was—she could picture his pink face, his eyes crinkled up, his pure, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin; she knew he was dancing up and down, hopping from one foot to the other in delight. Truman enjoyed himself more than anyone she knew; he luxuriated in his success, did not attempt false modesty, did not attribute it to others, or to luck, or to anything but his own talent. And you had to love someone like that.
“Oh, Babe,” he continued, his voice still a riot of delight, a bubbling, babbling river of joy, “I’m so, so happy you think so! What was your favorite part? Tell me, do. I really want to know. Everyone keeps telling me it’s Perry and Dick, but especially Perry. I captured Perry perfectly. I wanted to show the soul of a killer, but also that of the wounded little boy who had a choice, and made the wrong one.”
“Yes, of course, Perry is brilliant. Your characterization of him, I mean.”
“That’s not your favorite part,” Truman said instantly. “I can tell.”
“No, it was Bonnie. Poor Bonnie.”
“I knew you’d like her.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Because you identify with her, my Babe. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” Babe blushed; how could she feel this way, as if he’d X-rayed her over the phone? “Oh, how did you know, Truman?”
“Because I know you, dear. I know the you no one else can see, not even Bill—especially not Bill—because you don’t let them. And they don’t deserve to! I know the real Babe. The loveliest Babe of all. And the loneliest.”
“Can you—would you like to come out?” Babe wound the telephone cord about her finger, feeling as shy and giddy as a teenager. “I’m all alone out here. I wanted to be, in order to read your book, to be able to really concentrate. But now I’d—I’d like to see you, Truman. If you can, that is. I know you must be so busy.”
“Oh, Babe, dearest, I can’t! Can you believe I’m being interviewed for television? Not CBS, unfortunately. But Lee Bailey wants to come out to my place in Southampton with his cameras.”
“Oh.” Babe would not admit her disappointment, would not diminish her friend’s obvious, deserved excitement in any way—would not be Bonnie Clutter. “Oh, Truman! How wonderful! What will you wear, for the cameras?”
“Well, I was thinking my orange cashmere turtleneck, and some plaid pants. Very colorful, but not too much for the cameras. What do you think?”
“Yes, that sounds right.” Babe didn’t voice her opinion that the sweater would do a good job of camouflaging his tummy; he had grown rather more soft during the writing of this book, the long years of waiting for Perry Smith and Dick Hickock to meet their deaths by hanging so he could finally write the ending. All the delays, the stays of execution, had pushed Truman to indulge himself in food and drink and dejected inactivity. “I always think a turtleneck is proper, for most occasions.”
“And I think I’ll get a manicure before. And a facial. In fact, I have to run right now, if I’m going to work those in.”
“Of course, Truman, you must! You’ll look simply wonderful on camera! I can’t wait to watch the program—will you, will you watch it with me? I mean, let me watch it with you?”
“Babe, I promise. I won’t watch it with another soul, not even Jack—who is simply livid, by the way, at all the attention. Jealous, too. Poor dear boy, he’s such a good writer.” Truman sighed, and Babe could picture him shaking his head. “Though it’s hard on him to see my success, especially now. But I can’t be expected not to enjoy it just because of him, can I?”
“Of course not!”
“I knew you’d understand, Bobolink! Now I must fly. I’ll see you soon!”
“When?”
But Truman had already hung up the phone.
Babe paced around the house for a while, at loose ends. She could go talk to the gardener about the new trees she wanted for the pond this spring, although she couldn’t wander the garden; it was January now. While there was no snow on the ground, she shivered just to think of the bare limbs, dried-out stalks, matted-down leaves, and patches of ice. She really disliked New York in winter; lately, the cold had started to take its toll. It was more difficult to catch her breath in the frigid, dry air. But Bill was in Los Angeles; that was the reason they weren’t in Jamaica, as they normally would be.
Restless, Babe walked into her closet, that Aladdin’s cave of racks upon racks, cloth-lined drawers, hidden compartments, garment bags full of treasures, shoes stuffed with tissue and placed in color-coded cloth bags. Bonnie Clutter had lived in housedresses and nightgowns and thick white socks.
But Babe Paley stood in the middle of designer glory, surrounded by beautiful gowns, stylish day dresses, suits of every color and weight, and decided, with the contrariness of a fretful child, to go into the city, to Bergdorf’s, and buy some more. Because that was something that she could do, and Bonnie Clutter could not.
For that was what Babe did, after all; it was her primary occupation. Acquisition. She sometimes thought of herself as a museum curator, only the museum was herself, her homes, her way of life. That was what she had learned to do at Westover, and so she did it extraordinarily well. Surrounding and draping herself with luxury and beauty was her profession, and it was a nicer one than most people had to put up with, and yes, she did enjoy it; it was her outlet, her chief pleasure. Until she’d met Truman, that is.
But Truman was busy. Soon Babe found herself tucked into the backseat of a huge black sedan, settling into leather seats, an array of the newest magazines in a rack before her, a little wooden caddy filled with a carafe of water and a split of champagne on the floor next to her feet, a cashmere throw over her lap, classical music piped softly from hidden speakers. And then she was being whisked away from Long Island and into the city, where she was deposited in front of Bergdorf Goodman; she exited the car without giving a thought about where it would have to be parked, or how much it might cost. Someone would take care of it for her.
And so she pushed herself through the revolving doors of Bergdorf Goodman, not stopping to marvel, as others might, at the polished marble floors and walls, the gleaming display cases that looked like priceless antiques themselves—ancient armoires, French china cabinets
; the towering ceilings, gold fixtures, blazing crystal chandeliers, delicate little settees and armchairs and stools placed around at intervals. Bergdorf’s was as familiar to Babe Paley, and as luxuriously appointed, as any of her many homes.
“Oh, Mrs. Paley!” A floor manager was approaching, wringing his hands. “Mrs. Hughes isn’t here today. We didn’t know you’d be stopping by!”
Mrs. Hughes was her salesperson; Babe, like all of Bergdorf’s favored clients, had her own personal assistant to fetch and carry and suggest and praise.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Stevens. I’m feeling rather impromptu today. I think I’ll just wander a bit, if you don’t mind? Yes, that’s it. I’ll just be a shopper today, a tourist, just like anyone else!” Just like Bonnie Clutter, Babe thought, even as she smiled kindly at the worried little man in front of her with a bead of sweat on his brow, obviously fearful that he had made a mistake, that the powerful Mrs. Paley might be angry with him for not being ready for her. He could lose his job for much, much less.
Babe smiled kindly at him, to put him at ease; he was only doing his job, which was to make women like herself feel privileged and pampered and come back for more. She allowed Mr. Stevens to take her coat from her shoulders, and thanked him.
“Of course not! Please let me know if there’s anything I can get for you.” And Mr. Stevens bowed, backed away, but did not remove himself from her sight, and would not for the rest of the afternoon, Babe knew. She stifled a sigh, put on a pair of sunglasses—she was attracting stares now—and had a fleeting wish for anonymity, for being able to wander, touch, feel, try on, without anyone bowing and scraping and fetching and carrying. Or envying.
But she also longed for Truman to be with her, and the two of them together would have attracted even more attention. Aching inside from a familiar emptiness, Babe determined to fill it. She went to the hat salon, where Halston himself—wiry, nervous—was only too happy to show her several new models; she sat in front of an ornate gold mirror while he helped her arrange them on her elaborate coiffure. He had the rare talent of being able to do so without mussing the hairstyles of his clients. Babe smiled, put up with his obsequious small talk—“Oh, Mrs. Paley, you look divine in anything, but I particularly like the red turban”—and she agreed, and the red silk turban with a jeweled brooch was promptly whisked away to be wrapped and boxed. Babe thanked Halston profusely, complimented him sincerely—the man was an artist, there was no denying it—and then decided she needed a new pair of white loafers.
The Swans of Fifth Avenue Page 16
