“C’mon,” he said, rounding up the Cerfs and the Haywards. Claudette shook her head, stifled a yawn, and gathered her purse and her gloves. “Let’s leave this joint and go to Jilly’s.”
Jilly’s was his scene; a dark, narrow, smoky piano bar with a quiet back room where he had his own special chair—no one else was allowed to sit in it—at his special table where he could hold forth, be entertained, worshipped, especially by Jilly Rizzo himself. Where all eyes would be on him, and not some swishy little fruit with a lisp.
Frank didn’t even have to call ahead. He knew Jilly’s would be open for him. It always was. It was his place.
“Oh, Francis, no, you’re not going!” Truman was in front of him, wringing his limp little hands. “Stay, stay, do. You know how these things are, once someone like you leaves, the whole party is over. Don’t do that to me!”
“Sorry, Truman. Nice evening. But I’m out of here.” Frank snapped his fingers, Mia skipped over to him and took his arm, somebody gathered up their coats, and he strode out of the ballroom. Behind him, Truman still pleaded.
No dice. Frank Sinatra had been bored, and so he snapped his fingers and left.
And just like that, the party was over.
—
TRUMAN HID HIS DISAPPOINTMENT, fluttered from group to group as they prepared to leave, accepted the gushing compliments, squealed his own, asking everyone, “Wasn’t it grand? Wasn’t it a divine party?”
And they all said yes, yes, of course, it was. You are wonderful, Truman. You are the tops. This was the grandest night ever, the party everyone will be talking about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
And when at last he escorted Kay, exhausted but quietly happy, back to her room, tiptoed up to kiss her on the cheek and admonish her, “Now, sleep tight, baby doll, and dream of the headlines in the morning!” he went to his own suite, unlocked the door with the heavy gold key, and threw himself on the turned-down bed with a loud sigh.
And it left him, just like that. The good feeling, the triumph, the accomplishment. It left just like Sinatra had, through the door without a backward glance. He felt empty, deflated, defeated. Alone.
Unloved.
What, who, would ever make this feeling go away? He reached for the phone to call Babe, but his hand touched a bottle of vodka on the nightstand instead.
He grabbed it, rejoiced in the cold bottle against his sweaty hand that trembled now as he poured himself a nice glass, tipped his head back, savored the liquid for a moment in his mouth, delaying the pleasure for as long as he could before he swallowed, the sting, the slap of it down his throat, more and more until he was foggy, until he saw the ball again, saw it as he’d dreamed it, and he giggled, remembering Billy Baldwin’s glorious unicorn mask, Penelope Tree’s bizarre getup that would surely get a huge mention in tomorrow’s papers, Gloria’s precious remark about her jewels being too heavy, Marie Dewey’s breathless exclamation that she was going to paste every newspaper mention of it in a scrapbook just for him. Kay’s tearful thank-you as she laid a hand on his shoulder when they said good night; her murmured, “I didn’t deserve anything half this lovely.”
Babe’s proud smile the moment she stepped into the ballroom, her dark, grave eyes seeking him out, approving, loving, always loving.
He wasn’t crying now. He took another drink, leaned back, closed his eyes, kicked off his shoes.
“Tell me a story,” he whispered, his eyes heavy, his skin hot, his clothes too tight, his heart beating too loudly, as he could hear it in his ears. The room spun behind his closed eyes, but it was a gentle spin now, a carousel, not a hurricane. “Mama, tell me a story.”
He fell asleep before he could remember that Mama wasn’t there.
CHAPTER 15
…..
My God, it was the most divine party! Oh, what a night it was, I tell you!
Everyone was there, absolutely everyone. My God, the people—movie stars and politicians and everyone who was anyone. They all came out that night.
The music was divine. The food, perfect. The dancing, oh, the dancing! To see those glorious people dancing the Twist! Gliding about like Fred and Ginger to a waltz!
And my dear, what people are saying about it now. I’ve been inundated with phone calls! Everyone wants a quote. And that Penelope Tree, what a goddess. I’m going to put her on the cover of Vogue someday.
And you! You, you were absolutely marvelous. Well, everyone is saying so. No one can imagine a better party, ever. Anyone else who was even thinking of throwing one—well, they’ve all given up now, I should think so! Thrown up their hands and retreated. “Why even bother now?” they’re all saying.
It was simply the most magical evening ever. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, you know. You are absolutely the toast of the town, the king of the world.
“I am, aren’t I?” Truman opened his eyes; Diana Vreeland was grinning at him, waving her red talons, holding up newspaper after newspaper filled with coverage, pictures of him and his famous friends.
“Yes, you are. Truman, you’ve done it.”
“I’m so glad you were there, really! The night would have been a complete failure without my darling dragon lady, the divine Mrs. Vreeland!”
“As I said, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Truman rose, they exchanged kisses, and he tripped out of her office at Vogue, waving his hand airily at one and all, as if he were royalty.
Diana smiled for a moment, then sat back down.
Thank God he hadn’t realized she hadn’t been there. She’d just lost her husband, Reed—why on earth did Truman think she’d want to go to a party? So she’d shown up for dinner at the Paleys’, as invited. But when the time came to leave, she got in a taxi that took her straight home, not to the Plaza.
And Truman was none the wiser.
—
“NORMAN MAILER WENT AROUND trying to start a fight. All night long! First with McGeorge Bundy, then with George Plimpton, then with anyone named George, then finally just anyone.”
“Oh, how divine! I saw him, and I thought, Norman, you’ve made my party! Although he wore that dirty raincoat the entire time—I doubt he even bathes, do you?”
“Only in the tears of his envy over you, True Heart. Now, tell me the truth.” Slim arched an eyebrow, leaned back on the sofa of her hotel suite. “Didn’t Pamela look hideous?”
“Absolutely. Completely stuffed, like a goose, if you know what I mean. You looked fabulous, my pet. Simply fabulous. What a shame Kenneth couldn’t come.”
“What do you mean? I would have been bored to tears if my husband had been there. As it was, I had a wonderful time.”
“I thought Gloria looked a little tight. Did she have some work done recently?”
“No,” Slim said, while nodding. “Of course not.”
Truman cackled. “Big Mama, you’re an absolute treasure!”
“Babe looked wonderful, of course.”
“As always. You know what I always say. Babe Paley has only one fault—she’s perfect. Other than that, she’s perfect.”
“Isn’t that the truth? But I love her, of course.”
“So do I, more than anyone in the world—except for you, Big Mama! But wasn’t it a fabulous party?”
“It was a great party, True Heart. Really great. Have you seen the newspapers?”
“Oh, those old things.” Truman waved his hand dismissively, but his eyes gleamed. He looked a little puffy and tired this morning, Slim thought—but then, who didn’t? She wouldn’t even look in a mirror yet, herself. But this morning, puffy and tired were badges of honor; only those who had danced all night at Truman’s party—and looked it—were in.
“Did Kay have a good time?”
“The best. Tell me again, what was your favorite part?”
“When Tallulah Bankhead flashed her bush at Cecil Beaton. I thought poor Cecil was going to faint dead away.”
“Oh, that’s precious! Too precious! I didn’t
see that! But it was grand, wasn’t it, my dearest Big Mama?”
“So grand. The grandest!”
Truman kissed her and went on his way. Slim picked up the papers. She’d hidden the ones that were not so complimentary; the ones that more than hinted it was just a little appalling that Truman had been able to give such a fabulous party because of the slaughter of a Kansas family.
The ones that wondered if, now that he was such a social success, Truman would ever write anything good, ever again.
—
TRUMAN HAD SAVED the best for last.
He walked into the apartment, past the Picasso, and into Babe’s open arms. She looked gorgeous, fresh, completely made up, and he marveled again at her discipline, her devotion to her best creation, her exquisite self.
“Bobolink! My most precious person ever! Tell me, tell me all!”
“Oh, Truman, it was wonderful.” And Babe said it quietly, seriously, with none of the exaggerated after-party brightness of the others, and maybe Truman registered that, and maybe he didn’t.
“It was, wasn’t it?” He sighed, kicked off his shoes and they both settled into a sofa, his head in her lap, his feet tickling a velvet pillow. She had tea waiting, and a special vase of lilies of the valley just for him—she’d known, hadn’t she, that perfect creature, that simply everyone in the world would send him flowers this morning, flowers and gifts and thank-you notes and telegrams. So she’d saved her flowers—their flowers, the ones they sent to each other each time they suspected the other was a little blue—to give him in person. Babe was the most thoughtful person he knew.
“Truman, I mean it. I haven’t been to anything like it. You did it, you were marvelous, and I’m privileged to have been there.”
“You stood out, of course, the envy of all. Slim and I were just talking about you—were your ears burning? You, my dearest, were a rare flower, in a sea of garishness. Not that everyone wasn’t beautiful—they were—although Slim, poor thing. What are we going to do with her? She has lost all her style. Simply lost it.”
“I thought she looked lovely, Truman,” Babe said, quietly admonishing. “I heard you tell her so, yourself.”
“Well, of course I did! It was the charitable thing to do! But you, my darling Babe, were singular. You always are.”
“You are sweet to say so.” But Babe flushed, and she ducked her head, and Truman squeezed her hand. Dozens of people a day told Babe Paley how beautiful she was. But she really believed it only when Truman did.
“Now tell me—tell me everything. Everything wonderful about last night. Tell me a story, Mama.” Truman closed his eyes, nestled deeper into her lap, and smiled in anticipation.
And Babe, who had never read a good-night story to her children when they were young, for she was always getting ready to go out or down to dinner when they were put to bed, and that took time, of course, time to array herself to perfection so that Bill might notice her, so that at least he would be proud to have her on his arm, took a deep breath and began,
“Once upon a time, there was a wonderful party, a beautiful fairyland of light and flowers and people, and one in particular, the most wonderful, the host….”
And soon Truman was asleep. And Babe was content, that aching pit in her belly filled with gratitude and purpose, and still she talked on and on in her low, soothing voice, spinning him a tale that weaved back and forth through time, from a chance meeting on an airplane long ago, vacations together, shared intimacies, secrets, fears and hopes and dreams, until last night, and this morning, and the future, and the two of them together, always, trusting, loving, for they only had each other, didn’t they? Children grew up, grew beautiful, grew successful in their own right. But Truman—Truman would remain the same.
He would love her. And allow her to love him.
And so she told him other stories, stories she’d never told anyone else, all of them true because Babe did not know how to lie. “I had an affair,” she whispered, “but you knew that, didn’t you? You guessed it, long ago. It was only the once, because I couldn’t stomach it. Yet Bill still sleeps with everyone but me, and I’ve told you that so many times before, it’s a broken record, but in its way it’s the truest thing of my life, the one thing I can count on and can you believe it, I’ve grown to rely on it? I’m getting old, older, and so is Bill, so I don’t think of leaving him anymore, because who would have me now? Where would I go? Who would have him? Getting older means having fewer choices, I’ve discovered. Not that I had that many when I was younger. But when I was younger, I knew my face. Now, when I look in a mirror—but when I look in your eyes, I still see myself. And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Truman?”
She looked down at him; his mouth was open, his pink cheeks slack as he snored softly. So she whispered, “And, Truman? Bill can’t hurt me anymore. My children can’t, either. But you—you could. You’re the only person in my life with that power. I don’t know how you could, but it’s true. And I’m afraid of that. Only a little. I’m also happy, because it means I do love you, truly.” And she smiled, because to have Truman fall asleep on her lap was a gift, a precious gift; no one else could claim him like this. Babe knew he had made the rounds before coming to her; she knew it was his nature. Her approval wasn’t enough, it would never be enough; one person’s love never would be enough for him. And that was the difference between them, because she needed only Truman’s love, and he needed the world’s.
But still, hers was the lap he sought; her embrace was where he fell asleep, and she cherished his trust, his childlike repose. For once in her life, Babe felt peaceful, unhurried. Bill’s dinner could go unordered, the dressmaker who was supposed to mend her dress from last night uncalled, the masseuse who was scheduled ignored. Truman’s party receded into the realm of make-believe. This, this moment, was real, but more precious, more golden, than any fairy tale.
And outside, the world spun and spun, the elegant carousel of the 1950s and Camelot speeding up, wobbling on its machinery, threatening to become a psychedelic hurricane of change. But it didn’t wake Truman up. Nothing could stir him from his dream. Shhh, be quiet. Mama’s here. Mama’s back.
Mama loves me best.
La Côte Basque, October 17, 1975
…..
“The sun,” said Slim, nibbling at an olive, “is over the yardarm. Let’s have a drink.”
“The sun has almost set,” Gloria retorted, “and we’ve been drinking all day. What the hell is a yardarm, anyway?”
Slim laughed, noiselessly, her shoulders shaking, her glasses askew.
“What?” Gloria scowled.
Pam was quiet. Too quiet. Pickled, Slim decided, squinting, trying to get her into focus. Marella was mumbling to herself in Italian.
“You—you have a yacht!” Slim pointed at Gloria, gasping for air.
“So?”
“A yardarm is part of a boat, the beam or whatever at the bottom of the sail. You don’t know that!”
“I employ people who do,” Gloria retorted icily, in an exaggeratedly British accent. Then she muttered under her breath, “Besa mi culo, puta!”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Papa used to say that,” Slim mused dreamily. “It was one of his favorite sayings. ‘The sun is over the yardarm.’ It meant it was time to drink.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Slim. Yes, we get it. You were Hemingway’s muse. Papa’s obsession. Papa’s unfulfilled love. And C.Z. was Rivera’s muse, and Babe was Truman’s. Well, who the hell’s muse was I?” Gloria threw a napkin ring down on her plate, hard, and everyone held her breath to see if the plate would shatter. It didn’t.
“Jesus Christ, Gloria! Calm down! We don’t want the Gestapo to arrive!”
“Oh, you would bring that up, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?” Gloria almost spat at Slim; she reared her lovely head back, tasted the saliva in her mouth, felt the Mexican blood finally fire up in her veins, pushing her to do what she’d spent a lifetime suppress
ing—act, feel, love, live, hate—spit, Dios mío! Spit at the puta’s feet!
She felt Marella’s hand on her arm, settling her down, being the princess that she was, calming her court.
“Shhh, Gloria, shhh. We’re not mad at each other,” Marella whispered, maddeningly reasonable. “We’re mad at Truman, remember?”
“Bastardo. Pendejo. Puto.” Somewhat mollified, Gloria swallowed, drank the brandy stinger Slim was handing her—where did it come from? She hadn’t ordered it—and lit another cigarette.
The smoky haze over their table was epic, even for La Côte Basque. It was like the smog of Los Angeles these days. The smoke from a forest fire. A monster from a horror film.
But no one seemed to care; they all simply coughed, waved, and lit up again. And again. And again.
“The ball, it was grand, though,” Pam mused softly. “Really, wasn’t it? One of the last times, the last elegant times.”
“It was,” Marella agreed.
“It all went to hell after that, didn’t it?” Gloria asked. Rhetorically.
Each now-slightly-tattered—lipstick was smeared, eyeliner runny, hairstyles melted, like ice cream on a summer day—swan nodded.
“What happened? What happened to the world? To Truman? To us?”
“Nixon. Nixon happened,” Slim answered Gloria’s question.
“Vietnam. Then Nixon,” Marella corrected.
“Whatever. Things changed. Our daughters became us, the beautiful ones, the socialites. Only they didn’t want to be us, did they?” Slim’s voice was hoarse.
“Just like we did not want to be our mothers,” Marella pointed out.
“But why not? We were better than our mothers! We were—we are—magnificent!” Gloria’s voice was a cry, a cry of anguish, of loss, regret. Slim patted her hand and signaled for another brandy stinger.
“We’re old,” Slim mumbled wearily. “Goddamn old. Truman made us feel younger, though, didn’t he? For a while. Then he—left us. Went off with that Studio Fifty-four crowd, Liza and all. Started bringing around those terrible men—remember the air-conditioning man?”
The Swans of Fifth Avenue Page 22
