And then Bill hung up.
His wife! Not Babe, not their shared dream, not his dearest friend in the world. But simply “my wife.” As if Truman didn’t know her at all.
Oh, the bitches! Bitches, all! And he was glad, glad, glad that he’d stung them so. Look what it was doing to his career! Look at how many more people recognized him on the street!
“I simply don’t understand,” Truman said, with a sorrowful, superior sigh, to Jack, to Liz Smith, to C.Z., to anyone who would take his call these days, who were never the people he wanted, after all. “They knew I was a writer. They knew I’d remember everything. What did they expect? And Babe! I really thought she was smarter than that. More sophisticated. Doesn’t she get it, that I love her so, even if Bill never did? And now the world knows what a bastard he is. I did it for her! Doesn’t she understand that?”
“You did it for yourself, Truman,” was all Jack replied. He never, not once, said, “I told you so.”
“Well, so what? So what if I did? I have to look out for myself, don’t I? Nobody else ever has.”
And so he girded himself; he booked a facial, a manicure, he bought some new clothes and took a flight back to the East Coast, descending upon Manhattan like a potentate. Grandly, he granted interviews, cooperated with Liz Smith in her article—“Truman Capote in Hot Water”—and fanned the fires of scandal, dancing ever faster as the flames leapt ever higher. He lunched at La Côte Basque, accompanied by photographers; he grinned devilishly up at the camera as he brandished a knife and fork. When Esquire ran another story, Truman gleefully posed for the cover dressed in black, pretending to file his fingernail with a stiletto.
Truman Strikes Back! Another Excerpt from Answered Prayers!
And that was it for Answered Prayers. He didn’t have much of anything else written, and he knew, now, he never would. But he didn’t tell anyone, not even Jack.
His phone rang; it rang off the hook. Mostly it was people eager to tell him just whose party he hadn’t been invited to.
“Never mind,” he told one and all. “I’ve been thinking of giving another party myself, you know, even better than my famous Black and White Ball! And this time, I won’t invite any of those old dinosaurs, those ancient swans. This time, baby, it’s only the fabulous people!”
But he didn’t give another ball. For some reason, all he could picture was an image of himself standing in an empty ballroom, holding a lone balloon.
“Who needed the Plaza, anyway?” Truman told Johnny, told Dick, told the world; the world that still listened to him, at any rate. Why, disco was where it was at! What a thrilling, absolutely divine time to live! Truman Capote and Studio 54—soon the names were joined together, he was just as much a fixture as Halston and Liza and Bianca. He danced until his eyes rolled back in his head while the cameras flashed away; he had sweaty sex in the basement dungeons with anonymous young centaurs who didn’t hide their disgust at his bloated, decaying body, but who could be bought with handfuls of coke and a few dropped names. He told himself this was where it was at, baby; he was there, here, in, not out; he was dancing, spinning, twirling—top of the world, Ma!
So he wasn’t invited to spend an endless, pampered summer on Gloria’s yacht anymore, every whim catered to, Babe and Gloria and Loel and Bill hanging on his every word, applauding, adoring? So what?
So Mrs. Vreeland didn’t include him in her elegant dinners any longer, although she did at least have lunch with him in her office, on occasion, when no one else was around. So what?
So he spent too many nights passed out on his velvet couch, the television flickering ghostly images across his closed lids, dreaming of Babe, of lying next to her in her bed, not touching, not possessing, but belonging so thoroughly that he woke up sobbing, terrified he was in one of those locked hotel rooms of his childhood, his pulse racing, his skin clammy, his mouth so dry he couldn’t cry out despite the despair clawing its way out of his belly, up his throat, pounding his brain?
So what?
He saw the other swans sometimes. They couldn’t keep him from the Met Gala, even if they tried. He’d taken an excruciating elevator ride with Gloria at Bergdorf’s one day; she hadn’t seen him when she got in. “Hello, Truman,” she said icily, and that was that; La Guinness turned so that all he could see was her exquisite profile, her delicately etched face perched on that glorious neck. Her eyes flashed darkly, every muscle in that neck was clenched, but she didn’t say one more word. He got out on the very next floor and took another elevator back down, where he ran out on the street, flung himself on the edges of the Pulitzer Fountain outside the Plaza—the spray of the water splotched his linen suit—and he was unable to remember why he’d gone into Bergdorf’s in the first place. Then he put on his dark sunglasses and swept through the lobby of the Plaza, all the way back to the Oak Room Bar, where he had six martinis and had to be poured into a cab.
Once he telegrammed Slim—Big Mama, I’ve decided to forgive you. Now, how could she resist that? Big Mama, with her sense of humor, her love for her True Heart?
But all he heard was silence. Everywhere he went in Manhattan—and he haunted the places he still held dear, Tiffany’s and the Plaza and Bergdorf’s and 21; to tell the truth, he loathed Studio 54. It was so hot and the music hurt his ears—all he encountered were icy stares. The time-honored social “cut” he himself had practiced so many times.
But never had Babe used it, he realized. No, Babe had been too kind ever to do that to anyone. He wondered how she was doing. He’d heard that she wasn’t getting any better. He picked up the phone to call her, dozens of times a day. But he always put the phone back on the receiver before he could.
And then, one day, he saw her again.
CHAPTER 22
…..
There once was an old woman who lived in a shoe….
No, this couldn’t be her, the woman he saw at lunch one day at Quo Vadis. No, this couldn’t possibly be his Bobolink, not this frail, terribly aged creature who was so thin the clothes, for the first time in her life, did not look fabulous. No amount of expensive tailoring could make this woman look as if she belonged in anything but a hospital gown.
But it was Babe, after all; her beauty still shone, gallantly, through the grim mask of pain. And Truman, who had been lunching alone—none of his new “friends” ever got up before three in the afternoon—felt his heart beat wildly at the sight of her. For the first time in months he felt whole, perfect, and beautiful. As beautiful as he once had been—with her.
“Hello, Babe.” He rose, his napkin clutched in his sweaty hand.
Babe paused; she was with her sister Betsey, who looked down at Truman as if she might want to eat him. “Hello, Truman.” Babe didn’t look at him; she didn’t break into the joyful, delighted smile that he had been used to seeing.
Once upon a time.
“I—Babe, I did it for you,” he found himself blurting out, even if she didn’t appear to want to know anything further about him other than what he was eating for lunch. “I only did it for you. I thought you should know.”
Babe cast her glorious eyes downward; he saw her shoulders tremble before she gathered herself. When she raised her face to him, she was herself once more; his, his beautiful Babe. The only woman—hell, the only person—he realized with a jolt, that he had ever loved.
Even more than his mama.
Babe’s eyes, for just that moment, were completely sympathetic, aware; full of knowledge. Knowledge he alone had imparted, a secret code between best friends. Her eyes were warm—and grateful.
“I know,” she whispered, turning away from Betsey, her voice intended for only his ears. He had to lean in to hear. “I know. And thank you.”
He wasn’t sure he’d heard it right; he thought he had. He wished he had—Dear God let this be true forever and ever Amen.
But she was already gone, gliding away, pulled by her sister; elegant as always, although very slow, each step deliberate, a defiant act of livin
g. Her back was straight, formidable; she never turned to look at him. And so he wasn’t sure, after all.
“Babe?” he whispered, and it was like before; he was sure she would hear him above the din of people laughing and chatting, and stop, pick him out, come back for him, take him with her.
But she didn’t. He turned around, blindly, and felt hot, disapproving stares burning into his flesh. His ears buzzed with hissing and sneers, taunting, dismissive.
Truman plopped back down, knocking over a water glass, sending cutlery falling softly to the plush carpet. His heart slowed, but now his lungs seemed to be working overtime; he was cold and clammy, listing to the right, then to the left, as helplessly as if he were on choppy water, unmoored. Unloved.
And to his astonishment he burst into tears, sloppy, messy tears, and whispered, a cry from the tattered heart that he hadn’t understood he’d possessed until now, “Babe, Babe, Babe,” and then the maître d’ was grabbing his arm, holding him up and escorting him from the restaurant, trying to shield him from the stares. The proprietor mumbled something about taking care of the bill, but Truman didn’t care.
He knew that he would never see her again.
CHAPTER 23
…..
And they lived happily ever after….
Who did? Who the hell did? Babe wanted to know, on the days when she felt strong enough for outrage. Because she didn’t. She sure as hell didn’t. Life was no fairy tale, no matter what her mother had told her. She had no prince to kiss her, to wake her up from this nightmare.
She’d had a prince. Once.
It wasn’t the tall man, stooped now, his shoulders hunched always with regret, with thinning silver hair, who sat by her bed and held her hand and sloppily cried on it. No, Bill wasn’t her prince, and had he ever been? Maybe, once, when he promised her salvation in the form of riches, a fabulous partnership designed to be the envy of all. Maybe then. When riches and prestige were the only things that mattered to her; when she was still her mother’s daughter.
But then she met another. A fair-haired prince, her true love. And they told each other all their secrets, bared to each other their souls, and were going to live happily ever after together. They’d even talked about it, how she’d most likely outlive Bill, and so the two of them would live together, become one of those touching older couples who still held hands, still danced in the evening when the shadows were long, while a scratchy phonograph played “The Tennessee Waltz.”
That was the story they told each other, after the first story, the story of how they met, was no longer sufficient; when the future was closer than the past. But no less golden.
But now she was dying, and Bill was the one who would remain. And Truman could not be by her side, holding her hand, even though she longed for his touch, cried out for it, she feared, when she was not herself, when the medicine could not ease the pain, the terror of not being able to draw breath, of being suffocated. She wanted Truman in the same way she’d wanted her father when she was little, when she was scared, when she knew something ominous and terrifying was looming, and she was too small by herself.
But she couldn’t have Truman, she wouldn’t have Truman. Truman had betrayed her, betrayed Bill, betrayed the family they had created. “We stick together. We don’t air our dirty laundry. Family is first, family is everything.” Her mother’s words still trumped all—all feeling, all impulse, all longing. All compassion.
Because deep in her heart, Babe knew something else, too.
“We betrayed him,” she told Slim on one of her good days, when she was able to sit up against the pillows, wear one of her beautiful quilted satin bed jackets, have a visitor for a precious few minutes. One of the days when the medicine didn’t dull her senses and put her under so deeply that she had no idea what day it was, even if it was day or night, if she was five or twenty-five or fifty-five, if she was Alice through the Looking-Glass or Tweedledum or Tweedledee; if she was healthy or ill.
“What on earth are you talking about, Babe?” Slim sat in a chair next to Babe’s bed; her hands twitched, not sure what to do without the usual cigarette. Babe always insisted that her guests be treated as of old, but most were too polite to smoke in her presence.
So Slim examined her manicure instead and frowned at Babe. “What the hell do you mean, Babe?”
“I think—I think part of the whole thing was that he was testing us, testing us to make sure we loved him. Really loved him. Because true love means forgiving, no matter what. And we failed him. We didn’t love him that way.”
“Nonsense. You did.”
“I did. But—maybe I didn’t. Not enough. Maybe I never could love anyone, truly. Maybe I’m just not capable.”
Babe’s eyes were dry, her voice weak, but steady. She was not seeking sympathy, Slim understood. She was quietly stating a fact of her life, a fact that she must have suffered hell to conclude. Her friend had gone through the trials of Hades lately; maybe she’d gone through them all her life but never let on. Because, of course, she wouldn’t. Babe Paley could never reveal that her life was anything but enviable.
“I think you’re wrong, Babe. Don’t make excuses for Truman. That bastard doesn’t deserve it.”
“Yes, he does. We all do, Slim. You’ll understand, one day.”
Babe leaned back and closed her eyes; Slim wondered if she should leave her.
“I have everything planned, you know,” Babe murmured, opening her eyes, even more solemn and thoughtful now that they could see beyond the physical plane.
“What do you mean?”
“My funeral. The reception, after. The menu is already planned. The flowers, everything. I couldn’t leave that for Bill, or my children. They shouldn’t have to worry about all that. So I left everything with my secretary, but I wanted you to know, too. She has all the details. The caterers and florists have already been notified.”
“Christ, Babe.” Slim was shaking. Babe smiled and reached out her hand; Slim grasped it blindly.
“It’s fine, Slim. I wanted to do it. It seemed—it seemed right. The best way. I’m a doctor’s daughter, remember? I know what’s happening, what will happen. I have no illusions about death. We do what we have to do, what’s right and important, while we’re living. Not after.”
Slim inhaled, a big, sloppy, phlegm-soaked breath; she started coughing, a true fit, and had to have a glass of water. When finally the fit was over, and her chest hurt and her eyes were streaming, she saw that Babe was laughing, quietly.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to do that,” she teased, with that rare twinkle in her eye; the twinkle that Truman had so often brought out, to the surprise and delight of all. “Not you!”
“I’m going to miss you,” Slim blurted out, then clasped her hand to her mouth, horrified for saying it.
“I know.” Babe nodded, and seemed relieved to hear it. “But you’ll be fine, Slim. That’s one thing I know about you. You’re a survivor.”
Slim left Babe then, after a kiss to her smooth, moisturized, made-up cheek, and a whisper to “get some sleep, dear.”
But as she went down the hall, stopping first to see Bill, who was slumped in an armchair outside Babe’s room, kissing him, as well, embracing him as if the big, rangy man was a child, clutching him to her chest for a few moments while they both murmured soothing, nonsensical words, she wondered what Babe had meant by that.
“You’re a survivor,” Babe had said, and there was no emotion in her voice at all, none of the tears that Slim had shed upon hearing it.
What did she mean? Slim told herself she’d never know, even as she felt a tickle of fear race up and down her spine. She turned to Bill, thought about asking him, but knew that now was not the time. Bill was a broken man, crumbled by enough guilt to bring down the Empire State Building. No need to pile on. She would not be that woman; the kind of woman who made someone else’s tragedy all about herself.
There would be plenty of time for wondering, once it was all over.
Too much time. Too much time without Babe, without Truman, without kindness and elegance and oh, Christ, the laughter.
A dull, dismal lifetime.
—
BABE WOKE UP ONE MORNING knowing that she wouldn’t wake up again; it had been too much effort to swim up from the darkness, and she didn’t welcome consciousness and one more glimpse of the sun; one more day lying like a specimen, her family hovering over her, counting every single breath she managed to take.
So she gestured to a nurse, who understood; the nurse brought her a tray filled with her cosmetics, a small mirror on a stand, and Babe Paley did her makeup one last time, with the same calming sense of ritual she’d always had when she’d looked in the mirror, starting first with the foundation, applied with a sponge, so shakily now—the sponge weighed like a heavy stone in her translucent fingers although she couldn’t really feel it, as her extremities were cold and numb. But she didn’t flinch from the mirror, from the ravaged remnants of a person staring back; she knew she could conceal the damage, the flaws, and emerge beautiful, the butterfly from the chrysalis, one last time. She had to pause and take long gasps from the oxygen mask; she had to rest between applications, between the foundation and then the blush and then the concealer, and then the eye shadow, the intricately applied layers, and then the liner, which, with a grim determination, a gritting of her teeth, she managed to quiet her shaking hands long enough to apply flawlessly, the line straight and smooth, and she lay the liner brush down with a sigh, and felt as if she’d won a battle, the last battle. Now she was ready.
Now they could all come in, Bill and Tony and Amanda and Bill Junior, and Kate, the bald little girl whom her mother could barely look at, because her own flaws were on flagrant display in this child. Kate was now an angry young woman, and Babe sensed that she didn’t want to be there because she still couldn’t forgive her mother for her neglect, and Babe didn’t blame her. Babe really didn’t care who was standing vigil around her deathbed, but she knew that Kate would regret it forever if she hadn’t been there. Babe remembered sitting by her mother’s bed when Gogs passed away; she had felt so very detached and even resentful, but still.
The Swans of Fifth Avenue Page 28
