The Swans of Fifth Avenue(13)
“Jack.”
“I don’t like those people.”
“Jack, you’ve not even met them.”
“Yes, I have. In various guises over the years. They’re all the same. Phonies.”
“No, they’re not, Holden Caulfield. The Paleys are different. Babe is, for sure. And Bill, well, I think he might be, too. There’s something about him.”
“They distract you,” Jack growled. “They’re not worthy of you. I have no idea why you’re so fascinated with the rich and famous and pretentious.”
“But they’re beautiful, Jack! Their lives are so quietly beautiful, devoted to graciousness, taste, decorum. I admire that—I think that’s the epitome of living, to be able to create art out of your life. It’s what we do, in a way, isn’t it? In writing?”
“Hardly.” Jack flung the pepper grinder down with a snort. Jack, tall and freckled and lean, reddish-blond hair balding, glared down at Truman, short and pale and lean, blond hair receding. “I can’t bear the thought of you comparing yourself, with your talent, to them. It’s ridiculous. And I thought you said you despised Paley, after that weekend with those parasites.”
“Well, I barely know him. I should be fair.”
“Men like that don’t deserve your charity, Truman. People in general don’t.”
“Oh, my misanthropic darling.” Truman sighed, putting his arms about Jack’s waist, allowing one hand to slide between the waistband of his pants and warm, yielding flesh. “What would you do without me to shine light on your dark and dreary world?”
“I did just fine without you, before,” Jack growled. But he did not throw off Truman’s embrace. The two leaned into each other for a moment, surrendering to blissful, ordinary domesticity—oil sizzling in a pan on the stove, fragrant rosemary in a pot on the windowsill, their two dogs warming their ankles with their heavy, stupid dog breathing. A quiet meal ahead, a martini or two, reading in bed before the lights were out. Familiar yearnings satisfied by familiar bodies; Jack had been a dancer, which never ceased to thrill Truman as he traced those muscles still retaining their disciplined sculpture, those battered feet with their astonishingly high arches. Truman’s body was much less disciplined but still wiry, with a surprising hardness of the abdomen and biceps, so slender that lanky, raw-boned Jack could almost put two hands about his lover’s waist—“like Scarlett O’Hara,” Truman liked to boast. Then sleep, in their ordinary basement apartment in ordinary Brooklyn Heights, Manhattan and all its tempting glitter safely across the bridge, for now.
It should have been enough, Truman knew. Enough to be with Jack, wrapped in his arms, satiated and sleepy, a good day’s work behind him, another ahead. He had projects galore on his plate, because he was Truman Capote, literary darling: a trip to the Soviet Union with a touring company of Porgy and Bess paid for and the resulting story to be published by The New Yorker, his old employer (and his first real publishing disappointment, long ago but never forgotten). House of Flowers, based on one of his short stories, was still running on Broadway, even though it was only a matter of time before it closed. Breakfast at Tiffany’s was simmering, percolating, proceeding one agonizing word at a time.
He was at the top of his game, he knew. He’d never doubted he’d be there, not even when he’d been fired from The New Yorker. And he loved a darling man, who loved him in return—in his own gruff way.
But it wasn’t enough, and late that night, as Truman turned away from a softly snoring Jack, there was a dancing flame inside of him that would not be extinguished, could never be extinguished no matter how many sleeping pills he took. No matter how many times he told himself that it could be lit again by the morning sun. But there was always more. More beauty to be seen, more places to travel, more acclaim to be won. More love to earn, to barter, to exchange or withhold. To miss, always.
Outside, looking in. Why did he always feel that way, every moment of every day?
Even when he was at the center of attention, standing at a lectern reading, slicing into a cake with the cover of his book depicted in the icing—it was never completely his. There were always other things going on; two heads bent in conversation in a dark corner of the room; a secret smile between lovers; a peal of laughter prompted by a joke he hadn’t heard. People exchanging telephone numbers—not his. A whispered “I’ll get a taxi for us all,” and suddenly a group of four had vanished with a hurried waggle of their fingers in his direction, blown kisses in perfumed air that never quite reached his cheek.
Leaving him behind. He was always left behind.
So he had to try harder. Be more. Be better, more sparkling, more vibrant—a spotlight shining up to the heavens, lighting the dark, drawing everyone to his brilliant beacon. If he only dressed a little more outrageously—why not a velvet cape to go with a velvet suit? If he only danced a little more vigorously—doing the Charleston when everyone else was doing the two-step. If he only leapt into a room, arms outspread, legs kicking up behind him, instead of merely walking into it.
If he only told the best stories, dished the most delicious gossip, dropped the grandest of names.
Then, perhaps. Then. Would he truly belong?
Would Mama come get him so that it would be the two of them, finally? And he would be loved, embraced, and see only pride and understanding in those eyes, those shining, shining eyes, brown, almost black, peering out of a face sculpted out of marble, high cheekbones, aquiline nose, a slender neck, a swan’s neck, black, black eyes like a swan, feathers ruffling, arms beckoning.