The Swans of Fifth Avenue(16)
Truman had immediately followed her, though. He’d played surprisingly well, fielding balls with a fawnlike grace, and Bill had even given him a rare “atta boy!” when he’d hit a home run. But she’d known that Truman had detested playing as much as she had; they’d exchanged looks in the outfield. He’d made such a funny, wry face that she’d laughed out loud.
Truman.
He’d join them again this weekend; he’d promised, crossing his heart as solemnly as a child. And the realization finally allowed her to relax her limbs, so stiff her joints ached; her jaw, too, was released so that she was no longer grinding her false teeth, a necessity after that long-ago car accident—Babe shuddered at the memory, still. Always. Her hand reached up to trace a line along her jaw, where the skin was just slightly tougher, imperceptibly raised; her neck began to throb, reminded of how long she’d had to hold it still in that hospital bed, not move a muscle, or else. “Don’t you want to look as beautiful as before, Babe? Hold still, or you’ll scar even more. And we can’t have that, can we, dear? Your face is your fortune.”
Who’d said that? Papa or Mother? It was so long ago. The scars remained, though. Only Babe had ever seen them. And her teeth—oh, how she hated having false teeth! It was so cruel to be reminded of the inevitability of old age, teeth in a glass, when you’re only nineteen, as she had been. And no matter how much she spent, how many new dentists she saw, the teeth were always the same. They ached incessantly, rubbing against her gums, forcing her to nibble at food; she’d not bitten into an apple since before the accident. She had no choice but to sleep in them, whenever Bill shared her bed.
But, of course, he didn’t. Not in the most intimate sense, the most coveted, beloved sense. And no one knew this. No one. She was lonely in her own home, in her own bed—in her own skin—and she couldn’t tell a soul. “Don’t air your dirty laundry outside the family,” Mother had said a million times.
But Truman. Did he suspect? The way he looked at her, adoringly—but more. Or was it less? Sympathetically. Understandingly. He’d actually taken the time, that first weekend at Kiluna, to write down a reading list for her—suspecting the truth. That Babe was unfinished, as most decorative objects are; scratch the surface and all you see is a blank piece of porcelain or a canvas. And that she was ashamed of it, deep down.
“Just for you, Bobolink. I think you would enjoy these books. A mind, a heart, can’t be neglected.”
How did he know? They’d not discussed much of anything, beyond his childhood. After Bill had come home, and she hadn’t been ready for him, the rest of the weekend had passed in a blur of company and arrangements, meals and games and drinks and minor crises, like the mystifying disappearance of one of the game cups for the Parcheesi set, a dress strap of Slim’s breaking, requiring a last-minute stitching before Saturday’s dinner. She and Truman hadn’t had another opportunity for conversation, although she had longed for it the entire weekend.
And yet, before he left, he’d presented her with this reading list; Madame Bovary had been underlined twice. His eyes, behind the thick black-framed spectacles he wore while reading, were preternaturally wise and solemn, studying her as she scanned the list. Seeing right through her—the makeup, the clothes she’d picked out so carefully. He didn’t notice all that, didn’t care for it, except to admire her artistry. But surface wasn’t what mattered, not to Truman. Was it?
She wished that it wasn’t. She shut her eyes, determined to dream that it wasn’t. For Babe longed to confide—her true self, her hopes, her fears, yes, even her imperfections, Odeal in middle age—in someone; she yearned for it so desperately that her heart swelled with pent-up fears and frustrations to the point where she wondered if it could be seen beneath her tailored shirts and couture dresses, this pulsating, swollen, disgusting sac of desire. If the world only knew! Perfect Babe. Full of ugliness on the inside, teetering on the side of her bed, unable to sleep; unloved, unwanted.
Except by Truman. She had known it from the first moment they’d met, on the plane. Someone had arrived. Someone very important to her. How does one know that, before the first hello? It’s a heaviness in the air combined with a lightness of step. It’s a slowing down of the past, and a speeding up of the future. A desire to both giggle and cry. A table for two, not one. But tucked away in the darkest corner of the restaurant, curtains drawn tight about it, the table groaning with enough wine to loosen tongues and hearts.
“Don’t air your dirty laundry,” her mother whispered in her ear, one last time, as Babe’s mind finally slowed down, welcoming blanketing, numbing sleep.
“But Truman doesn’t count,” she protested softly, even in her drowsiness taking care not to disturb a sleeping Bill.
“Truman. He might be a friend, I think. And I haven’t had a friend in so long.”
And Babe finally went to sleep.
CHAPTER 6
…..
Tell me about—your first kiss.
“A boy in second grade.” Babe grinned slyly. “He told me I was too pretty not to kiss, so, of course, I let him! Mother sent me to private girls’ school after that.”
“A boy in second grade,” Truman said, and cackled. “Me, too! He didn’t tell me I was too pretty. He had no idea what I was doing to him. Neither did I! But I saw his lips, his rosy lips, and I simply had to taste them, to see if they tasted like roses or cherries—something candied. Something sweet. I was hungry for that, for sweetness. In my life.”