The Swans of Fifth Avenue(19)
But Babe was jubilant; she had a fierce grin on her face the whole time, and when she roared to a stop outside a small courtyard in the middle of the town of Montego Bay—a collection of cobbled streets and brightly painted buildings—she brushed her hair out of her eyes, adjusted the Gucci scarf about her throat, threw back her head, and laughed.
“My, that was fun!”
“I’m glad one of us enjoyed ourselves.” Truman grimaced, gingerly tested his tongue, and Babe instantly stopped laughing. She whipped off her sunglasses and laid a hand on his arm, her gaze grave, a pucker between her eyes.
“Oh, was my driving terrible? I suppose it was—I don’t get to do it very often. Bill doesn’t think it’s fitting. I’m so, so sorry, Truman. Bill’s right. I never should have driven, because I scared you, and oh, that’s the last thing in the world I want to do!”
“No, no, it was fine. Really. Just fine.”
But Babe seemed troubled, and stayed that way as they strolled through the market. It was small, a cluster of stands made out of wooden crates or palm fronds, piles and piles of the most tempting fruit—bananas and papayas and kumquats and peaches and limes and lemons and oranges, ruby grapefruit, pineapples as big as Truman’s head. There were adorable little Jamaican children, their clothes vivid white against their dark skin, dancing around for money. Women in brilliantly colored dresses, turbans on their heads, sat at their stands, spreading their wares; there were scarves and straw hats and bags, gauzy cotton dresses in vivid tropical colors, leather sandals.
But Babe’s mood remained downcast, despite Truman’s running narrative—“Oh, my, I’ve never seen such fruit, not even down in the Village!” “These little children are simply gorgeous—look at how graceful the girls are, the way they carry themselves, so tall and proud. Mrs. Vreeland would want to collect them all!” “Do you hear that music? It’s Calypso, isn’t it? It reminds me of Harry Belafonte—who is divine, by the way. A gentleman, and a true artist. I’ll introduce you to him.”
Then Truman stopped in his tracks; they’d come upon a stall overflowing with colorful paper flowers. Blossoms burst out of baskets, carpeted a small rattan table, were pinned to the grinning vendor, covering her so that she looked like a float in the Tournament of Roses Parade.
“Oh, Babe—look!”
Babe did; she smiled, but her eyes were dull with remorse.
“No, I mean really look.” Truman reached up and grabbed her by the shoulders and marched her right into the middle of the stall, so that they were surrounded by cheerful, vibrant flowers. “Now, how can you stand here and not be simply awash in happiness? Just try to frown right now—I dare you, just try it!”
And Babe did, finally, grin; she began to touch all the flowers, picking them up one by one, and then Truman was doing the same. He proceeded to scoop up huge, messy bouquets and pile them into Babe’s arms, showering her with the delicate, vivid blossoms—there were paper roses and orchids and tulips and impatiens and begonias and poppies, reds and purples and oranges and yellows and greens and blues. Babe began to giggle, and then she was glowing with happiness, her cheeks as colorful as the blossoms. They spilled out of her arms, stuck to her shoulders, her skirt, her shoes, even.
“Voilà! You are a work of art, darling!”
“Oh, Truman!” Babe gasped, her eyes wide, crinkling up in pure pleasure.
“Oh, look—look at this one!” Truman plucked a snow-white rose from her arms. “Do you know what this reminds me of?”
Babe shook her head.
“When I was a little boy. Back in Monroeville. One Christmas, we had a parade of all the children. We all had to dress up—Nelle and I were stars, twinkling little stars. My cousin Sook made me a white jumpsuit, and she fastened pasteboard points on my head, my arms and legs—the five points of a star. She painted them snow white, as white as this flower. And I was so thrilled, because Sook whispered that my mama and papa were going to come see the parade. Oh, Babe, you don’t know how much that meant to me—I hadn’t seen them, you see, in months! Most of the brats in school didn’t actually believe I had parents, to tell the truth. And so I spent the entire week leading up to the parade telling everyone my parents would be there—why, they were even bringing a talent scout from Hollywood! Just to watch me! Or so I told everyone.” Truman studied the flower in his hands, twirling it.
Babe stood still, afraid to move. She didn’t want to spill any of the flowers. She didn’t want to break Truman’s spell.
“Well, anyway,” Truman continued, “the day of the parade, Sook walked me and Nelle to the school, where we were supposed to line up. ‘When will they be here? When?’ I kept asking, and Sook kept shaking her head and saying, ‘Truman, I just don’t know. Soon, I hope. Soon.’ She left me with the teacher, who lined us all up, and then we started walking down Main Street, toward the old courthouse. The high school band was playing Christmas songs, and there was a Santa Claus, and ranks of angels, and then, finally, us stars. I didn’t really concentrate on what I was doing. I just walked along, searching the sidewalks for any sign of my parents. Finally, I saw Sook and Jennie—the other cousin who cared for me. Jennie was scowling, as usual. I never saw that woman smile! But Sook, she just looked so sad, and when she caught my eye, she shook her head. So I knew that my parents weren’t coming, after all.”