The Swans of Fifth Avenue(30)
Babe was more astute. She soothed where Dorothy had nagged; she waited where Dorothy would leave impatiently on her own. She anticipated—everything. His hunger, his moods, a tickle in his throat that worried him, and that she couldn’t possibly know about, but she did.
His boredom. She anticipated that, as well, and did her best to alleviate it. Truman, for example; she’d brought Truman into their lives, and damned if he didn’t like the little queen, after all.
He certainly made life more interesting, that was for sure.
Bill opened the refrigerator again and grabbed an onion, peeled the skin, sliced it paper-thin, so quickly his eyes didn’t have time to water. He thought of that first night at Kiluna, when he’d arrived, stunned, to find that Babe wasn’t waiting for him downstairs, a drink in her hand, and at first he was angry, petulant as a child. Truman stayed the weekend, along with the usual suspects, Slim and Leland, Gloria and Loel, Minnie and Jim Fosburgh. During dinner Truman had been amusing, arch, gossipy, but not too; he’d told funny stories about John Huston and Humphrey Bogart, and he’d made Babe laugh. Not in that polite way she did whenever Bill told her a funny story, but hearty guffaws that made her shoulders shake, her eyes tear up. And Bill hadn’t seen Babe laugh like that in, well—ever.
After dinner, when usually they’d all retreat to the drawing room and play quiet games, Truman insisted on dancing. He’d actually brought some records—all CBS, which Bill of course noticed, and gave him points for—and they’d played them out on the terrace. Truman was an astounding dancer: lithe, light on his feet, knowing all the latest moves.
At one point, he grabbed Babe by the arm. “Dance with me, Bobolink,” he sang. And Babe, who never danced because he, Bill, hated it, blushed like a schoolgirl. But with a ready eagerness that took Bill by surprise, she leapt to her feet, those damned little bells tinkling as she did so. And Bill Paley watched his wife, the graceful, reserved goddess, the refined Mrs. Paley, jitterbug with Truman Capote with utter abandon. She twisted her hips, licked her lips suggestively at Truman, rewarded the astonished onlookers with drowsy come-hither looks, before finally closing her eyes and abandoning herself completely to the music. Then she followed Truman as he led her into a sexy rhumba, the two of them melting into each other’s bodies despite the absurd difference in height; Truman’s head came up to Babe’s collarbones, but somehow she was the one resting in his arms, and the two of them, bodies supple, slender, bending to the music and to some other rhythm palpable only to each other, had stirred in Bill such a feeling of longing, of unaccountable sadness, that he’d found himself blinking away a few tears.
When the dance was done, everyone but Bill had burst into applause. Slim leapt to her feet and shouted “Bravo!” And Babe, an enormous grin on her flushed face, her hair uncharacteristically tousled, but somehow this only made her look even more beautiful, bowed deeply, graciously, and then allowed Truman to lead her back to her seat with a light-footed grace worthy of Fred Astaire.
Bill had never seen his wife look happier.
“That was quite a show,” was all Bill could say. Babe didn’t reply; she only flashed him a shy smile, put her hand on his arm, and motioned for a butler to fill his wineglass. He hadn’t even realized it was empty.
After everyone went up to bed, Bill remained on the terrace for several moments, flummoxed about what had just happened, why he had been stirred to such emotion simply by watching his wife dancing with a fag—a graceful, lithe fag, but still a fag. That his wife could look so radiant! So girlish! Babe was cool, calm, and collected. Always. When he proposed—“Of course, Bill, I’ll marry you. There’s nothing else I would like more,” followed by a kiss on his cheek and one quick flash of gratitude from those doelike eyes. When she presented him with a son—“Bill, darling, I’d like you to meet your namesake, William S. Paley Junior.”
The few times they’d had sex, in fact: “Oh, darling. Yes, that’s wonderful. You’re a marvel. You know just what to do to make a girl feel—oh.” And the last just a small gasp of surprise. But she never broke a sweat. Never even mussed her makeup. Just looked at him adoringly, with gratitude, then after an appropriate amount of time, wrapped herself up in a sheet and went to fix her hair.
But Truman, the little fairy—he was the one to put a shine to her, make her sweat, glow, muss her hair. Just by dancing?
Bill had gone upstairs feeling as if his equilibrium was off, but not knowing entirely why, when he’d heard a small, childish lisp. “Oh, Bill! Come sit with me. I can’t sleep.” Startled, Bill found himself peeking into one of the guest rooms. Only to behold a tousled blond apparition in silk pajamas, tucked into bed with the covers up to his chin, patting the mattress beside him.
Bill froze. Was this a proposition? Surely the little fag knew he wasn’t like that? By God, he’d throw the twerp out of the house first thing in the—
“Oh, don’t look so terrified. You’re not my type, I assure you. I just thought you might like to talk. I know I would. I can never go right to sleep after a party. I’m always too wound up.”
And so Bill Paley walked into Truman Capote’s bedroom and sat down on the bed, and ended up talking for three hours, during which the two of them repaired to his small kitchen to scramble some eggs and uncork a bottle of champagne. Truman’s breadth of knowledge impressed Bill; he asked very intelligent questions about radio and television, and art. He asked advice about having one of his short stories made into a teleplay. He never once propositioned him, or made any inappropriate or lewd gesture or remark, and by the time they both had to admit they couldn’t keep their eyes open one more minute, Bill had come to look at Truman as both a peer and a waif. Because there was such an innocence to him; he was so certain of his future, of his place in the literary world, in posterity, even, that Bill could only shake his head. Had Bill Paley, even in his confident youth when everything he touched turned to gold, ever been that certain?