The Swans of Fifth Avenue(46)
One time, the two of them had gotten very drunk and decided to call Babe, long distance, and tell her something shocking, something very un-Babe-like; they’d asked the operator for the trunk line, waited for the connection—drinking vodka shots all the while—and when Babe finally was on the other end, Slim had slurred a lurid little tale about having her period while having sex one time, and how horrified the man was, and then Slim started giggling so hard she was suddenly crying, so that Truman took the phone and told a shocked Babe that Slim must be on her period now, the poor baby, so please forgive her and kiss kiss, Bobolink, you’re my one and only and I miss you!
And then he hung up and begged Slim to tell him the story again.
Slim had been on top of the world then. Secure enough in her marriage to leave her husband at home while she traveled. Stupid enough to believe that she could have an affair or two—and tell him about it, the fatal mistake, and one that he, Truman, had begged her not to make—and believe that it wouldn’t matter. She took off soon after for another trip, this time to Italy with Betty Bacall. More drunken phone calls to friends in the middle of the night, but nobody minded, because it was Slim! And she was keeping Betty company, making her laugh, which she needed, since Bogie had so recently died.
But that Italian trip was when it happened. And now, look at her.
“Darling Slim, I just want to carry you around in my pocket all the time and take care of you. I have a wonderful idea! Let’s make something up about Pamela and start spreading it around! I could make up some dreadful disease or something!”
“How about the clap?”
“Perfect!”
Slim smiled wanly. But then she turned her head away, and Truman knew she was crying.
“Babe is devastated, of course. You know that, right?”
“Yes, yes. Babe comes here every day. She cleans up, has food delivered, makes sure I bathe. She invites me to Kiluna every weekend, said I could stay at Round Hill, in Jamaica, anytime I want. Babe is, well—Babe. The kindest friend I’ve ever had. And I don’t deserve her.”
“So you don’t blame her?”
“No! How could I! She did what I told her to do—she looked after Leland while I was away in Italy. She made sure he wasn’t lonely. God, what a damned fool I was! I am!”
“What was it you told Leland, again, when he called you? It was so perfect, Slim! So completely cutting and truthful!”
“I told him, when he said he wanted a divorce, I told him—‘Leland, nobody marries Pam Churchill!’ And nobody does! How many affairs has that tramp had?”
“Dozens. Hundreds. Hence the clap!”
“But wouldn’t you know it. My husband. The last of the great romantics. He wants to marry the bitch.” Slim got up, kicked at the foot of the coffee table, and went to the bar. She opened a bottle of Scotch, raised an eyebrow at Truman, who nodded, and poured them both two tall glasses, not even bothering with ice.
“Babe had no choice but to invite her. Pam was a guest of Jock and Betsey’s, and Babe needed an extra woman for dinner one night, and Leland was there, and so—”
“I know, I know! And it’s not as if Leland didn’t know Pam before! Why that time, that particular dinner, I’ll never understand. And she was so nice to me, when Betty and I were in Europe! She kept sending me flowers, telephoning to see if there was anyone she could introduce us to! That a friend—that someone who called herself a friend—could do that—” Slim’s hands began to shake, and she had to set the Scotch down. She seemed on the verge of more hysterics, but then she took a deep breath, clenched her fists, and picked up the drinks, handing him his.
“But that’s that, I guess. Some might say it’s only what I deserve. Leland wants a divorce. I’m not going to contest it, not anymore.”
“So get back at him. Have an affair of your own.”
“Well, you know. I did. Sinatra. Peter Viertel.” Slim glanced at Truman, bit her lip. “Others. And yes, I guess that—I know that’s part of why he was susceptible to that British whore’s charms. But for Christ’s sake, Truman—that’s what marriage is, of course. You take care of what you need to on the side, but for God’s sake, you stay married!”
“Naturally. Unless you’re some poor sop from the Midwest, with enchanting midwestern notions about marrying for love. Where was Leland born again? Nebraska?”
“I do love him, True Heart! I do! That’s the thing! I love the man, and I thought—oh! Oh, my God, that’s it!” Slim looked stricken; she set the glass down without having taken a sip.
“What?” Truman didn’t wait; he took a long gulp from his Scotch; he was still a bit damp, raw from the rain. Then he grimaced; this was not the good stuff, not the usual Johnnie Walker Black. He didn’t know what it was, but he heroically hid his distaste from Big Mama, who continued to stand, stock-still, as if she’d taken a good long look at her unkempt self in a mirror.
“Oh, my God. I married the last old-fashioned man in New York, didn’t I? That poor, dumb, softhearted bastard! Leland simply can’t imagine sleeping with someone unless he marries her. He was that way with me, with Maggie Sullavan before me. Even with Kate Hepburn, now that I think about it. Leland wanted to get married and Kate didn’t, because she wanted to focus on her career. And now Pam. He slept with her, and so he has to marry her.”