The Swans of Fifth Avenue(51)

And then she left them—oh, what was that line in Truman’s book? Babe scurried over to the bed and picked it up; yes, there it was. Bonnie was talking about her youngest son—“And how will he remember me? As a kind of ghost.”

Babe shook her head, lit another cigarette. She’d never have thought she’d have so much in common with a plain neurotic housewife from Holcomb, Kansas.

Yet surely that was how she was to her four children: a ghost. A fabulously dressed, unattainable ghost. She left them to their own devices so that she could tend to herself, and to Bill. So that she could tend to her guests, her house, her gardens, her clothes, her charitable organizations. And so that she could tend to Truman; she let him into her heart as she’d never let her children, and she knew it, and they knew it, and so she understood that if she were murdered in the middle of the night as Bonnie Clutter was—messy, imperfect, frail Bonnie Clutter!—she would not be mourned half as much.

Except, of course, by Truman. Astonishing, great little Truman. Who had written an astonishing, great big book that had taken the world by storm, and now she had a new fear—oh, she was afraid of everything, wasn’t she? She was just like Bonnie Clutter! Only a few cigarettes away from retreating to her room, never to emerge in the daylight. Her parents had not raised her to be afraid, but she was; she was constantly beset by uncertainty, nibbled by doubts. If only the world knew! But Truman did know; he knew everything about her, every tough scar and tender wound, except this—

He did not know that she was terrified of losing him.

Despite her education practically at his own knee—the reading of Dickens, Proust, Faulkner—she honestly didn’t know how she was going to talk to him now. Sharing her doubts and dreams with this great man seemed absurd. Tickling him, dancing with him, exchanging confidences and gossip—how on earth could she continue doing that? Now that she had read this book, this book by someone else, not her confidant, not her soul mate. This was a book written by a man—and she had ceased to think of Truman as that. He had become an extension of herself: her analyst, her pillow, her sleeping pill at night, her coffee in the morning.

The phone rang, jolting her out of her reverie. Babe padded over to the gilded French provincial phone on her bedside table, not waiting for the staff to answer. For she knew who it was.

“Bobolink! Darling! So—tell me! Tell me what you think!”

Babe almost gasped with relief. Truman sounded just like—Truman! Her heart, her soul, her twin. And not the great man of letters.

“Truman, dearest one, I loved it. I devoured it, every word. I’m in awe of your talent—I always have been, but now! This really is it. Your masterpiece.”

“I know!” Truman giggled, and Babe did, too. She wished he were with her, so she could see his expression, even as she knew what it was—she could picture his pink face, his eyes crinkled up, his pure, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin; she knew he was dancing up and down, hopping from one foot to the other in delight. Truman enjoyed himself more than anyone she knew; he luxuriated in his success, did not attempt false modesty, did not attribute it to others, or to luck, or to anything but his own talent. And you had to love someone like that.

“Oh, Babe,” he continued, his voice still a riot of delight, a bubbling, babbling river of joy, “I’m so, so happy you think so! What was your favorite part? Tell me, do. I really want to know. Everyone keeps telling me it’s Perry and Dick, but especially Perry. I captured Perry perfectly. I wanted to show the soul of a killer, but also that of the wounded little boy who had a choice, and made the wrong one.”

“Yes, of course, Perry is brilliant. Your characterization of him, I mean.”

“That’s not your favorite part,” Truman said instantly. “I can tell.”

“No, it was Bonnie. Poor Bonnie.”

“I knew you’d like her.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Because you identify with her, my Babe. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” Babe blushed; how could she feel this way, as if he’d X-rayed her over the phone? “Oh, how did you know, Truman?”

“Because I know you, dear. I know the you no one else can see, not even Bill—especially not Bill—because you don’t let them. And they don’t deserve to! I know the real Babe. The loveliest Babe of all. And the loneliest.”

“Can you—would you like to come out?” Babe wound the telephone cord about her finger, feeling as shy and giddy as a teenager. “I’m all alone out here. I wanted to be, in order to read your book, to be able to really concentrate. But now I’d—I’d like to see you, Truman. If you can, that is. I know you must be so busy.”

“Oh, Babe, dearest, I can’t! Can you believe I’m being interviewed for television? Not CBS, unfortunately. But Lee Bailey wants to come out to my place in Southampton with his cameras.”

“Oh.” Babe would not admit her disappointment, would not diminish her friend’s obvious, deserved excitement in any way—would not be Bonnie Clutter. “Oh, Truman! How wonderful! What will you wear, for the cameras?”

“Well, I was thinking my orange cashmere turtleneck, and some plaid pants. Very colorful, but not too much for the cameras. What do you think?”

“Yes, that sounds right.” Babe didn’t voice her opinion that the sweater would do a good job of camouflaging his tummy; he had grown rather more soft during the writing of this book, the long years of waiting for Perry Smith and Dick Hickock to meet their deaths by hanging so he could finally write the ending. All the delays, the stays of execution, had pushed Truman to indulge himself in food and drink and dejected inactivity. “I always think a turtleneck is proper, for most occasions.”