The Swans of Fifth Avenue(71)
“Truman, I mean it. I haven’t been to anything like it. You did it, you were marvelous, and I’m privileged to have been there.”
“You stood out, of course, the envy of all. Slim and I were just talking about you—were your ears burning? You, my dearest, were a rare flower, in a sea of garishness. Not that everyone wasn’t beautiful—they were—although Slim, poor thing. What are we going to do with her? She has lost all her style. Simply lost it.”
“I thought she looked lovely, Truman,” Babe said, quietly admonishing. “I heard you tell her so, yourself.”
“Well, of course I did! It was the charitable thing to do! But you, my darling Babe, were singular. You always are.”
“You are sweet to say so.” But Babe flushed, and she ducked her head, and Truman squeezed her hand. Dozens of people a day told Babe Paley how beautiful she was. But she really believed it only when Truman did.
“Now tell me—tell me everything. Everything wonderful about last night. Tell me a story, Mama.” Truman closed his eyes, nestled deeper into her lap, and smiled in anticipation.
And Babe, who had never read a good-night story to her children when they were young, for she was always getting ready to go out or down to dinner when they were put to bed, and that took time, of course, time to array herself to perfection so that Bill might notice her, so that at least he would be proud to have her on his arm, took a deep breath and began,
“Once upon a time, there was a wonderful party, a beautiful fairyland of light and flowers and people, and one in particular, the most wonderful, the host….”
And soon Truman was asleep. And Babe was content, that aching pit in her belly filled with gratitude and purpose, and still she talked on and on in her low, soothing voice, spinning him a tale that weaved back and forth through time, from a chance meeting on an airplane long ago, vacations together, shared intimacies, secrets, fears and hopes and dreams, until last night, and this morning, and the future, and the two of them together, always, trusting, loving, for they only had each other, didn’t they? Children grew up, grew beautiful, grew successful in their own right. But Truman—Truman would remain the same.
He would love her. And allow her to love him.
And so she told him other stories, stories she’d never told anyone else, all of them true because Babe did not know how to lie. “I had an affair,” she whispered, “but you knew that, didn’t you? You guessed it, long ago. It was only the once, because I couldn’t stomach it. Yet Bill still sleeps with everyone but me, and I’ve told you that so many times before, it’s a broken record, but in its way it’s the truest thing of my life, the one thing I can count on and can you believe it, I’ve grown to rely on it? I’m getting old, older, and so is Bill, so I don’t think of leaving him anymore, because who would have me now? Where would I go? Who would have him? Getting older means having fewer choices, I’ve discovered. Not that I had that many when I was younger. But when I was younger, I knew my face. Now, when I look in a mirror—but when I look in your eyes, I still see myself. And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Truman?”
She looked down at him; his mouth was open, his pink cheeks slack as he snored softly. So she whispered, “And, Truman? Bill can’t hurt me anymore. My children can’t, either. But you—you could. You’re the only person in my life with that power. I don’t know how you could, but it’s true. And I’m afraid of that. Only a little. I’m also happy, because it means I do love you, truly.” And she smiled, because to have Truman fall asleep on her lap was a gift, a precious gift; no one else could claim him like this. Babe knew he had made the rounds before coming to her; she knew it was his nature. Her approval wasn’t enough, it would never be enough; one person’s love never would be enough for him. And that was the difference between them, because she needed only Truman’s love, and he needed the world’s.
But still, hers was the lap he sought; her embrace was where he fell asleep, and she cherished his trust, his childlike repose. For once in her life, Babe felt peaceful, unhurried. Bill’s dinner could go unordered, the dressmaker who was supposed to mend her dress from last night uncalled, the masseuse who was scheduled ignored. Truman’s party receded into the realm of make-believe. This, this moment, was real, but more precious, more golden, than any fairy tale.
And outside, the world spun and spun, the elegant carousel of the 1950s and Camelot speeding up, wobbling on its machinery, threatening to become a psychedelic hurricane of change. But it didn’t wake Truman up. Nothing could stir him from his dream. Shhh, be quiet. Mama’s here. Mama’s back.
Mama loves me best.
La C?te Basque, October 17, 1975
…..
“The sun,” said Slim, nibbling at an olive, “is over the yardarm. Let’s have a drink.”
“The sun has almost set,” Gloria retorted, “and we’ve been drinking all day. What the hell is a yardarm, anyway?”
Slim laughed, noiselessly, her shoulders shaking, her glasses askew.
“What?” Gloria scowled.
Pam was quiet. Too quiet. Pickled, Slim decided, squinting, trying to get her into focus. Marella was mumbling to herself in Italian.
“You—you have a yacht!” Slim pointed at Gloria, gasping for air.