The Swans of Fifth Avenue(72)

“So?”

“A yardarm is part of a boat, the beam or whatever at the bottom of the sail. You don’t know that!”

“I employ people who do,” Gloria retorted icily, in an exaggeratedly British accent. Then she muttered under her breath, “Besa mi culo, puta!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Papa used to say that,” Slim mused dreamily. “It was one of his favorite sayings. ‘The sun is over the yardarm.’ It meant it was time to drink.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Slim. Yes, we get it. You were Hemingway’s muse. Papa’s obsession. Papa’s unfulfilled love. And C.Z. was Rivera’s muse, and Babe was Truman’s. Well, who the hell’s muse was I?” Gloria threw a napkin ring down on her plate, hard, and everyone held her breath to see if the plate would shatter. It didn’t.

“Jesus Christ, Gloria! Calm down! We don’t want the Gestapo to arrive!”

“Oh, you would bring that up, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?” Gloria almost spat at Slim; she reared her lovely head back, tasted the saliva in her mouth, felt the Mexican blood finally fire up in her veins, pushing her to do what she’d spent a lifetime suppressing—act, feel, love, live, hate—spit, Dios mío! Spit at the puta’s feet!

She felt Marella’s hand on her arm, settling her down, being the princess that she was, calming her court.

“Shhh, Gloria, shhh. We’re not mad at each other,” Marella whispered, maddeningly reasonable. “We’re mad at Truman, remember?”

“Bastardo. Pendejo. Puto.” Somewhat mollified, Gloria swallowed, drank the brandy stinger Slim was handing her—where did it come from? She hadn’t ordered it—and lit another cigarette.

The smoky haze over their table was epic, even for La C?te Basque. It was like the smog of Los Angeles these days. The smoke from a forest fire. A monster from a horror film.

But no one seemed to care; they all simply coughed, waved, and lit up again. And again. And again.

“The ball, it was grand, though,” Pam mused softly. “Really, wasn’t it? One of the last times, the last elegant times.”

“It was,” Marella agreed.

“It all went to hell after that, didn’t it?” Gloria asked. Rhetorically.

Each now-slightly-tattered—lipstick was smeared, eyeliner runny, hairstyles melted, like ice cream on a summer day—swan nodded.

“What happened? What happened to the world? To Truman? To us?”

“Nixon. Nixon happened,” Slim answered Gloria’s question.

“Vietnam. Then Nixon,” Marella corrected.

“Whatever. Things changed. Our daughters became us, the beautiful ones, the socialites. Only they didn’t want to be us, did they?” Slim’s voice was hoarse.

“Just like we did not want to be our mothers,” Marella pointed out.

“But why not? We were better than our mothers! We were—we are—magnificent!” Gloria’s voice was a cry, a cry of anguish, of loss, regret. Slim patted her hand and signaled for another brandy stinger.

“We’re old,” Slim mumbled wearily. “Goddamn old. Truman made us feel younger, though, didn’t he? For a while. Then he—left us. Went off with that Studio Fifty-four crowd, Liza and all. Started bringing around those terrible men—remember the air-conditioning man?”

“Oh, Christ. I’d forgotten about him. Or I’ve tried to, anyway,” Gloria cackled. “What was his name again?”

“Danny. Danny something. I’ve never understood that obsession Truman had for him—he was so stupid, that one. Muscular, but dumb as a rock, out of his league. Remember when Truman brought him to Europe, took him to the best restaurants, and the poor slob was miserable, pining for hamburgers and baked potatoes? Yet Truman insisted this lug was the love of his life. He was just besotted, and heartbroken when the lug finally had enough. That’s when I just started not feeling—right—about Truman. I tried, I tried to be the same friend, but something was off with Truman then, don’t you think? And it all started after the ball.” Slim handed Gloria her stinger.

“I’ve even felt sorry for him, lately, with all his heartbreak, all these stupid men who keep taking from him and then leaving.” Gloria nodded. “Until now, that is.”

“Yes. There were times he tore my heart—I know he wrenched Babe’s. But he’s crossed a line.”

“Crossed a line?” Gloria gaped at Slim. “He murdered that woman. He as good as put those pills in her hand!”

“And he aired the Paleys’ dirty laundry,” Pam reminded them all. “And one doesn’t do that, if one wants to remain, shall we say—intact?”

“He aired Bill Paley’s stained dirty laundry, if you want to get right down to it,” Gloria mused. “Stained, bloody laundry, according to that story. How explicit Truman has gotten in his writing! He never used to be so vulgar.”

The other women nodded. Pam’s cleavage was so exposed, Slim leaned over and tucked a napkin into it. “For the sake of the children, dear.”

“Yet, of course, it was Bill who betrayed Babe in the first place. And who apparently told Truman all about it. Just like a man. A foolish, vain man. Oh, why do we do it?” Gloria wailed. “Why do we put up with it, with these men? These men we married when we were young and beautiful and desirable, even though they weren’t?”