The Swans of Fifth Avenue(84)

And so began a lifetime in hell, a hell even more scorching than her miserable marriage had been. Elsie swooped down on her, paid everyone off, locked Ann up only to take her out occasionally, telling one and all that it was a terrible, terrible accident, pure and simple. Of course she believed her daughter-in-law! Of course the two of them were grieving together, finding solace in memories of dear Billy.

When the two of them were alone, though, Elsie was anything but the gracious society lady; she spewed forth a lifetime of pent-up venom against “the other woman,” who just happened to be her daughter-in-law. Did Elsie truly mourn her son? Ann never really knew. She had to sit through streams of invective followed by the cold shoulder, then a car would pick up her and deposit her back into her apartment, until the next time Elsie wanted to trot her out for “appearance’s sake.”

Then even Elsie ran out of hateful things to say, in her crisp, modulated voice, and sent Ann away to Europe with instructions to stay put or else. Well, Ann did, for a while, but Europe was so damn old and boring and nobody there wanted anything to do with her, either, so she came home. Elsie then locked her back in this cage, not even bothering to trot her out to ease the gossip, but it didn’t matter. Everybody had forgotten about the whole thing, anyway. Society had a very short memory. But still, nobody wanted to see her. The phone didn’t ring. Invitations didn’t appear in the mail.

All she’d ever wanted was to have a little fun, ya know? Back in Kansas, where she was born, where she had first married for kicks, then ran away from the louse, then to New York, where she got in the shows, had the stage-door Johnnies eating out of her hands, then bagged a big fish, ol’ Bill Woodward, who then passed her on to Billy. Who married her. And took all the fun away.

Because being rich, she’d found out, wasn’t really that much fun. In order to be rich, she was supposed to act differently; the money, the position came with so many gilded strings attached. She must dress a certain way, behave a certain way—decorum, Elsie was always harping. Taste, dear, taste. That’s the thing.

The other dames could do it—look at Babe Paley, with her quiet voice, her regal posture, her graceful movement, unhurried, focused. But Babe wasn’t much fun at all; Ann had never seen her really cut a rug in public, or laugh with abandon, or drink too much, or smile too broadly. What good was money, without fun? Ann really couldn’t play the game, when all was said and done.

You know who else couldn’t play the game? Capote. That mincing little creep. He might give himself airs, throw that goddamn party to which she hadn’t been invited, not that she ever expected it, but still. Elsie had been invited.

But Capote wasn’t any better at being rich than Ann was; he couldn’t hide his stripes any more than she could. The two of them were trash, scum, or maybe even worse.

The only difference was the Babe Paleys of the world didn’t know it about him, because he hadn’t pulled that goddamn trigger.

Not yet, anyway.

Goddamn, the day was shaping up to be another winner. Ann fingered the torn lace on her negligee and whimpered. She’d have to beg Elsie for another, and the thought of scraping through the rest of her life on her knees, begging for handouts, all for the sake of appearances—

Wasn’t it time for a drink yet? Or more pills?

Ann poured herself a good one—a tumbler of bourbon, no ice—and settled in an armchair with the magazine.

She might as well read what the faggot had written. It couldn’t be any worse than the stories she told herself, every single worthless, endless day of this worthless, endless life she was barely living.

—

WHEN THEY FOUND HER the next day, the tumbler was empty. And the magazine was still clutched in her cold, stiff fingers.





CHAPTER 19


…..

OCTOBER 17, 1975, LOS ANGELES





Truman was on top of the world. He, Truman Streckfus Persons Capote, Mama’s Little Disappointment, was starring in a movie! Finally, after years and years, ever since he was a little boy watching Shirley Temple wiggle and flirt and tap her way to fame—oh, my, remember that time he dressed up in one of Sook’s old dresses and tapped for his mama in the kitchen of the house in Monroeville? It was during one of Mama’s rare visits. Sook loved to let him dress up in her old gowns, so this time, they rigged him up in a yellow silk dress with torn lace flounces; Sook pinned it up so he wouldn’t trip over it, and then she turned on the phonograph and he tapped and lisped around like Shirley herself, giving the performance of his life. Mama, it need not be said, was not amused; she ran to the outhouse, actually, and he heard her retching from inside the kitchen.

Well, look at me now, Mama! I’m a movie star!

Neil Simon had asked—begged! implored!—him to play the part of the villain in his latest movie, Murder by Death. “What Billie Holiday is to jazz, what Mae West is to tits…Truman Capote is to the great god Thespis!” Truman crowed to one and all.

And it was true! Maybe.

If he was being honest with himself—which he was not in the habit of being, but sometimes one did slip a little—making a movie was not easy, even if he was basically playing Truman Capote, as he’d been instructed to do. But he had to speak other people’s words, not his own; Neil Simon had not taken kindly to the suggestion that Truman rewrite his part, even after Truman reminded him he had written very good screenplays in the past. So Truman did, sometimes, stumble over the dialogue—when he could remember it. And, yes, perhaps he did keep looking down at those marks that he was told, repeatedly, that he had to hit or else he’d be out of camera range; how on earth was he supposed to hit them without looking at them, while remembering someone else’s words to say? But the director didn’t seem to understand this predicament.