The Swans of Fifth Avenue(88)
The memories she carried with her of golden days, of communion, of a filigreed cocoon built for two; that cozy, intimate table big enough, and small enough, just for them. Truman. And Babe.
He hadn’t loved her, after all; he’d used her, just as he used the others. She was important to him only for material—oh, it wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true! The one person in her life whom she had trusted enough to expose herself, scars and all—her Truman.
And now it was gone. All gone. Only her emptiness remained.
After all the time together, all the confidences shared, the fears revealed, how had he not understood her at all? He alone saw how desperately she worked to hide the unpleasantness in her life, in herself—and in her husband; to live up to the expectations bestowed upon her from birth. Truman, alone, knew how terrified she was of anyone seeing the truth.
Anyone but him.
So how could he not understand that in publicly exposing Bill’s true nature, he was exposing Babe, as well? He’d humiliated her beyond reason, beyond anything Bill could ever do. Because Bill, for all his faults, was not a storyteller. Bill did not know how to use words to wound and expose. Now every housewife from Maine to California would read about her, Babe Paley—the woman in the fashion magazines, the epitome of all they desired to become—and see her, defective, ugly, out of control; all the flaws she battled, all her life, so that she could be a good girl, the perfect girl, Beautiful Babe.
Daddy’s perfect little girl; Mama’s great hope.
Babe rolled over on her side, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort, and began to rock back and forth. She heard the phone ring, and she knew who it was, but she did not leap to get it, as she always had, and knew, finally, that she never would again. Hot tears oozed out of her eyes, and she began to sob, mourning, keening, the loss of something so profound she marveled that the world outside her window still seemed to continue on, untouched.
The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself.
The loss of her true heart.
—
WHEN BILL JOINED HER for a quiet dinner in her room—she took many of her meals now on a tray, barely able to eat although she still did her best to see that Bill’s palate was continually delighted—he didn’t say anything at first. Babe folded her arms and glared at him, steadily, all the while he was peppering his steak. Finally he looked at her.
“I read it,” he said.
“And?”
“If I ever see that fat little fag again, I’ll kick him all the way back to Dixie.”
“And?”
“I’m sorry.” Bill put the pepper grinder down with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry, Babe. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry you’re ill. I’m sorry I’m such a bastard. I’m sorry that our friend did this to you—and to me. I’m sorry I ever saw Truman Capote, allowed him on my plane that evening. I’m just sorry, all the time, every minute of the day.”
“All right.”
That’s all Babe said, that’s all Bill said, about the matter. They ate their dinner in silence. And they never spoke to each other of ugliness, betrayal, mistakes—or Truman Capote. Ever again.
The end.
CHAPTER 21
…..
The next morning, Truman went to the set with a mouth so dry he could barely whisper his god-awful lines, but nobody seemed to notice; in fact, the director had already given up on him and this picture. The man simply threw up his hands and filmed what he could, which wasn’t much. Truman was excused from the set and spent the rest of the afternoon composing witty telegrams and sending them off.
His phone rang, all the time, and he answered, with a practiced smirk, “Truman Capote, literary assassinator,” which never failed to elicit a laugh. It rang and rang with the calls of gossip columnists, the booking agents for Johnny and Dick, old “friends,” such as Mailer, asking, with fake concern, how he was holding up; it rang with the calls from the editor of Esquire, who gloated over the number of copies flying off the stands—“You’ll give us another story, won’t you, Truman? As soon as possible?”
But Babe didn’t call. Neither did Slim nor Marella nor Gloria nor Pam; he had no one with whom to gush and preen and tell him he was simply the tops, True Heart, really; how on earth do you do it? He had reached C.Z. late yesterday, and burst into tears, so relieved to have someone—important, familiar, and dear—answer the phone that he could scarcely articulate his joy, his appreciation at being invited down to Palm Beach to commiserate—no, of course, he meant celebrate—on her golden shoulder.
Then he glanced at the clock; it was nine o’clock in the evening back in New York. Well, why not give it one more try?
He dialed the Paleys, and at the last minute had the brilliant idea to ask for Bill, instead of Babe. And joy of joys! He was put right through! His heart pounded so loudly in his ears, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. But then Bill’s voice said “Hello,” and he sounded perfectly dry and calm. Normal.
“Bill! It’s me, Truman, darling!”
“Yes?”
“Well, did you read it?”
“What?”
“My article, my story in Esquire! What did you think? I’m dying to know, of course—everyone is being so coy!”