The Swans of Fifth Avenue(94)

Truman and Babe.

And it was hell now, knowing that he wasn’t invited, wasn’t asked to say good-bye, and it was the same old thing, the same well-worn record, played over and over and over, that he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t man enough, wasn’t enough for her, after all. For anybody. Look at him, standing here, crying all by himself, pissing himself, choking on vodka and tears, all alone, again. Still. Forever.

Truman watched as the casket was loaded into the hearse; one of the pallbearers fumbled a bit, didn’t let go, and almost found himself dragged into the hearse right along with it. Then the door was closed, the beautiful people slid into their cars—into the backseats, behind their drivers—and the procession left, and Truman still remained, freezing cold despite the sun, a terrifying emptiness in which something cold and brittle rattled around, maybe it was his heart, maybe it was just the glass shards of the last vodka bottle, and he didn’t know what to do next; he was Vivien Leigh at the end of Gone with the Wind, a tearstained, remorseful bitch.

Oh, Rhett! Where shall I go? What shall I do?

“Rough day, huh, Truman?”

Truman blinked, squinted his eyes; the cabbie was in front of him.

“That’s not the line, darlin’.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Let’s go home, huh, Truman? You don’t look so good.”

“Neither do you,” Truman retorted, but it wasn’t malicious; he hiccuped, shook with drink and loss and grief, and allowed the cabbie to fold him back into the car.

“Let’s go home, chum.”

As the yellow cab turned around in the now-empty street, Truman leaned back, dizzy and suddenly drenched in heat and sweat; he threw off the black cloak, crushing the flower beyond repair. He closed his eyes and slept.

An hour later, he opened them; they were on Fifth Avenue.

“Tell me,” he cooed, rubbing his eyes, “are you single?”

The cabbie’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror; there was a flicker of interest that Truman had seen all his life in men of the heterosexual persuasion who suddenly found themselves propositioned by a celebrity.

But then the cabbie flashed an apologetic grin and said, “Nah.”

“Pity,” Truman replied, closing his eyes, resigned to his loneliness now and forevermore.

And then he took another drink. Because that’s what Mama would want him to do.

—

“I HALF EXPECTED TRUMAN to show up,” Pamela whispered, and though everyone leaned in to hear, they were not accosted by her bosom, as she had covered it up with black Italian lace for the solemn occasion.

“If he had, Bill would have thrown him out himself.” Gloria sipped the impeccable wine that Babe had chosen for the occasion, her favorite Pouilly-Fumé de Ladoucette.

They were at Kiluna, surrounded by Babe. In every flower, every white-jacketed waiter, every elegantly folded napkin, every soft note of music playing from the outdoor speakers, even the birds chirping, the scent of freesia, lilies, roses everywhere—she was there.

The women were seated together; their husbands surrounded Bill, a silent ring of wealthy and powerful bodyguards, protecting him from something, something none of them could recognize, but there was a threat, nonetheless; they sensed it.

And the threat was female, had they been able to think clearly; already there were anxious women circling, hovering, waiting to have a sympathetic word with the new widower, to assure him they were there for him, would be happy to console him in his grief with a quiet dinner, just the two of them, some evening when he was up to it.

“Babe wouldn’t have minded, I don’t think, if Truman had been there,” Slim said, and the others gasped in shock. “No, really. Do you know what she said, before she died?”

“Nothing about him, at least not to me. You know, I saw her the day before,” Gloria said icily.

“I saw her the evening before,” Pamela pointed out.

“I was in Palm Beach,” C.Z. said glumly. “But I telephoned that night.”

“Anyway,” Slim interrupted. “She told me that she had betrayed Truman, and not the other way around.”

“No!” All four gasped.

“Yes. She said that he’d thought we loved him, and that if we really had, we’d forgive him anything. That he was trying to test us, to see if we did, after all. And so we failed him.”

“I never said I loved him!” Gloria was aghast, she began to twitch all over. “How dare he? He was amusing, that’s all. Amusing, for a while. Talented, yes, of course, once upon a time. But no longer. And—not to speak ill of the dead”—she crossed herself vehemently—“but Babe is—was—an idiot, a softhearted idiot, to think any differently. He betrayed us. Finis!”

“You know how I feel about it all,” C.Z. drawled, and everyone else stiffened in preparation, for they did know. “You have only yourselves to blame, not Truman. I think he’s a helluva lot of fun—well, not lately, but back then, although he did bring me to that Studio Fifty-four thing, which was exciting, but I wouldn’t go back—but the point is, I never told him anything important. Not a thing. I kept it all fun and light with him, and so he had nothing to use. You all should have done the same.”

Slim, observing Gloria’s neck begin to tense, her fingers fumble with the cutlery, hissed a warning: “Remember what we’re here for, girls. We’re here for Babe. For her. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Never mind.”