Then he shook his head and looked at Babe. He smiled, brilliantly; a beam as vibrant as the flower he held. He started spinning, his arms outstretched; he whirled about, faster and faster.
“So do you know what I did?” he called out, still beaming, his head turned toward the sun, his arms reaching out to the sky. “I twirled. I stuck out my chin and I twirled and twirled, the best, the biggest, the most beautiful star in the whole damn parade! I wasn’t going to let those brats see me cry. I wasn’t going to let Sook know how devastated I was. I wasn’t going to let my parents break me, in any way. I was simply going to be the very best.”
Truman stopped, stumbling a bit as if he were dizzy, and his breath came in quick bursts.
“And do you know what? I was. I was the very best star that day. I had the best time of any of them. And then I went home with Sook and she made me my favorite cake, a lemon cake, and we ate it together, every last crumb, in the kitchen, when it was still warm from the oven, a little drizzle of bourbon sauce on top. And I didn’t think of my parents at all. Not at all.”
Truman took that white flower, and, gently tiptoeing up, he tucked it into Babe’s hair and kissed her on the cheek.
“So there. Now you know. Something I’ve never told anyone before. Something I don’t want anyone else to know. A gift to you, from me.”
“Truman, I—I’m so sorry. Earlier, I mean.” Babe gazed down at the flowers in her arms. “I used to love to drive, you see. I had the cutest little roadster, when I met Bill. But then, well—we had a car, and a driver, and that was the way it was. Befitting our position, naturally. So I’m rusty, and I apologize for scaring you. I’ll be more careful, going home.”
“Babe, my darling Babe, don’t you see? I don’t care! I loved seeing you that way, giddy, free—having the time of your life! It was so unlike you, the you that you present to the world. I felt privileged, to see that side of you. I was just making a joke. It’s such a little thing, my dearest girl! Please forget about it, and enjoy yourself, and drive like a maniac on the way home. Forget Bill. Forget what’s expected of you. Just enjoy yourself—twirl!”
“I am enjoying myself now,” Babe confided, touchingly shy. She tried to conceal the sudden flush in her cheeks by burying her head in the flowers. “I know it’s silly, to be so worried all the time, but I—well, I just don’t want to disappoint anyone, you see.”
“You could never disappoint me. Now, I’m buying you all the flowers. The entire stall! Madam.” Truman turned to the woman vendor, who had been watching them this whole time, her mouth open, her lap full of flowers. “All of your wares, please! Pack them up, every last one of them, and allow me to pay.”
“Oh, thank you, Truman!” Babe dropped the flowers she held into a basket that the woman hastily provided. Then she grasped Truman’s hand. “Thank you, for everything. For all.”
“My pleasure, my darling heart!”
The two of them hauled basket after basket of bright paper flowers out to the car. Babe drove very carefully back up the mountain, so the flowers wouldn’t spill. And that night, at dinner, there were flowers everywhere, tumbling out of small baskets, cascading out of vases, a paper flower on every plate.
Truman pinned his—a sunny orange poppy—to his lapel, and Babe wore five, clustered together in a corsage, on her shoulder. She kept the snow-white rose in her hair.
Bill didn’t seem to notice any of the flowers. Although he did compliment Babe on the conch fritters, wondering why the two of them suddenly started to giggle like schoolchildren when he did.
—
TELL ME—WHAT IS YOUR greatest fear?
There was a long silence. No sounds but the low hum of the pool filter, the faraway grazing of a lawn mower, and the determined clip clip of a gardener on the other side of some tall azalea bushes, trimming away.
“That someone will see,” Babe whispered, while at the same time, Truman murmured, “That someone will find me out.”
“That no one will love me,” Truman added after another moment. While at the same time, Babe admitted, “And that I’ll never be loved, truly.”
They didn’t look at each other. They only sat quietly, kicking at the water. Two pairs of bare feet, vulnerable, occasionally bumping into each other, tickling, nudging.
Two paper flowers reflected in the pool water. Comforting.
CHAPTER 7
…..
“Now I’m going to be very serious. So listen, please!” Truman banged a butter knife against his champagne flute.
The swans fluttered and sighed, turning toward him. Slim rummaged around in her purse for her glasses. Pamela adjusted her cleavage and leaned over her plate toward Truman. C.Z. burst into giggles. Marella frowned, hoping she would be able to keep up with the conversation; Truman’s accent was so foreign to her ears. Gloria smiled one of her Mona Lisa smiles: a secret tickle of the lips, designed and perfected in front of a mirror countless times.
Babe adjusted the napkin on her lap and settled back into her chair, turning to her right. Truman grasped her hand beneath the table, giving it a little squeeze; she detected the private twinkle in his eyes, just for her.
“Do I have everyone’s attention? Good. I would like to announce that we’re going to play a little game. That’s why I invited you all here, you know. Not just because I wanted to see each and every one of you after my time in the Gulag, but because we need to have some real fun.”
“I heard your time in the Gulag was simply divine, and you had caviar and vodka every day,” Slim called across the table.
“It was, and I did, but that’s beside the point. And you can read all about it when the book’s published—oh, didn’t I tell you?” Truman turned coy, tucking his chin into his chest, assuming that breezy, “oh, this old thing?” attitude he always assumed whenever he talked about his work. “Bennett said when I’m finished with the article—and the writing is going divinely, thank you very much!—he’s going to bring it out in book form, too. I already have a title. The Muses Are Heard.”
Babe led the applause, which Truman grandly allowed; she was thrilled that only to her had he told the whole story. How he’d been so amused by the whole experiment of taking Porgy and Bess to Soviet Russia that he simply had to tag along and write about it. How disappointed the entire company had been when, in fact, they were not served caviar and vodka every day. How absurdly the producers had behaved, believing themselves to be great ambassadors of the arts and not just wealthy dilettantes, looking for glory. How curious the Russian audiences had been about the black actors and singers, how they’d asked about lynchings and other things no one really wanted to discuss. How one night Truman found a bar full of Soviet drag queens, hidden in the basement of a basement of a basement; hidden from the police. And how hideous the men had been, yet how they’d touched him with their bravery, their tattered dresses so tacky, but obviously cherished.
Everyone at this table at Le Pavillon was Truman’s friend—at times, each could claim he had whispered that she was his very best friend, ever. But only Babe knew that for sure. Their friendship was a fact of her life, as she knew it was a fact of his. The best fact of her life, as she’d recently told her analyst. Who’d nodded and written this down and made no comment, other than, after the session was over, to ask if she could get Truman to autograph a book for him.
“Now, ladies.” Truman raised his hands, like a conductor; like a well-rehearsed orchestra, they all turned to him, breathless. “Thank you. But that’s not why I asked you all to lunch with me today. Lift up your plates and see what’s there!”
Puzzled, Babe did so, like the rest. This was a surprise, then! Even to her. And she had a momentary pang of pique. Why hadn’t Truman let her in on the joke first?
“What is it?” C.Z. waved a small, elegant envelope, sealed. Each exquisitely manicured hand held an identical one.
“Open them,” Truman cried, a very impish gleam in his eye that Slim, at least, caught. And that made her hold her brea
th as she opened her envelope.
Inside were four calling cards. Face-lift was printed on one card; Breasts on another. Tummy tuck and Nose job were printed on the last two.
Everyone tittered nervously, surveying the cards. Slim squinted through her glasses at Truman. “True Heart, dear, what deviltry are you up to now?”
“Well,” Truman drawled, his eyes still sparkling. “Everyone’s had it done, haven’t they? At least once? One kind of plastic surgery?”
Pamela pulled her neckline up. Gloria reached for her bag, ready to manufacture some kind of excuse for leaving. C.Z. laughed.
Slim watched Babe, who had paled, even as she continued to gaze smilingly at Truman. Trusting him, Slim realized. Completely trusting him not to humiliate her, or anyone else at this table. Yet Slim could not quite do that. Truman was fun, so much fun—God, who else would show up at Kenneth’s while she was getting her hair done with the unpublished memoirs of a Paris gigolo and read them aloud to her in his most resonant voice while she was helplessly trapped by the hair dryer?—but there was always a dark undercurrent gurgling at his feet, threatening to suck under those who got too close.
“Now, I’m going to call out a name, and I want you each to hold up the appropriate card. Let’s start with something easy. Marilyn Monroe—a darling girl and a dear friend of mine, but oh, what a mess she is! Do you know”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“that while she was married to DiMaggio, she was terrified of his mother? The most beautiful woman in the world, according to some—not me, though”—and once again, Truman squeezed Babe’s hand beneath the table—“spending her days in the kitchen trying to make spaghetti sauce just like Mama DiMaggio used to make?”
“No,” C.Z. squealed. “No! Are you serious?” And then she held up her Nose job card, and Truman put his finger to his own nose, and they both giggled.
They leaned in to hear more gossip about the Hollywood star, whom no one would ever have invited into their homes, but in whom they were all voraciously interested, anyway.
“And,” Truman drawled, relishing the spotlight, the beauty of his swans, their glorious heads all turned toward him, “she really is a mess, the poor girl. An insecure mess, and, honey, you wouldn’t believe the hygiene! Nonexistent. Truly. She smells. Marilyn Monroe reeks! That’s why none of her leading men can stand her.”
“Oh!” A collective, superior gasp, champagne flutes lifted, jeweled throats exposed.
The game continued—“Mamie Eisenhower!” And Truman, his face red with merriment, as each and every one had held up Breasts, except for Slim—who called out, “Ike!”—took a sip of champagne, leaned back in his chair, and sighed contentedly. “Oh, you are all so gorgeous! I could sit here and look at you forever and ever.” And they knew they were safe from the game, safe from exposure; this wasn’t about them, not at all. This was about the others. And so they could play it unreservedly, and did; even Babe, who normally did not stoop to such lows. No one had ever heard Babe Paley say a catty thing about anyone else, and here she was holding up her Face-lift card and giggling like a twelve-year-old.
Good for her, thought Slim, watching. She needs something like this, for all that she has to put up with. And in that moment, Slim decided not to be jealous of the relationship between Truman and Babe, after all. She had been; everyone was. It was the talk of the town. What is going on with the Paleys and Truman?
Because Truman was suddenly there, not just in Babe’s coveted orbit but in her Givenchy pocket, her Hermès handbag, her Wedgwood teacup. And Bill Paley, notoriously stingy with his wife’s company even as he had so little regard for it, didn’t seem to mind at all; in fact, he welcomed Truman’s presence in his wife’s life, and seemed to enjoy it in his own. They were a trio, a peculiar little trio made up of the most powerful man in television, the most beautiful woman in New York, and the most darling, fey—and bitchy—of all the literary darlings. Truman had his own room at all their homes; he had an open invitation to use the CBS jet. It was known that Bill had given him some advice concerning money and investing; it was whispered that, on more than one occasion, Truman had even managed to coerce Bill Paley into singing “Danny Boy” around the fire after dinner, and had taken him down to the Village one evening to see a drag show.
Who was who in this relationship? Was Truman the child, and Bill and Babe the parents? Were Truman and Babe naughty siblings? Were Truman and Babe maybe—more?
Or was it Bill and Truman?
Oh, the possibilities! Slim’s head buzzed to think of them. She decided, for now, only to be happy for her friend. Who had never, in all their years of friendship, pounded her fists on the table and laughed as girlishly, as giddily, as she was doing right now.
And if anyone deserved that, it was Babe Paley. Slim, more than anyone, knew that.
“Oh, look!” Truman did not lower his voice, and Gloria frowned regally, in disapproval. But Slim looked, and her pulse quickened, the corners of her mouth began to tickle. Oh, this was good. This was very good, indeed!
For who was walking in the front door of Le Pavillon but Elsie Woodward and her murderess daughter-in-law, Ann?
“Can you believe it?” Truman’s voice finally did drop. “Oh, girls, tell me all! I was out of the country when it happened, but you were here! I only heard the barest, driest, dullest of facts. Is it true? Did Ann shoot Billy Woodward in cold blood?”
“Yes!” Gloria hissed, shaking her head. “She most certainly did!”
“And she claimed it was a prowler!” chimed in C.Z.
“She said it was in self-defense!” Slim piped up.
“She claimed it was too dark to see,” Pam added throatily.
Babe didn’t say a word; she merely arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, someone tell! Tell it all,” Truman begged, throwing his napkin down and climbing up on his knees, so that he was bouncing up and down like a little boy. And they all laughed to look at him; who could resist such an audience?
And so, with an imperceptible nod from Babe, Truman’s swans fluttered their bejeweled hands, swarmed about him, and began to hiss:
The Story of the Murderer and the Martyr
We all remember when Ann started showing up.
(“I don’t,” said Gloria, “because I was still living abroad.”)
(“Doing what?” asked Slim, with a malicious grin that Truman couldn’t help but notice; his ears practically bristled like a cat’s.)
(“Never mind,” said Gloria, waving her hand regally.)
Anyway. It was during the war. Ann, Ann—what was her name then, anyway? Cryer? Crower? Something like that. It didn’t matter. She was from Kansas. So it just didn’t matter.
Ann was a radio actress—not bad, either. And a showgirl, of all things! But she started showing up with Bill Woodward, the father. Just popping up wherever he was. Elsie, the dear (“Poor Elsie,” Marella whispered), turned a blind eye, as one would imagine. We all love Elsie (“Poor Elsie,” Gloria murmured). Who doesn’t? She’s truly beloved. She really does take her charity work to heart, her position in society.
Well, you know the Woodwards are old money by now. Not back in the days of Mrs. Astor, no, they wouldn’t have quite passed muster; Ward McAllister would have run them out of the ballroom.
(“Well, hell,” Slim interjected, stabbing out a cigarette and lighting another. “The old snob would have thrown all of us out, come to think of it.”)
(“Really, Slim,” Gloria scolded. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”)
But now, with the banking fortune and that terrific stud farm, the Woodwards are officially old money.
(“Oh, the farm is terrific,” enthused C.Z., wrinkling her freckled nose. “Have you been there? It looks like a Red Door spa for horses! Manicured lawns and gardens, and the stables so clean and gleaming!”)
Anyway. Bill and Elsie Woodward had the one son, Billy. Well, Billy is a charmer, but, you know, there were rumors….
(“Gay,” Pamela whispered apologetically to T
ruman.)
(“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Truman replied, with just a hint of ice.)
(“No, no, that’s not what I meant—oh, well—”)
Anyway. Billy married Ann. Just like that! Out of the blue. She was the father’s mistress and then she became the son’s bride. Well, Bill, even if he had been the one to fall for whatever charms she had—
(“Now, now, Ann is attractive,” Babe protested, inclining her head toward the corner table where Ann, in black, wan and very blond and very slender, sat staring into her lap while her mother-in-law removed her gloves and placed them next to her plate. Neither woman seemed able to look at the other.)
Yes, attractive, sure, if you like ’em cheap and blowsy, which she was back then—
(“How much weight do you think she’s lost?” Slim mused. “Because I should try it. Although I don’t think I want to kill Leland. Yet.”)
(There was an uncomfortable silence; Pamela dropped a knife on the floor, and bent to retrieve it. The hairs on Truman’s neck stood on end, like fine-tuned antennae.)
Anyway. Attractive Ann may have been, but still—a radio actress, marrying a Woodward? Bill and Elsie (“Poor Elsie,” whispered Pamela) were not pleased. But they tried to make the best of it, for Billy’s sake, and to stave off any gossip.
But gold digger Ann wasn’t so happy, once she married into the family. She and Billy began to have operatic screaming matches. It was because no one—absolutely no one—would be seen with them. Not even for poor Elsie’s sake. Ann was very vulgar, very crass. She simply couldn’t be taught—or wouldn’t learn. Elsie had to be taken to her room the evening Ann wore red shoes with a blue evening gown at one of her dinner parties.
(Babe gasped. Truman sighed. “Tacky, tacky,” he said.)
But for some reason, you know, the Duchess of Windsor took a shine to her. Of course, vulgar knows vulgar. The Duchess of Windsor liked Ann, and had Ann and Billy over frequently. In fact, it happened the night of one of their dinner parties. Apparently, Billy and Ann were drunk and tearing into each other and it got to be so bad that even Wallis asked them to leave.
The Swans of Fifth Avenue Page 7