Swan Song

by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

  From the age of fifteen, Babe Paley, formerly Mortimer, née Cushing was not once glimpsed without lips and cheeks subtly painted, without her eyelashes carefully applied, enhancing incomparable features—even if it meant applying one’s Face in the hushed half-light of the vanity mirror, then slipping back into bed beside a snoring partner. Or waking at dawn before the first of a heaving house of guests had had the gall to rise.

  Houseguest, lover… even one’s own husband should never be subjected to anything other than the radiant perfection of a Fabulous Cushing Sister.

  To her credit, Gogs’ ambitious plotting had paid off in spades. Three daughters, two marriages apiece. Betsey: a Roosevelt and an Astor. Minnie: a Whitney and a Fosburgh. Gogsie couldn’t have been more pleased. But for Barbara… her Babe… the sky was the limit. She held the biggest and most glimmering hopes for her youngest daughter, the beauty among beauties, the sylphlike creature with her father’s height and her chiseled, delicate features—Babe, with her aristocratic air and unpretentious charm. She who possessed the involuntary power to turn each pair of eyes in every room into which she chanced to float. That she was kind and bright was but a bonus. Surely Babe would fulfill Gogsie’s final ambition: to marry titled royalty. Of course, her mother worried that Babe’s stint as an editor at Vogue risked branding her an Office Girl, but it did give her access to the sartorial offerings showered upon her by couturiers who encouraged her emerging status as a tastemaker. While the looming label of ‘careerist’ failed to win her approval, Gogsie was the first to appreciate the rewards that a high profile might yield for her glamorous daughter.

  She was vaguely disappointed when Babe chose to marry oil heir Stanley Grafton Mortimer, Junior. He was rich enough, good family. Gogs chalked it up to a decent starter marriage. Two children in six years—a boy and a girl; then the marriage fell apart (the War … Stan drank), and Gogsie resumed her vigil. Imagine her shock when Babe, the prize thoroughbred in her stable of splendid offspring, then chose to marry beneath her.

  Babe ignored the comments. The rumors. The polite inquiries, dressed up as interest: ‘And what club does Bill belong to… ? Ah… too busy at the network… ? Dear me—what an absolute go-getter!’ She ignored Waspy whispers as they breezed past tables at the Colony… ‘He’s Jewish, you know…’ Even worse, the patronizing ‘How… exotic!’

  Instead, she eschewed Old Money snobbery and embraced Bill’s new breed of power. Where New Wealth was born of ingenuity. Where an ambitious boy could turn profits from his immigrant family’s cigar concern into a radio network acquisition, and end up a titan in the fledgling field of broadcasting.

  She fell hard for Bill Paley’s dynamism. His zeal was infectious. He wanted so desperately to belong to those grand old families, he became a tenacious apprentice; a mongrel sniffing and digging around pedigree pooches who’d had all the life inbred out of them. Babe found his avidness endearing. His passion for beauty, moving. She knew she was his most coveted acquisition. She’d become the object of perfection he fixed his greedy eye on. All that outsider Bill Paley—who’d been kept from the right schools, the right clubs—had ever desired in life. It was as flattering as it was unnerving. She had thought that once he had her, he would feel that he had arrived. She would feel safe in the love of a man for whom she held the keys to the rarefied kingdom. He would bask in the knowledge that his wife was the finest portrait of elegance, studied and admired by all, but his alone to keep.

  She would make herself perfect for him. His acquired masterpiece. They’d conquer empires, with his power and her grace. Together. The Paleys. The Perfect Couple.

  That was before she realized that Bill wasn’t shopping for one masterpiece…

  He wanted a collection.

  ‘WE NEED OYSTERS!’ Bill Declared to the Selznicks, cutting his eyes to Babe.

  She stifled a sigh with a drag from her L&M.

  It was now January in Manhattan and Babe knew that Bill’s casual comment meant a reordering of her day. The next morning she had planned to go to Kenneth’s. She needed her hair colored and her nails buffed. So much for that. She would instead be trudging through slush to the fishmonger in Chinatown, in order not to disappoint.

  She tapped her ash, adjusting the long, gold cigarette holder she was never seen without. Bill adored shellfish—oysters especially—with an unnatural passion. His mother had kept a strict kosher kitchen. Perhaps that in part explained his insatiable appetite, his rebellious enthusiasm for all things gastronomical (crustaceans and pork products in particular). In one day, Bill Paley could quite literally consume up to eight meals. That he managed to keep a slim, athletic figure without lifting anything heavier than a fork was an affront to dieters everywhere.

  ‘Kumamotos,’ Bill enthused. ‘Ice cold. The flavor is unsurpassed. The Japanese began importing them just after the war. They’re the firmest, sweetest things you’ll ever put in your mouth! We discovered them in LA, come to think. At Dave Chasen’s. Speaking of which…’ He leaned in toward his dinner companions, excitement mounting—

  ‘… Have you tasted their chili?’ Bill practically licked his lips. ‘Heaven,’ cooed Jennifer languorously. ‘I’d give my left arm for a spoonful now.’

  After the five-course meal they’d just polished off—shrimp in aspic, crab salad, corn bisque, baby rack of lamb, and the pots of chocolate custard—Babe doubted Jennifer Jones wanted anything other than to fall happily into a deep, comatose sleep.

  But Bill… sweet Bill. His passion for food—consuming or discussing—knew no bounds.

  ‘I think we can do better than that! Baby, darling, what do you say? Could Dave send some chili over on ice to Round Hill?’ he asked, purloining Babe’s untouched pot de crème, helping himself.

  She reached for the miniature gold-framed notepad beside her plate, paired with a miniature gold pencil, kept close by at all times for jotting detailed notes on the eccentric errands she would be expected to run to keep the incomparable Paley legend alive and well. She wondered, if she managed all in record time, if she might still make a quick stop at the salon…

  When she mentally clocked back into the conversation, mercifully Bill had dropped the topic of Chasen’s menu before further strokes of inspiration occurred.

  ‘Truman really is something,’ David was rhapsodizing. ‘An utterly original person.’

  Babe allowed herself a moment, picturing the staid portraits of a bland liberal Democrat, lacking the charisma of FDR. Poor Harry Truman looked about as ‘original’ as a lipless, lifeless banker.

  Babe shifted her eyes to Jennifer, who was saying, ‘… he’s charming, Babe. Enchanting. You’ll simply adore him.’

  Babe smiled, mask of neutrality in place. But the divine Mrs. Paley had mentally moved on to her lists, pondering what kinds of fruit, books, and flowers a former President would like, and how to get chili from California to Jamaica in less than two days’ time.

  THEY COULDN’T HAVE appeared more dazzling, Mr. and Mrs. William S. Paley, as they boarded the CBS jet that freezing January morning. He in his Savile Row suit. She in a slim navy sheath and coat, Hermès Harnais scarf shielding her coif from the elements.

  They smiled their thousand-watt smiles, greeting the pilot and staff. Bill offered Babe his arm, gallantly assisting her up the rolling passenger stairs. An unnecessary gesture, but how thoughtful. What care he took. How delighted she seemed.

  Who ever could have guessed that the Paleys had fallen out?

  On board Babe settled into her seat, flipping absently through Women’s Wear Daily while Bill served up the silent treatment. He seldom lost his temper; he simply froze her out, leaving her to stew until she earned his favor back. She would rather weather anyone’s rage than Bill’s disappointment. It simply tore her apart.

  ‘What would you like?’ Bill, with polite indifference.

  ‘Pouilly, please,’ Babe answered, not looking up from her magazine.

  Mr. Paley summoned the air hostess, while Mrs. Paley foc
used on ‘The New Silhouette.’

  AS IT TURNED out, Babe had failed.

  Failure was unacceptable, and she was, beneath her guise of serenity, in a foul mood.

  She’d managed the chili, but fallen short with the Kumamotos. Dave Chasen assured her that no one could get them. Apparently California oyster farmers had banned the Japanese supply when they discovered they could cultivate Kumamotos themselves. But Chasen swore the domestic variety wasn’t the same. He recommended the European flats, Belons from Brittany. He promised they had a lovely seaweed-and-sharp-mineral taste. A meaty texture… almost a crunch to them.

  She had gone on a three-shop hunt for Bill’s favorite barbecue sauce, making her late for Kenneth. There was time for a set, but not a coloring. At forty, Babe’s chestnut hair had started to reveal its first silver streaks and she agonized over what to do about it. She had planned to cover the traces of gray this last appointment, but after the oysters and the chili and the sauce…

  Babe sat beneath the domed dryer, having her nails rounded and painted in a glossy oxblood lacquer, carefully maintained twice weekly—for with enough wear and tear, they, like anything, might chip and fray and eventually be broken.

  WHEN BILL HAD learned that the Kumamotos were off, he clenched his teeth and made a sandwich. He sawed at a loaf of rye, methodically layering cold cuts, disappointment palpable.

  ‘Chasen said you just can’t get them, darling. No one can,’ Babe had explained.

  Silence. He removed a jar of pickles from the icebox.

  ‘It’s on account of the oyster farmers…’ She trailed off. Trying again: ‘Chasen said the European flats are divine. Seaweed and mineral undertones—briny.’

  ‘I don’t like briny.’

  Babe had sunk into a chair at the kitchen table. She rubbed her temple, sensing a migraine coming on. Bill sliced his sandwich in half. He ate it standing at the counter, his back to her.

  ‘Darling, I did try,’ Babe offered, defeated.

  ‘I suppose the Selznicks won’t know what a Kumamoto tastes like until they’re back in California.’ Then, evenly, ‘It would have been nice if we could have kept our promises.’

  THE SELZNICKS’ CAR Pulled up alongside the plane just after set departure time. Without looking up, Babe could feel Bill glancing at his watch, hardly attempting to conceal his annoyance. He hated leaving late.

  ‘Throws the whole schedule off,’ he’d simmer.

  Babe tensed, knowing that Bill Paley waited for no one. Not even a former President. And where was their illustrious guest? Not with David and Jennifer, she noted, glancing out the window.

  As David removed luggage from the trunk, he was joined by an odd little man—the chauffeur, perhaps?—struggling to lift a suitcase twice the size of his body. His efforts were hindered by the most extraordinarily long scarf, flapping in the icy wind, tangling them in its wooly, stripy length. What a strange driver, thought Babe as she rose from her seat, preparing to meet-and-greet.

  They boarded the plane, all kisses and smiles, the jovial Selznicks and the odd little man trailing behind them like an eager terrier.

  He beamed at Babe, and it was as if the sun exploded. When he opened his mouth, it was the voice of a twelve-year-old girl that squealed with delight.

  ‘Well, aren’t you just the most stunning creature who ever was born? I’m beside myself.’ He looked to Bill, whose brows had set in a permanent furrow at the bizarre, unexplained presence. The Terrier thrust his human paw forward, shaking Bill’s hand with an unexpected grip. Strong. Confident. Like a macho lead in a Bogart film. At complete odds with the rest of his persona. ‘Mr. Paley—may I call you Bill? Bill, you are just the luckiest man in the whole wide world! She really is exquisite. A Goddess—with a capital G! I must say, I’ve never met such a gorgeous couple in all my life!’ To the Selznicks—‘Not that you’re chopped liver, angels!’ Jennifer and David laughed. Bill stared, mouth agape.

  The Terrier nudged past him and took Babe’s arm, confidentially. As if they were longtime friends, sharing a vital confidence.

  ‘Now, Mrs. P—I’ll call you Babyling. Jenny says you’re just the hostess-with-the-mostess. What do you say we get ourselves a little splash of something and have the nicest of chats… ?’

  Babe couldn’t help the smile that overcame her. He bombarded you with his warmth, this little man, this pup. It was disarming. It was magnetic. He was unlike anyone she knew.

  Within no time they were huddled together in a corner of the plane, giggling, sipping champagne; oblivious to the others.

  Bill ordered a round of drinks for David and Jennifer, and another Scotch for himself. He checked his watch again. Finally, to David, tersely, ‘How long should we wait?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Will he be here soon?’

  ‘Will who be here soon?’

  ‘Harry Truman, for Christsakes!’

  David grinned at Jennifer, who broke into peals of laughter.

  ‘Bill… that’s Truman!’

  Bewildered, Bill craned his head to study the Terrier, gossiping with his wife.

  ‘I thought you said that Harry Truman—?!’

  ‘We said Truman. As in Capote. We thought you knew!’

  Bill frowned. ‘Who the hell is Truman Capote… ?’

  BY THIS POINT, across the plane, Babe and Truman were busy falling madly, platonically in love.

  At that very moment he was saying to her, ‘We must go on a trip together, darling—just the two of us. I know! Let’s run off to Tangier! There’s the most fabulous little hotel I know…’

  By the time they touched down in Jamaica, Truman and Babe had covered thirty years of history in four hours time. Family trees (hers illustrious, his illiterate). Educations, or lack thereof (she hardly had one, apart from etiquette; he flunked high school, apart from English). Preferences in art and music and books (Renoir, Bach, Proust). High above the Atlantic they developed a kind of shorthand, bordering on telepathy. It was as if they had known one another all their lives. This was more than Truman’s stock charm routine. This was a merging of souls.

  ‘You know, Babyling,’ he had told her on the plane, leaning in, ‘I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. Not another living soul. I know that we just met, but I feel as though I can trust you… Am I right? Can I trust you, darling?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He leaned in closer and whispered in her ear—

  ‘My Mama died this last year.’

  ‘How awful for you. I’m so sorry…’

  Then he lowered his voice, almost a whisper. ‘Yes… But she didn’t die of cancer, or in an accident like I tell people when they ask. My Mama killed herself with a bottle of Seconal, chased with a bottle of Scotch.’

  ‘Oh, Truman!’ Babe’s expression darkened. ‘How unbearable.’

  ‘And do you know the worst of it, Babyling?’

  ‘What?’

  He paused, cautious. ‘Can I really, really trust you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, never meaning anything more. ‘Yes, of course, you can trust me.’

  ‘I loved her so much, you see, but I know she didn’t love me. That’s why she kept leaving me. She told me she had an abortion once because she said she couldn’t bear to have another child like me. She thought I was grotesque.’ The tears began to well in his eyes. ‘I thought if I could be enough, she would love me. If I could only write enough—succeed enough. I thought if I could achieve enough, she’d have to change her mind. But in the end, I wasn’t enough. She choked down that bottle of pills and it was like driving down that long dirt road for good. Just like she’d done a hundred times when I was just a boy in Monroeville. She left me time and again… With my spinster cousins. Or locked away in motel rooms. No matter how I adored her, she could never love me the way I wanted to be loved.’

  He wiped the tears away quickly with the back of his hand, beaming at her grave expression, brows furrowed with compassion.

  ‘My gawd, but
you’re beautiful. I think you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. And I can tell you’re beautiful on the inside too—and that’s what really counts.’

  Babe had listened to his confession, wanting to scoop him in her arms and love him in a way his Mama had failed to. She watched him drain his drink (they’d moved on to dry martinis) and chew his olive, lost in an ocean of thoughts.

  She felt a sudden impulse to share a truth with him in return.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ she asked out of nowhere, surprised to hear the words leave her mouth.

  Babe never let her guard down. Not with private concerns. Mother Gogsie had trained her girls to be stoic. One didn’t complain, one got on. One couldn’t reveal one’s pain to male conquests, for that would spoil the ‘mystery.’ One didn’t show one’s cards to female friends, for no matter how close (sisters included), they were one’s competition. But Gogs certainly hadn’t anticipated this lovely elfin thing—whatever he was. She’d given no warning for such a person, who fell between the cracks of categorization. Neither male conquest nor female friend, this little soul seemed a safe haven. For the first time in her life, Babe felt that she could share—if only a tiny piece of the puzzle. The elf-boy leaned in close, almost bursting with empathy.

  ‘Yes, Babyling—you can trust me with anything. I’ll never breathe a syllable, I swear.’ (Something he would tell each of us in turn, but this was perhaps his most convincing of performances, for we genuinely feel that he meant it.) ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ That childhood gesture of old, which he’d so often shared with Nelle.

  She glanced across the plane to Bill, yammering on at David, about some topic or another, as Jennifer pretended to flip through Women’s Wear, stealing jealous glances. Babe leaned in close to Truman’s ear, whispering her own confession.