Clay knocks on Truman’s door. Waits. Checks his watch, knocks again. Only the sound of the brisk September wind, whistling through the marsh brush.
He makes his way around to the front window and peers in through the glass. He can just make out Truman’s silhouette, stretched out on the sofa, his protuberant stomach rising and falling in a blue terrycloth bathrobe. Black sleeping mask covering his eyes. Cautiously, Clay gives the pane a gentle tap. When this appears to have no impact, he knocks more fulsomely, until finally he’s pounding the glass, calling Truman’s name. The beached whale stirs, pulling off his mask, startled by the apparition.
The Truman who eventually opens the portal a crack is bleary-eyed. Muddled. A breath shy of catatonic.
‘Morning, Truman.’ Clay reaches for the screen-door handle, opening it gently. ‘May I… ?’ Truman recoils like a pint-sized Nosferatu as the opened screen exposes him to what is, in actuality, very mild sunlight.
‘Claaaaay. I’ve got the most excruciating migraine. Really. It’s like someone’s stabbing my eyeball with an ice pick. I’ve taken enough Percodan to fell a yak… I mean an oak… See? I’m reeeally not making sense right now. I simply must lie down…’
He starts to shut the door, but Felker blocks it with his loafer.
‘Look, Truman, I can see you’re under the weather, and we can certainly postpone our chat. Why don’t I just take the manuscript with me to read over the weekend and we’ll touch base on Monday? Sound like a plan?’
‘I’m afraid that’s just not possible.’ Truman presses fingers to his temples. ‘I have to type it up first. You see I always write my early drafts in longhand, excluuusively in longhand, and my sorry chicken-scrawl isn’t legible to anyone but me.’
‘But Truman, we had a—’
‘Yessssssssbut… the headache. See you tomorrow.’ And with that he pulls the door shut, leaving Clay Felker to pedal back to Wainscott empty-handed.
THAT MIGHT HAVE Been the end of it.
As Clay will inform the wagging ears of Manhattan’s finest watering holes, he didn’t hold out much hope of hearing from Truman again—the next day, week, or otherwise.
So imagine Clay’s surprise when there’s a knock on his door the following morning. It’s 10 a.m., sharp. Clay, his partner Gail, and stepdaughter Maura are sitting around the breakfast table, reading the Sunday papers. Gail looks beyond Clay to the back door of the cottage.
‘It would appear you have a visitor.’
He turns to see Truman’s aging cherub face in the pane. Pressed against the glass, watching their family tableau with wistful fascination. Rosy-cheeked, pink V-neck pullover to match. A (comparative) picture of health. He brightens as Clay approaches, opening the door.
‘Greetings and salutations!’ Truman practically trills. Then, with a raffish grin—‘Well, don’t look so surprised, Clay. I told you “I’ll see you tomorrow,” didn’t I?’
He’s holding a brown paper bag, a plastic container of sweet buns peeking from the top. ‘Oh, what a beeeeautiful mor-nin’, oh, what a beautiful day…’ he sings a snippet of Rodgers and Hammerstein as he shuffles past, setting his bag down on the table.
‘Truman, this is my stepdaughter, Maura.’
Truman beams at a pretty twelve-year-old girl, who smiles shyly over her comics.
‘Well, aren’t you an absolute doll. Nice to make your acquaintance, Maura.’
‘And you remember Gail…’
‘But of course! The brilliant Ms. Sheehy! I’m a huge fan. I simply loved that New York piece you did about the prostitutes— “Redpants and Sugarman”? To brave a pair of hot pants to get their stories… Now that’s what I call undercover! You know I used to see those working-gals, drinking Brandy Alexanders at the Bear and Bull, or loitering in Lexington in those darling little shorts—honey, some were so short, they were positively gynecological! To hustle the Waldorf, of all places… ! And to write about them like you did, to capture their fragility, their quiet desperation …’ He pauses with a flicker of what canonly be described as recognition. ‘It was something quite profound.’
Gail smiles. ‘Well, you’re more than welcome to stay for breakfast now.’
‘What can I get you, Truman? Cuppa coffee? Grapefruit juice? Eggs on toast?’
‘Some grapefruit juice would be divine—but only half a glass.’ He opens his brown paper bag and presents the container of sweet buns as an offering. ‘These are for you. Baked fresh at Bobby Van’s. They almost taste like beignets.’ As Clay pours his juice, Truman reaches further into his bag, procuring a bottle of vodka. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world to carry a liter of liquor to one’s editor’s family breakfast.
‘Molte grazie.’ This as he breaks the cap seal and fills the negative space of the juice glass with Stoli, then tucks the bottle back in his bag, taking an exceptionally long sip.
Maura’s eyes widen. Clay and Gail exchange wary glances.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a coffee? Or something to eat?’
Gail slides the container of sweet buns toward him.
‘Oh, no thank you.’ Tru pats his paunch. ‘I’m watching my girlish figure. This’ll do me just fine. In fact it’s so nice to have a change from my Orange Drink. I haven’t had a Greyhound in ages. Oooooooo—actually, do you know what you could get me? Some salt.’
Maura jumps up to fetch the shaker, delivering it to the dubious guest.
‘Why thank you, Maura. Do you know that if you add salt to a Greyhound it becomes a Salty Dog? My Mama and Daddy used to love Salty Dogs. They drank a pair each night, at four on the dot. They’d set up deck chairs in our yard in Monroeville and imagine themselves on a pleasure cruise, bound for exotic locales.’ (Perhaps they did… but certainly never together.)
‘Speaking of stories,’ Clay cuts in, shutting the Truman-show down with that stentorian voice. ‘I hope that there’s a manuscript in that bag of yours, along with all the rest.’
‘Clay baby, I told you, it’s a chapter. The last chapter—’
‘—of your magnum opus. Yeah. May I read it now?’
‘Of course!’ Truman reaches into his grocery bag, though only to remove his Stoli bottle for a top-up. The gesture is too quintessentially Truman not to be done for effect. Like a sleight-of-hand magician who thrills at reaching into a top hat, teasing his audience with anything but the promised rabbit. ‘The thing is, I didn’t have time to finish typing it up. I was so down for the count yesterday, you have no idea… I just couldn’t concentrate to save my life.’
‘Ah.’
‘However, you do know that I have ninety-four percent recall.’ Modest for Truman—he usually goes for ninety-six. ‘So I just thought I’d pop on over and give you the chapter verbally.’
‘Verbally,’ Clay repeats, with a poker face that could rattle Nick the Greek.
Yet Truman doubles down, undeterred. ‘Every character. Every moment. The whole enchilada. By the time I’m done, you won’t need to read it.’ Cause you’ll have lived it.’
He adds another dash of salt to his Dog and takes a bracing sip. He sets his glass down, starting to come alive. Eyes flashing with adrenaline. Truman is built for such moments.
As he’s always said, he simply loves to talk…
‘Weeee-ull… It all begins and ends with Kate McCloud. We’ve met her before, if you’ll recall, in my first chapter, “Unspoiled Monsters,” and in the subsequent chapter that bears her name.’ He allows himself a satisfied snicker. ‘Lordy, but hasn’t that kept’ em on their pedicured toes! They’re all terrified that Kate is based on someone real—which she is—and that that someone just might be them. But back to Kate, and P.B. Jones, who you’ll recall is my narrator.’
‘You, in other words.’
‘I never said P.B. was me.’
‘I think it’s pretty tough after “La Côte Basque” to imagine him being anyone else. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck… He’s even writing a book called Answered Prayers.’
‘Oh sure. There’s a part of P.B. that’s me… but there’s a part of him who isn’t. The things that have happened to him, the things he’s done… These things, thank God, have never touched me. But trust me, he’s always a breath away. He’s who I might have become, had one piece of the puzzle been different.’ A pause, removal of glasses, rubbing of eyes. ‘You see, P.B. is me… But he’s also someone else. A beautiful, terrible boy who never stood a chance.’
As he turns to the succor of Stoli, Clay realizes who Truman’s hinting at. The one person whose very loss has haunted him, hanging from his neck like a golden albatross. The man whose crime and death inspired Truman’s gifts to unimagined heights. The loss he cannot shake.
Careful to coax rather than spook, Clay ventures—
‘So P.B. Jones is a hybrid of you and Perry Smith…’
A hush descends on the table. After a moment Truman meets his eyes. Nods.
‘Author and killer. Janus-faced twins. Them’s us.’ He replaces his glasses, and with a breath he relaunches—‘Sooooooo. If Jonesy is our eyes and ears, then Kate McCloud’s our muse. We first meet Kate when P.B. does, in Paris at the Ritz—’
‘And the new chapter… ?’
‘I’m getting there…’
‘Truman, I’ve read “Kate McCloud.”’
‘Maura hasn’t.’
‘You’re pitching me!’
Feeling Felker’s impatience, Truman speeds ahead.
Aside, to Maura, ‘Honey, all you need to know is that they’ll all live happily ever after. They’ll go to hell and back, they’ll journey to the center of the earth, they’ll battle monsters of every variety, but they’ll have a happy ending.’ Then, musing, ‘The first and only I shall ever write. An ending as cool and clear as a summer stream. A boy… a beach. A dog, bounding over the dunes. A man and a woman, swaying in a hammock, ever so gently. It’s how I’ve always wanted to end a book, in a flash of filmic images. That’s what this will be, and I promise you, it’s heaven,’ his voice wistful. ‘But we couldn’t possibly know that’s where we’re headed, when we begin…’ A beat. Then, shifting the mood to one of fanfare—
‘Which brings us to my FINAL chapter: “Father Flanagan’s All-Night Nigger Queen Kosher Cafe,”’ he proclaims, enjoying the shock that flashes across their faces.
‘Jesuschrist-and-godalmighty.’ Clay shakes his head. ‘That’ll have to change.’
‘But sugar, it’s a metaphor.’
‘For what?’
‘The end of the line. The last stop on the train. The final depot… We all know a Father Flanagan’s, even if we know it by another name. It’s where you’re dropped off in a taxi when there’s nowhere left to go. It looks like hell, but we’ll find it’s quite the opposite.’
‘Well,’ says Clay, starting to lose the plot. ‘When you have something written…’
‘I told you, it’s written in my mind. Let me just paint you the opening scene.’
Clay flicks his eyes to Gail, then sits back in his chair.
‘Okay, Truman. Floor’s yours. Convince me.’
Truman rises, dramatically, sly smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
T.C.: It’s a sweltering midday in August. We open on the illustrious address of 550 Park Avenue, in an apartment on the thirteenth floor—home of our heroine, Kate McCloud.
She lies in bed, certainly supine, propped on a pile of pillows, her auburn waves splayed across their surface. She’s startled when the phone rings just before noon. It simply isn’t done.
She’s being pleasured by her lover, the gentleman in question lapping her twat with the fervor of a husky with a peanut-butter bone—’
CLAY: Ohhhhh-kay. Maura… skedaddle.
MAURA: I know what oral sex is, you know.
CLAY: How?
MAURA: School.
CLAY: (to Gail) We’re paying for this?
T.C.: It’s really one teensy detail. And it’s about as racy as it gets…’
CLAY: What’s the rest about?
T.C.: Quiet desperation, just like Gail’s Waldorf gals. And love. And heaven, eventually.
CLAY: All right. Get on with it.
T.C.: So. To resume…
On the nightstand, the phone begins to ring. Brrrrrrrrrring! Brrrrrrrrrringg!
Like a contortionist Kate twists around, shimmying toward a phone on the nightstand, retrieving the handset with surprising dexterity.
Before she can answer, a voice: ‘Kate? Katie, dollface… you there?’
Lost in the sensations of her own supple flesh, Kate fails to respond beyond a steady, listless panting.
‘Kate! It’s me—Zip! Pick up!’ On the line, Jerry Zipkin, shameless social moth, who both looks and sounds like a human bidet.
Despite her lover’s ministrations, Kate manages to steady the sound of her voice to a timbre of practiced ennui. ‘Hello, Jerry.’
‘Thank God. You’re there. I was about to hang up. I’m out here on the coast, doll—California—and I hafta ask you a favor—I need you to check on Maggie.’
‘Who?’
‘Maggie—Margaret Case. Your upstairs neighbor.’
‘Mmmmmmmm, maybe you should ring her. I’m sort of in the middle of something.’ She glances down to her lover’s head, moving back, forth, and sideways. He’s working so hard, it seems impolite to stop him.
‘Yeah, but I got you on the line now, and I need you to go and knock on her door.’
‘Who?’ asks Kate, stifling a gasp.
‘Maggie, Kate! Your neighbor.’
‘Jerry, I don’t really know Miss Case,’ she tells Zip, uneasy.
‘Oh dollface, call her Maggie. You should know her. She’s a wonderful woman. But I’m worried about her. I haven’t been able to get ahold of her all weekend.’
‘Maybe she’s on vacation, Jerry. People do go away in August…’
‘Yeah,’ says Zip, impatient for his reveal. ‘But you don’t know what I know… I got a call late last week from Diana, who’s in Paris. You know Mrs. Vreeland, don’t you? Everyone knows Mrs. Vreeland. Well, she told me the most appalling story…’
Silence, except for a rumble of thunder and a soft patter of rain. Kate looks beyond her lover to the window, delighted to find that a summer shower has commenced.
‘So, Maggie’s worked at Vogue for half a goddamn century. They called her the five-foot terror. Scared the hell out of everyone. Well, according to Diana, last Thursday Maggie arrived for work, as she’s done six days a week for forty-five years. She entered the marble lobby and rode up in the elevator, per usual. As she was sitting at her desk—the same desk she’d had for over four decades—there apparently came a knock on the door. Maggie looked up from her contact sheets to see two young men in coveralls.
Miss Case? We’re here for the desk.
‘Well, you can imagine poor Maggie’s confusion.’
But this is my desk, Maggie said. There must be some mistake.
Sorry, Miss Case. Avoiding her eyes. There’s no mistake.
The men moved the desk away from her, dumping the contents of its drawers into a cardboard box. They removed the art from the walls, leaving pristine white squares where the sun had bleached the paint around the frames over time. Throughout, Maggie sat quietly in her desk chair, holding her cup of coffee, long gone cold.
Excuse me, Miss Case, one said when they were done. We’re gonna need the chair too.
‘Can you imagine anything more cruel? To do this to an eighty-year-old woman, who had worked in that office longer than the rest of them had been alive?’
‘God,’ says Kate to Zip, for there’s really nothing more to say.
‘So you can see why I’m worried about poor Maggie. I’ve been ringing and ringing her. Your concierge confirmed that at least half a dozen moving boxes arrived and were delivered to 16A. He also said that her maid has been in and out twice since Thursday, but said he’s not seen Miss Case leave the building.’ Jerry pauses. ‘Listen, Katie, I know y
ou like to keep to yourself and stay out of people’s business… But can you please go knock on Maggie’s door and check to see if she’s all right?’
And it’s then—as if on some sort of ghoulish cue— that Kate sees it.
A form, falling past the window, falling with the sheets of gentle rain, seeming to take an instant and an age at once. A mackintosh billowing above what appears to be a mannequin—catching the air, parachuting above.
A body suspended for the briefest of moments in space against an overcast sky, buoyed by khaki wings.
A flash of platinum-gray. A glint of gold.
Then—nothing. Just the rain.
Kate reaches down, burying her fingers in her lover’s hair, gently stopping his movements. She rises from the bed and walks naked to the window, steeling herself for either the mythic or the macabre, she isn’t sure which.
She fights the instinct to look down, instead looking upward, into the restless sky. Hoping to see an exotic khaki bird soaring toward the heavens, having reversed its trajectory. For a brief, shimmering moment she believes that this fate is possible. Seeing nothing beyond the inky clouds, Kate looks down, where in the courtyard below, Miss Margaret Case’s lifeless body lies on the pavement, surrounded by the manicured gardens that the residents of 550 Park each contribute sixty dollars a month to maintain. Wearing a Burberry raincoat, clutching a ladylike handkerchief.
Shattered, yet neat as a pin.
The rain cleansing her motionless form.
Kate stares at it for a moment, then walks back to the phone. She picks up the handset, from which she can hear Zip honking away—‘Hello? Kate? Katie? You there?’
She sits on the bed. Lights a cigarette. Runs a hand through her auburn hair.
‘Jerry… I’ve found Maggie.’
Truman pauses, checking in with his audience. Three sets of spell-bound eyes leave him confident enough to milk the silence.
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