It was the latter of these that called the attention of the restless C.Z. Cochrane to a winnah like herself. She had seen him on the field, in a charity match in Palm Beach. No—it began, one might argue, long before that. She’d heard tell of one Mr. Winston Frederick Churchill Guest (second cousin of the old Bulldog himself), star of the US polo team, considered one of the finest players in the world.
It wasn’t until she spotted a man on a magnificent dapple-gray mare that she found herself hoping that he might be the Mr. Guest of lore. A more skilled rider she had yet to see. His strength was apparent—the whack of his mallet would send the ball sailing— but it was his gentleness with the mare, his finesse, that caught her eye. She found herself moving down from the stands to sit on the sidelines to get a better view. In the final chukka, he took the ball from a knock in, maneuvered clear of the pack, drilling an onside shot through the posts from thirty yards to score the winning goal. The crowd erupted in cheers.
As the end bell sounded, he turned his horse’s muzzle in C.Z.’s direction. And much to her surprise he looked directly at her— not haphazardly, but with purpose. As if he already knew her.
She would later learn that he had been waiting for his moment. Winston had seen photos in the papers of the debutante-turned-showgirl and had been waiting for his introduction since. Rumor had it, upon seeing her picture he’d said this was the woman he would marry, if he ever had the chance. While such overtly romantic notions made C.Z. uneasy, what she did recognize was a kindred soul. A competitor. A champion.
When he first dismounted and approached her, removing his helmet, sweat seeping through his otherwise pristine white shirt, mud caked to his boots, she felt no timid tremor—this was a mighty quake.
He strode toward her—all six feet four inches of him, hand extended.
‘Lucy Cochrane. I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Oh. I…’ She accepted his hand with a firm grip. ‘Everyone calls me C.Z.’
He grinned, holding her hand a beat beyond a handshake.
‘Well, then. I’ll call you Lucy.’
WITHIN THE YEAR they were married, in a Cuban villa, amid the palms and mariposa. The Finca Vigía, the prized domain of Winston’s old hunting pal, who was to serve as his best man.
‘This,’ said Winston proudly, ‘is my luminous Lucy.’
‘Encantada,’ said their whiskered host, kissing the bride-to-be’s hand, bristling her skin like a white, quilled hedgehog.
Lucy smiled. ‘Lovely to finally meet you. Winston’s told me all about your adventures.’
‘Has Wolfie ever told you about the time we shot a crash of rhinos?’
As he launched into an elaborate account of hunting glory, leading them into a house boasting antlers and tusks as evidence of credibility, C.Z. noticed a woman standing to one side, watching. A bottle-dyed blonde, eyes shooting daggers. As if she’d seen all this before.
They were ushered into a covered portico, the scent of lime and sweet hibiscus perfuming the air. While their host busied himself at a bar cart preparing a round of Floriditas, C.Z. turned to the blonde, who she assumed to be her hostess.
‘What beautiful hibiscus. I’ve not had much luck with them.’
The bottle-blonde smiled, a strained little grimace.
‘Well, Papa always says— —’
VIGNETTE
ALT: 9,000 FEET
AIR SPEED: 270 M.P.H. (234 KNOTS)
ETA: 11 MINS
‘OH NO… NOT that cunt again!’
‘Now Truman, you wanted to hear Lucy’s story. Can I help it if Lucy happened to get hitched at Chez Hemingway… ?’
‘Do any of you not know him? He seems to crop up like a bad penny, just when I thought we were rid of him.’
‘Do you want to hear it or not?’
‘Not that bit, honey. Not when I’m facing such an ordeal. Can’t we just skip the wedding and move on to the rest?’ He slurped his Scotch.
‘Of course, darling. But the rest is blissfully ordinary.’
‘I’d say your life has been anything but ordinary.’
‘Since Winston came along, it has been—in the most wonderful of ways. I had my rebellion. I lived my other acts. Then I found the role I was meant to play. It’s just been a matter of staying the course.’
‘Darling Sis, may I tell the last bit?’
‘I thought you’d nehver ahsk.’
He set his drink aside and thought for a moment. Then, in that high melodic voice that C.Z. had come to love—joining the ranks of Sook and Babe and Marella and even Slim—he began: ‘Once there was a cool vanilla lady, who married a handsome lord. She had loved him then, and continued to love him for many years to come. They built a life around their horses and their dogs, both of which they kept in packs. They had a boy and a girl, in perfect symmetry. They wintered in Palm Beach and summered at Templeton, traveling the world in between. Their court was one of mixed breeds, from pedigreed guests—the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, the Maharajah and Maharani of Jaipur—mixed with exotic specimens like Warhol and Dalí—mixed with outright mutts like that awful Truman Capote.’
‘Truman, you aren’t awful—’
‘Shush! They all lined up for baked ham and macaroni and cheese, wagging their tails like one big happy pack.
‘Even when their lifestyle exceeded their means and they were forced to downsize, not once but twice, the lady approached the moves with trademark pragmatism. Each home they called their own, whether grand estate or reduced quarters.
‘She put on her old clothes and got her hands dirty, turning the soil. She planted her own vegetable patch. Flowers of every variety. Her hothouses yielded the most glorious of orchids.
‘They loved orchids, the pair of them. They treated them like precious jewels—more vital than, for they were living things that required care. Just like children and horses and dogs and friends who couldn’t take care of themselves…’
‘Dahling, you can take care of yourself. You just have to try.’
‘They bought orchids for each other as expressions of their love. Surprising one another with the rarest of varietals. The years passed and the lady still looked like something out of Raymond Chandler. Steely platinum reserve intact, that simmer still beneath—’
‘Then one day,’ she interjected, picking up the tale once more, ‘the lady was out riding, in a field in Oyster Bay, when she approached a broken fence. As she coaxed her horse to jump it, she saw in a flash two rusty nails sticking out of a post. As they went over, the nails tore through her chaps, practically shredding her leg. She looked down to see the blood pouring from the wound, leaving a ribbon of red behind. My Gah-d, she thought as she galloped for help. I’ve done something awful. The wounds were wrapped by the groom, but the blood wouldn’t stop, so the lady was rushed to the hospital. She was told she had missed slicing an artery and severing a vein by a fraction of an inch. Twenty-four stitches and two plastic surgeons later…’
‘Sugar, it was grim… Thank gawdalmighty it didn’t leave a scar.’
‘Yes, but you’re missing the point. The lady was stuck in bed for months on end, unable to ride—unsure if she’d ever be able to move again. Unable to walk or run or play tennis. Couldn’t leave the house. Nothing but that dreadful Wahttahgate on television. The lady was going half outta her skull. She was low. Lower than she’d ever been. She thought that she was through. That the curtain had finally fallen. And who should step in and remind her of her worth?’
He hid a smile in his coat sleeve. ‘Aw, Sis. I didn’t do nothin’.’
‘You did! When I had the idea to write about gardening and feared that I couldn’t, you told me, “Sissy dear, you can do anything in the world that you set your mind to.” You gave me the courage to write that first book. You gave me another act.’
‘Well, no one knows more about making things grow than you.’
‘I know a damn sight more than that, so you listen to me, bustah. You’re gonna do the same thing. You’re
gonna have the most spectacular encore those bitches have ev-ah seen. You’re gonna fight and you’re gonna win.’
‘If you say so, Sis.’ He nestled in close to her. ‘But before that, how’s about one more teensy round for ole times’ sake?’
ENCORE
ALT: 0 FEET
AIR SPEED: 0 M.P.H (0 KNOTS)
ETA: LANDED
C.Z. HAD TAKEN no chances.
A car would be waiting to collect them at the airport.
Two porters gathered their luggage—C.Z.’s overnight bag, Truman’s Vuitton cases, découpaged with labels. She insisted they walk on ahead, the porters following, keeping Truman trotting at his chaperone’s brisk pace.
They herded him toward a black Lincoln Continental where the driver stood holding a sign: CAPOTE. Truman tried to turn back, yet found himself cornered.
‘Sissy,’ he said, making an earnest appeal, ‘I think I left something behind on the airplane. I’ll just pop back and see if the stewardess found it.’ He turned back toward the terminal, to find himself blocked by her heavies.
‘Not a chance, bustah. You’d be in the nearest bar faster than I could blink.’ She took his arm—which she noticed was trembling—and guided him toward the open car door.
‘Or on the next plane home…’ a meek squawk of protest, as he ducked inside.
As C.Z. slid in beside him, she noticed his leg, jiggling at grass-hopper speed. She placed a reassuring hand on his knee, and the leg calmed, only to start up again as the driver assumed his position and started the engine.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said in the rearview mirror.
‘Ahhh-fternoon,’ C.Z. smiled in reply. ‘Hazelden Lodge, please. Center City. 15251 Pleasant Valley Road.’
‘Yes, ma’am. I have it here.’
‘Pleasant…’ Tru scoffed, under his breath. ‘About as pleasant as a root canal.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mr…. To whom do we have the pleasure?’
‘My name’s Louis, sir.’
‘Well, Louis, I don’t suppose you have a bottle of bubbly in this hearse?’ He removed his snuffbox from his coat pocket, selecting two pills at random.
‘No, sir. But there’s a chilled bottle of Perrier.’
‘Are you quite sure there’s nothing up front? I just have to wash down the teensiest of pills, and they’re always so much nicer with my old friend—HEY!’ he squealed as C.Z. reached over and pried the pills from his hand. She rolled down the window and, to her charge’s dismay, tossed them out onto the highway.
‘Pahty’s over, dahling,’ she said, pocketing his precious snuffbox.
He sank, sullen, back into his seat. The leg resumed its grass-hopper jig. They drove in silence until Truman finally ventured, ‘Sissy?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘Do you remember when we first met?’
‘Of course I do. At the thea-tah—the Mahrk Hellingah. On the opening night of My Fair Lady. When was it… ? March of’ 56? Or was it May?’
‘Wrong, Sissy.’
‘About March—or May?’
‘About the venue. It was not at the Mark Hellinger Theatre. It was in the bar across the street. I walked in during the interval, and there you were, standing with Cecil—’
‘Divine Cecil—it really was his crowning achievement. The Ascot scene in particulah.’
‘There you were in that steel haze of cigarette smoke, an absolute vision. Do you remember what you were wearing?’
‘Well, dahling, of course not. Likely whatevah I reached for in my closet.’
‘Well, I can tell you, because you outdid even Cecil’s Ascot bunch. You had on a simple white column. Not a scrap of jewelry to mar its clean perfection.’
‘Main.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Mistah Bocher designed that gown. He thought it should be white so it wouldn’t compete with all the flowers.’
‘Your face was as clean as a girl’s, with just the palest hint of lipstick. Your hair was the color of the champagne in your flute, a dry vintage, which you sipped veeerrrrry coolly as I approached.’
‘Truman, I’m sure you’ve remembered this wrong.’
‘But you did, Sissy! With a chill that could freeze the Gobi! But then when Cecil said, “Meet my friend Truman,” and you shook my hand with that warrior’s grip, I knew we’d get on. And wasn’t I right?’
‘You were right, dahling.’
He turned to look out the window. Flying past in a blur, rather pleasant scenery. Emerald leaves rustling in trees. A spattering of lakes. The frequent shimmer of water.
‘Well, Truman, I must say, this all looks very tranquil. Just look at all that green.’ She stuck her hand out the window. ‘Just breathe that fresh air!’
Truman smiled and nodded, patting C.Z.’s hand. They rode on in silence, feeling the breeze filtering in through the open window.
Then, in a low voice…
‘Sissy… I’m scared.’
‘Truman, there’s nothing to be frightened of—they’re going to help you.’
‘I’m terrified that—’ He pulled himself up short.
‘Terrified that what?’
He shook his head and held his terror close.
‘Truman…’
Before she could say more, he dabbed his eyes with his sleeve and began to hum. A bright, jaunty tune, to which he added lyrics. ‘Shaking the blues away, unhappy news away… If you are blue, it’s easy to shake off your cares and troubles…’
An old Follies tune, C.Z. spotted in an instant. She smiled. ‘Irving Berlin?’
He nodded. In his syncopated cadence she could hear the jangling of a banjo. The slide of a trombone. ‘Telling the blues to gooooo, they may refuse to goooo / But as a rule, they’ll go if you’ll shake’ em away…’ As if to convince himself, he launched with gusto into the bridge: ‘Do like the people do, listening to a preacher way down South! They shake their bodies so, to and fro / With every shake, a lucky break…’ He paused, as if actually considering the implausibility of the lyric for the first time. The tune fizzled.
‘Proving that there’s a waaaaay…’ C.Z. prompted him.
When he failed to resume, she belted the chorus, a chipper alto, slightly off-key. (The Misters Shubert always said she couldn’t sing.) ‘If you would lose your weary blues, shake’ em awaaaay.’ She nudged him—a sharp jab from her elbow. ‘Your turn.’
Truman complied, recovering a cheerful (if manic) energy if only in order to please. ‘If you would lose your weary blues…’ C.Z. joined in a dissonant crescendo—
‘Shake’ em awaaaaaaaaaaaaay!’
THE CAR STOPPED before a pleasant house. Arched portico. White columns. Seven steps with iron railings, leading to the entrance.
‘Well, this looks perfectly lovely. I don’t know what you were worried about. Come on. Let’s go get you checked in.’
‘No, Sissy. You just stay here and wave to me—like I’m going on a cruise.’
‘Truman, don’t be silly. I’ve come this far…’
‘Sis, you don’t need to hand-deliver me. I can’t escape now.’
‘I wouldn’t put it pahst you…’
‘I can do this myself. I promise.’ He pulled the hip flask from the innermost pocket of his jacket. He grinned at C.Z. sheepishly as he depleted the last of its contents. Then he screwed on its cap and passed it to her for safe keeping. ‘I promise… that I’ll try.’
He kissed her cheek as the driver opened the passenger door.
As he stepped from the car and made the walk up the gravel road, C.Z. leaned out the open window and called to him— ‘Remembah, Truman Streckfus Capote, YOU are a WINNAH!’
And as if hearing jangling banjos and buoyant brass in his mind, Truman mounted the steps, kicking his heels up in a cake-walk as he went. At the top step he paused to tip an imaginary top hat in C.Z.’s direction before launching into an impassioned tap routine, Time-Stepping and Shuffling Off to Buffalo at the gates of purgatory.
EIGHTEEN
1966
VARIATION NO
. 9
COMPOSITION IN BLACK AND WHITE
WE WERE DESPERATE to stand out.
To be seen as unique. Singular.
The worst we could imagine, on such a night as Truman’s ball, would be to blend into the crowd, be it our small coterie, or the larger one. The mere thought of being lopped in with anyone— whoever they might be—rankled. We didn’t want to be mentioned alongside even those to whom we were closest and thus most often paired: Babe and Slim, the lady and the broad; Marella and Lee, royalty by birth and marital upgrade; Gloria and C.Z., raven and dove. Wretched, the idea of being compared. Worse still— compared and found to be lacking.
Ordinarily we didn’t mind being mentioned alongside one another. We accepted that we were part of an elite, and while we strove to exist in our own right, it was comforting on some level to know that we belonged. But other times we yearned to be so exceptional that no one—not even Truman—could tag us as one in a flock.
Put plainly, we wanted to outdo one another.
The masks proved especially tricky, for they threatened to cover our faces; to conceal our identities. ‘But that’s the whole idea, sugar!’ Truman had laughed.
They were a theatrical touch, we had to admit, and one couldappreciate the spirit of egalitarianism they promised to promote—‘So the doorman might dance with the duchess,’ he’d enthuse—but what good was striving for recognition if we were just to be hidden away behind a bunch of goddamn masks? Did that not render us interchangeable—the very thing we were striving to avoid? But Tru had insisted, and we accepted it as the price of admission. Lord knows we enlisted the milliners in the effort, plucking every wildfowl on the eastern seaboard.
‘Masks!?’ Loel Guinness had scoffed from the table of his French château, where he sat finishing his cheese course, at which time he ritually allowed Mister, his prize Pekinese, onto the table to be fed his peppermint. ‘Kids’ stuff!’
Gloria had tried to sway him, really she had. ‘But darling, Diablito says they’re the great leveler—that people can mix beyond their usual circles.’
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