Swan Song

by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

  ‘I don’t need to mix beyond my usual circles… right, Mister?’ Mister wagged his tail, moving down the table to lap from Gloria’s water glass.

  ‘But Loel, Diablito will be so disappointed. Everyone who is anyone will be going. It’s to be the party of the century.’

  ‘Did Truman tell you that? I hope he’s half as good at writing as he is at self-promotion,’ Loel, who didn’t go in for fiction, chuckled.

  Changing tactics— ‘Gianni is going. And Stas and Winston and Bill…’

  ‘Well,’ said Loel, pouring a healthy glass of Bordeaux, retiring to the armchair in his study. ‘They can enjoy it. I’ll be home in bed.’

  Gloria, we’d later learn, would console herself for her unescorted state by purchasing an ebony gemstone mask for an undisclosed sum from a jeweler in Paris, to contrast the white gown of cylindrical crystals she’d commissioned from couturier Castillo, selected for their shared Latin roots. She decided on not one but two chokers to adorn her fragile neck—diamond and ruby respectively. Happy to be absent, for once Loel—notorious cheapskate—didn’t quibble.

  While striving for sui generis in her choice of designer, Gloria was deflated to learn that Babe—quite independently—had chosen Castillo too. And from the custom department at Bergdorf’s no less, rendering Gloria’s European purchase meaningless. With perfectionist’s assurance, Babe had decided on a column gown of white zibeline, a mix of wool and camel hair. Her only embellishment: a collar of faceted rubies (paste again; she kept the real ones in her safe). She had them sewn into the neckline, descending in regal, Byzantine drops. A high slit lent subtle sex appeal, for, on this evening of evenings, even Babe hoped to shake things up.

  Of course it was she who helped Truman plan the menu. He was clever in allowing us each to feel invested in different ways, but, as usual, Babe got the lioness’s share.

  ‘Babyling, I want a looong buffet, served at midnight. And on it I want all the things I love. This chicken hash, first and foremost,’ he proclaimed as they lunched at the Oak Bar, ‘hashing out the menu,’ he’d snickered.

  ‘Darling, are you sure? It’s awfully rich for—’

  ‘Of course I’m sure! Hell, for one night, I’ll serve’ em a heart attack on a plate without qualm!’

  ‘Scrambled eggs and caviar?’

  He balked. ‘Baby, I may have earned some dinero, but made of money I ain’t! Thank you, but I’ll save the big bucks for the bubbly’—referring to the four hundred bottles of Taittinger he planned to order—‘which I want to serve in crystal coupes, as round and perfect as Marie Antoinette’s tit!’ Babe laughed. He grinned. ‘What?! That’s what they were designed to replicate! So. Yes to the scrambled eggs, cut the trop cher caviar, add biscuits and gravy. And my pièce de résistance: spaghetti and meatballs,’ this, smacking his lips.

  ‘Truman,’ Babe put her foot down (or tried.) ‘You cannot invite hundreds of women to a formal gathering, make them wear white and serve them spaghetti and meatballs.’

  He considered. ‘They have the option of black…’

  ‘It’s a disaster waiting to happen.’

  ‘Bring on the flood.’ He refused to bend on this matter. The messy meatballs stayed, though later, when the rains came, we wondered if Tru’s so easily tossed-out ‘flood’ comment cursed his evening from a meteorological perspective.

  He proved equally implacable regarding his strict policy of ‘NO PLUS-ONES, NO EXCEPTIONS!’ He’d already had several ‘Extra Men’ decline upon learning they couldn’t bring dates. He held his ground, declaring, ‘I don’t want strangers at my party.’ (Read: riff-raff.)

  Slim told him flat out that this wouldn’t do. She was remarried, to Lord Kenneth Keith; still she knew something by this point about the hell of being considered an ‘Extra Woman.’

  ‘Truheart,’ Slim barked when consulted, ‘you cannot, and I mean cannot, ask a bunch of grown women to don fucking masks and turn up solo at the Plaza! They’ll simply refuse. You’ve gotta allow them dates.’

  That’s when he thought of the dinners.

  ‘Dinners?’

  ‘Pre-ball dinners—that way everyone arrives in groups… no one’s left alone! The Paleys can host one, and the Burdens, and— —a handful of others.’ He refrained from saying ‘Pam and Leland’ for Slim’s sake, but that’s precisely what he meant and what transpired.

  Slim conceded that this plan would work, though she was acting on behalf of Extra Women in theory, she having an escort in the dashing Jerome Robbins. Who better to take to a ball than Jerry? Even those of us who loathed dance thought his choreography sublime. And he’d been so attentive to Slim in the wake of the Leland fiasco… For all her pretense otherwise, Slim planned for Tru’s fete as meticulously as the rest of us, ordering a pair of Galitzine palazzo pajamas, shipped specially from Capri. Oyster silk. Streamlined. Daring. Beneath her sangfroid surface she was giddy as a debutante.

  It was Slim who suggested Truman book two bands, he having naturally sought her opinion regarding the entertainment portion of the evening. One for ‘social’ dancing, one to get down and dirty. They’d settled on Peter Duchin’s Orchestra—the most sought-after society band, as his father’s had been before it. Peter knew Truman’s guests—was practically one of our tribe, a fact Tru used to finagle a discount. And for the funk, Benny Gordon and the Soul Brothers of Detroit. (Their fee significantly less, the Brothers charged Truman full rate.)

  Lee, Marella, and Gloria had of course been in on the early planning stages—on their yachts and planes the previous summer. They’d been party to the creation of Truman’s ever-evolving guest list, laughing at those who offered bribes in the hope of being included. But as the day itself approached, requests became demands. Those who once offered theater tickets and Mont Blanc pens and five-figure checks now resorted to threats. The host found himself bombarded by the excluded and the press—chasing him down on the way in or out of his building. ‘I was positively hunted. One little ole fox and a thousand rabid hounds! I’m telling you, they nearly tore my limbs to shreds!’

  He’d fled the city the Tuesday before. Only Babe was privy to his whereabouts—which we’d later learn was nowhere more mysterious than his house in Sagaponack—and if any of us absolutely needed to reach him, we were told we’d have to go through her.

  We accepted this—that if not his guest of honor, Babe would act as unofficial hostess, a preeminence made all the more apparent when the pre-ball guest lists were revealed, the Paleys being given the A-list in a divvying process that was allegedly equal. Tru attempted to camouflage this glaring gesture of favoritism by subdividing diners by category: the politicos at Jean (Kennedy) Stein’s. The writers at the Lumets’. The Haywards—Leland and Pam—had the showbiz faction, except for the obvious omissions. Betty told Slim she’d rather eat nails than sit down to dinner with Frank after what he’d done to her… After a whirlwind hush-hush engagement, the press had gotten hold of their romance. Frank assumed it was Betty who’d spilled the beans and the Chairman got cold feet, leaving poor Betty high and dry. And now he had a new Mrs. Sinatra, about as far from gravelly Betty Bacall as one could ever be. A sprite, a child! Mia Farrow, younger than his daughter, for Chrissakes!

  Even Tru knew to steer clear of mixing Slim and Betty with that combustible bunch; besides, the butterscotch panthers had made it perfectly clear how they felt about Pam’s hapless cuisine. They were thus added to Babe’s list, with Truman’s other favorites. Agnellis. Radziwills. Vreeland. Beaton. Gloria, sans Loel. Detective Dewey and his wife Marie, flown in from Kansas for the occasion. Even Truman and Kay planned to swing by for a drink before returning to nibble on ‘a bird and a bottle’ in their suite at the Plaza, courtesy of 21.

  The only one of us not included in Babe’s elite was C.Z, she having been chosen as the ‘bone’ True threw to a rival hostess who bitched that her dinner roster was something less than glittering.

  ‘Sissy.’ Truman had phoned C.Z. in a state. ‘You’ve just gotta do m
e this one little favor. The Meehan party needs a dose of the old razzle-dazzle.’

  ‘Truman, I could give a raaaht’s ahhss where we dine,’ she drawled, nonplussed (as he predicted she would). ‘It’s your night.’

  Of course C.Z. had approached preparations for that evening-of-evenings with her usual nonchalance. She’d phoned up her dahling Mainbocher, who sent a simple design just suited to her taste. Two-tone lace, black skirt, white bodice. Showcasing arms toned from hours with her racquet. Having had her fill of headgear from her Ziegfeld days, the masquerade aspect held neither fear nor thrill, and her white mask—jets of plumes shooting forth like a ring-spray fountain—seemed as natural extending from her head as if she’d sprouted feathers.

  As for the setting, Tru used thrift to his advantage. At the center of each table, he arranged to place a golden candelabra, vines twining through their arms. There was not to be a bloom in sight, thus saving himself a hefty florist’s bill. In yet another masterstroke, spinning cost-cutting as narrative, the host had been heard to proclaim—‘The people will be the flowers.’

  WHEN THE LONG-AWAITED morning brought torrential rain, it seemed the only aspect of the proceedings Truman couldn’t control was the weather. Even this he dismissed as Dionysian intervention, bestowing upon his fête the most dramatic of conditions.

  As he checked into the Plaza that morning, he chirped to the bellhops as they carried his luggage up to his suite—‘I just adore a good gully-washer, don’t you?’

  And to the Kansas crew when they knocked at his door— ‘Maybe it’s poor Perry and Dick weeping up in heaven that they’re missing all the fun.’

  Nobody argued, but it was clear from Detective Dewey’s expression that he thought Dick and Perry’s souls were operating from below, not above, if the bastards existed at all.

  Due to the swarm of private planes arriving on the Sunday, LaGuardia was forced to close its runways to all other incoming flights, leading one to believe Truman had commandeered the very skies. Frank and Mia had flown in from Palm Springs, Gloria with the Rothschilds from Paris. The Agnellis transported the Radziwills and a contingent of aristos from Rome, more space swallowed by luggage than passengers. Just as Gloria and Babe had separately chosen Castillo, Lee and Marella found they’d each commissioned gowns from Mila Schön, though who could know (apart from Ms. Schön) who’d approached her first. Lacking the fervor of the Paley-Guinness rivalry, the Princesses Radziwill and Agnelli could easily see that Lee’s mod shift with its patterned silver paillettes could not have been more different from Marella’s ethereal caftan. Apart from their creator and iridescent hue, the two shared blessedly little in common.

  By midday the host was spotted leaving the Colony, Lee on his arm, looking like the tomcat who guzzled the cream. They’d had a leisurely lunch, joining the crush of ball guests crowding Manhattan’s luncheon hot spots. They emerged cool and collected, Lee in a belted coatdress, Tru in a smart gray suit, eyes hidden behind rose-tinted glasses. The duo sailed past an explosion of flashes, photographers shielding cameras from the rain beneath their flapping macs. All shouting Truman’s name, demanding details.

  ‘It was the smartest thing he could have done,’ Lee would recall, years after contact was severed, on the rare occasion we allowed ourselves to indulge in such topics. ‘Not to run his mouth for once. The less he gave them, the more they wanted to know. Between you and me, I think he was more excited by the preliminaries than anything.’

  Lee had watched as Truman, who never could keep a secret— who loved nothing more than to toot his own tuba—simply smiled when besieged with questions. They shouted. They cajoled. But the boy in the smart suit said nothing; simply kept walking toward a waiting taxi, which he and Lee ducked into, escaping the deluge.

  MEANWHILE, KAY WAS arriving at kenneth’s, at Truman’s insistence.

  The Fifth Avenue town house from which Kenneth and his team tamed our locks was a whirl of perpetual motion. Tucking our furs into chilled storage lockers, shuttling us from room to room, bustling us into saunas and out again, laying us out to dry beneath Murano glass chandeliers. In the madhouse of famous heads, demanding elaborate coiffures worthy of Versailles, Kay, with her sensible hair and her sensible shoes, found herself lost in the shuffle. She watched a revolving door of clients entering as women, exiting as mythical beings. Two hours in, she rose and approached the desk, meekly dropping Truman’s name. When the haughty desk girls realized that this dowdy out-of-towner was the mysterious guest of honor, they hopped to quick. They bustled Kay into an elevator, ascending to the heavens, leading her to the inner sanctum, doting upon her with flutes of champagne.

  When Kenneth finally appeared—having curled hundreds of ringlets in Marisa Berenson’s genetically blessed locks—he escorted Kay to his famed chair. A tasteful man in a Savile Row suit, Kenneth stepped back, studying Mrs. Graham’s face. Kay felt her cheeks burn under the scrutiny of his gaze, certain he was judging her as a frump. But as the maestro cupped her matronly bob, she felt every bit as alluring as the women who’d sat in that chair before her—Jackie, Marilyn, each of us in turn. Kenneth touched her cheek, proclaiming a sophisticated bouffant just the thing—Babe’s height and Lee’s sleekness combined.

  In an hour’s time Kay returned to the Plaza with a plastic net carefully preserving Kenneth’s creation (the one that evening of which he remained most proud, he’d later claim). She went straight to her room, where she sat at the dressing table, applying the makeup she seldom wore, having sought the advice of friends in the know.

  Just before Truman was due to collect her, she slipped into her Balmain gown.

  When the rap on the door came just before eight, Kay leaped to open it.

  There he stood—the midget suitor. Dapper in a classic tuxedo, specially made to fit his pint-sized frame. Kay before him in a high-necked robe of ivory crepe, bell sleeves and collar edged in hematite, just like the crusting of gems which topped her mask. Simple, understated… yet unquestionably glamorous.

  Truman stepped back, placing a hand over his heart. Taking her in as if gazing upon the most exquisite of creations. His creation. The heroine he’d cleverly chosen for his tale. The former duckling who stood before him every inch as much a swan as Marella or Babe or any of the rest of us.

  ‘Ohhhhhh, Kay-Kay,’ he said in the reverent hush with which he assessed us in such moments, which we knew from experience induced the most extraordinary sensation of lightness. ‘Look at you…’

  ‘I haven’t yet—not all of it put together. I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he instructed. ‘It’s even better if you close your eyes.’ He took her hand and led her to the wardrobe door, where a full-length mirror was mounted. He positioned her in front of it. ‘Now… open.’

  Her eyes fluttered, sticking slightly from the unfamiliar thickness of mascara. When she saw herself, Truman standing at her side, her eyes welled with tears. ‘Thank you, Truman,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

  His eyes watered too, as if the condition was contagious. He wiped them, scolding, ‘Now Kay-Kay, stop this nonsense, or I’m gonna hafta redo your peepers!’

  THEY SHOULD HAVE been a mismatched pair; the extremes of each pointed out the other’s imperfections. Tru’s diminutive frame rendering Kay a giantess; her height making him all the more gnomish. Yet as they walked into the Paleys’ silk-draped living room, where Babe had set candlelit tables, beautifully dressed and amply laden, Truman and Kay—who on any other occasion might have been mistaken for a comedy duo—looked perfect together.

  For all of our efforts—and we did look divine—the host and his guest outdid us. Our tow-haired boy shone more golden than ever before. By some strange spell, that evening he was more alluring than Gianni with his handsomeness and Bill for all his charm.

  And Kay… Good Lord… Kay! She’d transformed from duck to Swan as we never dreamed possible. While she lacked Babe’s bone structure or Marella’s elegant length, no mere genetics could ap
proach Kay’s radiance that night, which simply dazzled with its wattage. For the first time we saw what Truman had seen in Kay, what his kindness and love had coaxed from within. In their presence, our rivalries seemed to melt. Nothing mattered but this evening, this moment. Their success. Success that existed apart from us—the warmth of which we were simply happy to bask in.

  Tru and Kay left after Babe’s cocktail hour, for he was anxious, he said, to return to the Plaza early. Good thing they did, because what with slick streets and fleets of cars sailing toward the Plaza, they got back an hour later than expected. Their picnic dinner illfated, they eschewed bird and bottle for teaspoons of caviar.

  Just before they ventured downstairs, Truman approached the mirror in his suite, a simple black domino mask in his hand.

  Weeks earlier, en route to the Oak Bar to meet with the Plaza’s catering staff, Truman and Babe had wandered past Cartier. The jewelers had dressed a window in masquerade homage, displaying two masks, side by side, one crusted in black diamonds, one in white. Unable to resist, Truman had popped his head into the store, calling to the salesman, ‘Pardon, honey. But combien? Pour les masques?’

  ‘Thirty-six thousand, monsieur,’ the salesman replied. Smug. French. Pleased with the hefty figure. Truman gave a low whistle, then beamed at Monsieur Cartier.

  ‘Merci buckets,’ he trilled on their way out of the shop. Back on the street, he’d practically skipped down Fifth Avenue, giggling with glee, chanting, ‘Thirty-six thousand. Thirty-six grand!’ Then he stopped short, turning to Babe avec mysterious grin. ‘That reminds me, Baby. I’ve got one teensy errand to run before we lunch, if that’s all right with you… ?’ Babe had followed him down the block to the windows of FAO Schwarz, whose displays seemed to delight him every bit as much as their Cartier counterparts. His eyes had gleamed as he surveyed the cornucopia of baby dolls and fire engines and bicycles and guns—plastic, of course, though he could never see one without a flash of the Clutters and the years he’d spent pondering why a boy as kind as Perry might’ve pulled that trigger.