Swan Song

by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

  THE PHONE IN lee’s brownstone blared, startling her from reverie.

  ‘Hello? Lee?’

  ‘Speaking…’

  ‘It’s Liz—Liz Smith.’

  Christ. Liz Smith. Gossip columnist, a prolific one, for the New York Daily News. A hard-talking, good-natured Texan broad, with a low, guttural voice and a no-bullshit air, which Lee preferred to the more pretentious breed of society columnist. Still, this was the last thing she needed—the goddamn press.

  ‘How can I help you, Liz? I presume this isn’t a social call…’

  ‘No, it’s not. Look, Lee, this is rather awkward… I guess I’ll just come out and say it. It’s about Truman.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It’s about this lawsuit. With Gore…’

  Fucking hell. Not this again. That must be what his catalog of calls at the office had been about. Well, she for one was over it. Had been over it for months.

  ‘What about it… ?’

  ‘Well,’ Liz tried again, ‘it’s just that Gore is suing, you know, Truman for an enormous amount of money—a million, I think it is—for libel, over something you told him…’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘About Gore being thrown bodily from the White House… ?’

  ‘Liz, we both know that’s ancient history.’

  ‘Of course, but—’

  ‘I frankly don’t see what this has to do with me.’

  ‘Well, Truman says that you were his source—for the bit about Gore being bodily thrown. That seems to be the operative word here. Bodily. The whole case hinges on it.’

  Lee sighed. She moved to a sideboard beneath her glorious Man in a Cage. Poured herself a Scotch. It was only eleven, but really. That she’d have to endure this inquisition—with all that she was grappling with… ? Cash-strapped. Husbandless. Soon-to-be-homeless. How dare he… Really, how dare he… ?

  ‘Look, Liz. I don’t recall telling Truman any such thing. Besides that, he’s unwell. You know it. I know it. It’s plain as day to any of us. He’s sick and he needs help. I think he’s—’

  ‘He recently got out of rehab, and says you won’t return his calls.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot on my plate.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Look, Lee, I know this is damn awkward, but he asked me to call you and see if you’d reconsider testifying on his behalf.’

  ‘And implicate myself, so that bat-shit Gore can come after me as well? I’ll do no such thing.’ She found herself channeling Jackie: ‘I simply can’t afford it, financially.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. But Truman loves you so, he did seem to hope that you’d stand by him… Just to say that the incident happened. To say: “Mr. Capote didn’t make it up.” One word from you and Gore doesn’t have a stub-leg to stand on.’

  Lee gulped her Scotch. Took a cigarette from a silver tray on the sideboard. Lit it. She’d been trying to quit of late, but fuck it. She sighed heavily.

  ‘Well, Liz, that’s something I just can’t do. You might as well know, I’ve been subpoenaed by Gore’s lawyers, which puts me in a very awkward position. Truman’s going to have to find out sooner or later—I signed a deposition.’

  ‘For Gore… ?!’

  ‘For myself.’ Christ! What was wrong with these people?

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That I don’t recall ever discussing the events of the evening in question with the defendant, Truman Capote, and that I, in fact, wasn’t present in the room to witness the alleged episode.’

  ‘But Truman says—’

  ‘I don’t give two shits what Truman says. I won’t risk being sued for libel over a spat that has nothing to do with me. Truman and Gore have been at each other’s throats since I was in grade school. Why should I get dragged into this?’

  She was livid with Truman. Absolutely livid. How dare he expect her to risk everything, just because he’d chosen to run his mouth? She wanted Liz off the phone.

  ‘Oh my… Lee, Truman so adores you, this might just crush him.’

  Lee let her anger rip. ‘Come on, Liz. This is just too much. I’m done. I’m sick of Truman riding my coattails, little social climber. And really, what does it matter… ? They’re just a couple of fags.’

  BY THE NEXT day, the word was out.

  Lee had received multiple calls and been taken aside by several concerned parties at Vadis when she arrived at noon to meet Jackie for lunch. It appeared that all of Manhattan knew that Lee had said something to Liz Smith that was reported back to Truman. The sleeping dwarf had been kicked. Overnight he had vowed revenge, and had apparently booked a spot on The Stanley Siegel Show for Monday at 9 a.m.

  Her face a veil of serenity, aware that all eyes in the room were upon them, Jackie leaned in close, pretending to sip her aperitif. In a low voice, ‘Peaks, whatever did you say?’

  ‘Oh God, Jacks. It’s about this ludicrous bitch-spat between Truman and Gore. That’s all.’

  ‘But you must have said something that riled him specifically.’

  ‘I simply asked Liz what did it matter, they were just a couple of…’ Lee suddenly heard her own statement through Truman’s ears. ‘Fags.’

  Shit. She watched Jackie’s plastic smile waver.

  ‘Jesus, Lee.’ Jackie lit a cigarette, taking a painfully casual drag.

  ‘What?! Everyone thinks it.’

  ‘Everyone thinks it, but not everyone says so to dyke gossip columnists for the Daily News. You’re no better than he is!’

  ‘What does he mean, “revenge”? Typical Truman-threats! What… he’ll put me in his goddamn opus, which we know he’ll never finish? Really, I’m quaking in my boots.’

  ‘You just better hope he hasn’t something more drastic in mind.’

  ‘Well, he can say what he wants. He’ll only be proving my point.’

  They continued their lunch, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Mercifully, the waiter arrived with another round of Scotch.

  LEE HAD PROMISED herself that she wouldn’t tune in. That she’d simply refuse to give the little terrorist the power to frighten her. She had a busy day ahead, packing. Calls to realtors. An appointment with Sotheby’s about the Bacon. A full day of keeping disaster at bay.

  She’d be damned if she’d let Truman and his drama impact her life. She popped a Valium with the dregs of a Scotch, left on the counter the night before. It seemed to calm her, so she added but a splash to her morning coffee, which she otherwise drank black. Two cups in, and Lee found herself in front of the television, tuning into ABC at five minutes to nine.

  She had, over the previous two days, received calls from worried allies. Rumor had it that Truman was planning a piece of performance art for Siegel. He was preparing a character he meant to debut, the self-proclaimed ‘Southern Fag.’ It was in this guise that he planned to take his revenge—she’d been told—and had put the word out that she’d best be running scared.

  Lee found herself overcome with an eerie sense of calm as she sat staring at morning ads for dish soap and baby food and housewife-geared appliances. Surely his fealty was still intact, somewhere beneath this routine. Surely his love for her would curb his anger in the end.

  When the phone went, she allowed herself the flutter of hope: Truman, calling from the studio, with a ninthinning crisis of conscience?

  She lifted the receiver and simply answered, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you watching?’ Jackie. Of course.

  ‘Sort of,’ Lee replied, with a sip of Scotch-spiked caffeine. They lapsed into silence as a swell of orchestration announced the start of the program: Liberace piano trills. Garish neon lights flashed ‘THE STANLEY SIEGEL SHOW’ in the style of a Vegas casino sign.

  Two orange swivel chairs sat waiting before potted palms.

  Out walked Siegel in a periwinkle suit. A microphone was clipped to the tie at his neck, yet he carried a long, slender handmic for effect. An extraneous prop.

  ‘Could he look more like a used car sale
sman if he tried?’ she snorted.

  Jackie said nothing.

  After an initial round of banter, Siegel introduced his guest.

  Out walked Truman, carefully costumed, Lee noted. It was one of his ‘Nina’ ensembles—the kind reserved for nice Southern boys—pale linen Brooks Brothers suit, sweater vest, and bow tie. He’d even gone so far as to add the jaunty touch of a straw boater, as if he’d just wandered out of a Tennessee Williams play. He weaved a bit, walking to shake Siegel’s hand, but covered his unsteadiness with a loosey-goosey box-step, as if it was intentional.

  ‘He’s high,’ Lee said to Jackie.

  Truman and his host sat down in their swivel chairs, the guest looking très ‘chat qui a mangé le canari.’ Lee had to admit that he looked better than he had in some time. He’d lost weight. His skin was taut and his thinning hair seemed magically restored (plugs and a facelift, she’d later learn), evoking a Truman of decades before. His eyes appeared to sparkle behind his tortoise glasses and he wore the healthy glow of time spent in the sun.

  Siegel greeted him warmly. Like a long-lost friend.

  ‘Well, hello, Truman. How are you?’

  ‘I’s fiiiinne and dandy, sho’nuff,’ answered his guest, playing up the hillbilly drawl.

  ‘I’m pleased to say, you look much better than the last time we saw you…’

  ‘Weeeeeeullll, yaaaaaaaaassssss. I’s been to rehab and back and bless my soul, they done cured me!’

  Lee rolled her eyes at that notion.

  ‘Well, we’re pleased to welcome you back. Am I correct in saying that it was you who called us, Truman? Because you had something you wanted to talk about?’

  ‘Yaaaaaaaaassssa. As a matter of fact, I do! But I’ll be warnin’ ya, what I’ve gotta say, it isn’t very gentlemanly…’

  ‘It isn’t?’ Siegel, playing the innocent.

  ‘Noooooooo way, no how. You see, it involves a veeeer-rrrrrrrrrry close friend of mine. The divine, dear Principessa Radzilla… Like Godzilla, but she ain’t nearly so friendly.’

  ‘Now, correct me if I’m wrong, Truman, but isn’t Princess Radziwill Mrs. Kennedy’s sister… ?’

  ‘Oh God,’ Jackie breathed. ‘Of course I’d be dragged into this.’

  Shut up, Jacks, Lee thought, but managed to hold her tongue.

  ‘Yuuuuuup, Radziwilla is the baby sis of Jackie Oh-No. And both a pair of gold-diggers if I ever done seen’ em!’

  ‘But Truman, isn’t Princess Radziwill one of your dearest friends?’

  ‘She sho’nuff was, Stanny boy oh Stanny boy. But you seeeee, that was several days ago, after such time the Principessa decided to call me a fag to one of this city’s finest gossip columnists, one Mizzz Lizz Smith, a tall drink of water who is herself of the homo-sexual persuasion. What I came to discuss is this very thing, which I must say confuses me greatly.’ He was really warming up, enjoying the cadence of his text. ‘If the Principessa held such a low opinion of fags, wasn’t it unwise of her to trust one all these years?’

  He smiled, coquettishly, at Siegel.

  ‘And did she trust you, Truman?’

  ‘Ohhhhhhhhh yaaaaaaaass suh. With all her dirty secrets. And that was a tragic mistake on her part, because I’s not just a fag. I’s a Southern fag. And I’m here to tell ya, we Southern fags is mean.’

  ‘Lee…’ Jackie breathed on the line.

  Lee reached for her decanter of Scotch.

  The little shit…

  ‘Unfortunately for Principessa Radzilla, this Southern fag is just getting started.’ Truman grinned at the camera, as if looking into Lee’s very soul.

  ‘Fuck,’ she said aloud, spotting the killer within.

  Those of us near TVs in the New York metropolitan area were hanging on every word from our boudoirs and living room sofas and breakfast tables. Using the event as an excuse for an early cigarette or a Bloody Mary or a clandestine fig Danish from Rigo’s on Madison. In our robes or fully dressed. On the phone with one another like the Bouviers, or taking it in alone.

  ‘So,’ Siegel clarified in his schlocky therapist’s tone, ‘you’re here because Princess Radziwill hurt you. Is that right?’

  ‘I gots an hour, and I’m here to tell what I know. And trust me… I know it all.’

  Truman cut his eyes to a woman sitting off-camera, watching: Sally Quinn of the Washington Post, a favor called in to his precious Kay-Kay, now in her tenth year as editor.

  The moment Liz told Tru of Lee’s treachery, he’d set his plan in motion. He had rung up the folks at Siegel, knowing they’d jump at a repeat performance. Then he’d called Kay to request a reporter cover the whole revenge mission.

  ‘Kay-Kay, it’ll be a comedy classic for the ages, lemme tell you. I want someone reputable there to cover history being made.’ Against her better judgment, Kay had obliged.

  On air, Siegel nodded. ‘Well, Truman, I would hope, for the sake of your long friendship, that it won’t prove too salacious.’ (Bullshit, we longed to cry. The little twerp would simply welcome the ratings leap of another Capote meltdown.)

  ‘Weeeeulll, Stan, the lovely, ethereal Principessa has gone so far, after our long, bosom friendship, to dismiss me as a fag. Fags are supposed to be bitchy, I’m afraid. So let’s go…’

  It was clear to any of us what he had in mind. He intended to bring Lee down. To do his damndest to ruin she who had so casually betrayed him, after all that he had done for her. To use every weapon he had stockpiled over decades, and she had handed him a veritable arsenal.

  Sally Quinn would later report that Truman had planned his performance to the nth degree. A monologue to end all monologues, over which he had taken the care he usually reserved for his prose. He had calculated the rhythms of each sentence. He’d memorized his dialogue. Had rehearsed his delivery. And while he seemed woozy to the outside observer, this was merely euphoria.

  ‘I wish poor old Stas was alive to see today’s little display,’ Tru had told Sally Quinn in the car on the way to the studio. ‘Once, when I was doing all I did for Lee, getting her film parts and book deals and setting her up to succeed, Stas—who she always took for granted in my view—said to me that if I went to such lengths for someone that I loved, what must I do for someone that I loathed. Well, we’re about to find out. By the time I’m done, all of New York will know what a narcissistic cunt that girl is.’

  ON AIR, LIVE: ‘Lorrrddeeee mercy, where to begin… ? I wanna ease into things. I wouldn’t want the Princess Pee to hafta call for the ambulance too early on… She might miss the best bits!’ He tilted his hat roguishly over one eye. ‘Let’s start with her numerous beaux—though I must say, conquests might prove more appropriate, statistically. The unrequited ones in particular.’

  He knew her well enough to suspect she might be watching with Jackie, and went directly for the jugular.

  ‘Well, to begin with, Principessa thought she’d nailed Onassis down’ fo herself, so imagine just how wounded she was when big sistah snatched him away. She wouldn’t want me a-tellin’ you this, but Radzilla was in an absolute state… ! Not that she cared for that wrinkled old prune, but she was quite besotted with those oil tankers. Of course, both Bouviers lured him away from that dear Maria Callas, who made the mistake of loving him and actually having talent. Of course Lee is terribly jealous of Jackie, and Jackie jealous of Lee in a way. Ms. Jacks certainly wasn’t happy when Lee went after Peter Beard. Lawdy! He was too hot for either of those ice queens to handle—had’ em both in little puddles on the floor when he was done. He dallied with Radzilla for a time, but she raised holy hell when he refused to be faithful—she took to stalking his other young ladies. Naturally he traded her in for a model with less mileage—as if that was a surprise to either of those Bouviers, who think by speaking in baby tones we’ll all forget their dates o’ birth and treat’ em like they’re twenty. Nags gussied up as fillies, the pair of’ em!’

  He grinned genially, the most benign of narrators. There really was a kind of mad bri
lliance in the performance. The only one not enjoying it appeared to be Siegel himself, who squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Truman swiveled happily from side to side in his own.

  ‘I see, Truman. However—’

  ‘Sometimes it’s been downright comical,’ Truman drawled, drowning him out. ‘For instance, Radzilla was all tangled up in Nureyev’s tights—and to think she failed to spot that he done pitched fo’ the other team… Imagine her surprrrrrrrrrriiiiiise when she went to decorate his pied-à-terre, only to stumble upon drawers full of pictures of simply mouthwatering cocks—’

  Siegel cut in, desperate to rein in his guest. ‘Yes, Truman. That’s all fine. We can see that you’ve been terribly hurt by the Princess—’

  ‘You bet your bottom I’m hurt, sho’nuff! “Coattails”? I saved that ungrateful little—’

  ‘I hear, Truman,’ Siegel interrupted again in an effort to change the subject, ‘that you’ve just come out of Hazelden, is that true?’

  ‘I—’ Truman looked disoriented. As if Siegel had turned a blowtorch on his waxen wings and like Icarus he was falling downward, downward, back to earth.

  ‘I was just wondering how things are going for you.’

  The Southern Fag blinked. Siegel had broken the beauty of his cadence, so carefully rehearsed. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, rendering him less Southern Fag and more Trumanesque by the moment. ‘Well. You’ve certainly ruined the fun of that, I must say.’

  Siegel, chastised. ‘I’m sorry, Truman. Go right ahead.’

  Truman attempted to recover his rhythm. ‘And then… then there was Buckley—one William F.—Radzilla had the—she tried to—’ He struggled in vain to find his place in the script once more. ‘—tried to seduce him away from his wife, by asking the aging altar boy for spiritual advice!’ He laughed at his own punchline, a little too eagerly.

  ‘Do you think you’ve managed to kick the drugs, Truman?’

  ‘What about Radzilla? I don’t exactly see her laying off the sauce.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Siegel laughed, uneasily. He looked to his producer in the booth, signaling him to cut to a break. ‘We’ll resume our chat after a quick word from our sponsors.’