“Do you know what?” Babe sat up, reached into her pocket, and dried her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, careful not to smudge her mascara. She gazed at Truman, who was holding her hand tenderly, caressing it, loving it. Claiming it.
Claiming her.
So Babe took a deep breath, and decided to take the plunge. To be loved was not something she ever expected for herself, not anymore. But to love someone—oh, yes. Oh, God, yes. No one could deprive her of that.
“My analyst said something ridiculous to me the other day.” She couldn’t prevent a nervous laugh; she couldn’t look Truman in the eye. “He said—I can’t believe he said this!—he said I ought to have an affair with you. That you were obviously my obsession, and an affair would be a good thing, a healthy thing. For me, that is.” Babe felt unsteady, even though she was seated on the sofa; the room, red fabric walls, the silk hangings on the window, the most charming antiques money could buy, seemed to press in on her, tighter than the most unforgiving ball gown, the most constricting undergarment. Nothing was as it was supposed to be. The room was no longer a diorama of money and taste, arranged by the best decorators in town, Billy Baldwin and Sister Parish, but rather, now it was a circus tent. A hideous circus tent—oh, why hadn’t she seen this before, all that fabric on the ceiling and the walls?—and she was the freak show on display, all her needs and wants spilling out of her, pooling into the sawdust at her feet.
She couldn’t breathe. Although she was aware, acutely, of the sound of Truman doing just that, sitting next to her.
Suddenly she pulled her hand away from his and buried her face in a pillow. She simply couldn’t bear to hear what she knew he was going to say.
“Oh, Babe.” And his voice was soft, sad. “Oh, my Babe. Do you know, do you have any idea, how dearly I would love for that to be possible?”
Babe shook her head, the silk tassels of the pillow tickling her cheek. If she could only stay buried; if she never had to look at Truman’s face.
But that was impossible; she felt his hands, strong and masculine and soft and feminine, pulling her up, turning her toward him. He pushed her hair out of her eyes, and finally she had to look. His face was naked, completely vulnerable; he’d taken off his glasses, an act of intimacy that made her heart race with hope. He leaned in to her, carefully, and holding his breath, just like the most tender, most unsure of hopeful lovers, he kissed her, his lips tickling hers.
But then he pulled away, although he kept his hands on her shoulders. There were tears in his beautiful eyes.
“But it’s not possible. I am who I am, and I’m not ashamed of it. I like men. I always have. I’ve never even been tempted by the thought of being with a woman. But now, this moment, is the first time in my entire life when I have wished, just for the teensiest bit, that I was. You must know that, and remember it. We must remember this moment forever, because it is love we feel for each other. And we’re so lucky to have it.”
Babe took a deep breath, let the air fill her lungs almost to bursting, holding it in, like a child desperate for a wish to come true. If it had been anyone else but Truman, she would have run, hidden herself. If it had been anyone else but Truman, she wouldn’t have said this in the first place, would never have exposed herself so thoroughly, allowed herself to be seen as someone real with raw needs and desires. If it had been anyone else but Truman whom she did love, just as he said—she released her breath. If it had been anyone else, but Truman.
But it was Truman, wasn’t it? Now, and always. He was still the same soul who saw her, and appreciated her, no matter how she allowed herself to be seen: vulnerable or impenetrable, exquisitely clothed and coiffed or with her hair unkempt, her eyes pink and runny.
It was Truman.
“It’s ridiculous, I know. I told Dr. Cameron so. It’s just that—” and Babe suddenly found herself with her friend again, not rejected at all; and best of all, most startling of all, loved, even if it wasn’t quite the way she longed to be. But sometimes one had to make the best of things. Hadn’t her mother taught her that, all her life? Bill might not see her, might not love her. But Truman, in his way, did.
So Babe indulged herself, pouring out that swollen sac of loneliness and regret, spilling it all over his lap, knowing he wouldn’t mind the mess of it, after all. “It’s just that I do get lonely, you know. For love, in that way. Bill won’t be that for me again, if he ever was. Oh, but I do miss it! I long for it. I long to be touched, and desired. I don’t know how I can live the rest of my life, knowing that my husband doesn’t want me. And I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Dr. Cameron. Not even my sisters. I don’t know why I told you, even. But I’m glad. I’m so glad that I did!”
Babe closed her eyes and laid her head back down in Truman’s lap; he didn’t say a word for a very long time. He only continued to stroke her hair, bend down to kiss her on the lips—chastely, but lovingly. She could have gone to sleep; she could have slept better than she ever had, no need for a Miltown. She felt sated, physically. As if they had, indeed, consummated their passion.
And, perhaps, they had.
After several minutes, she opened her eyes. Truman was gazing down at her with such love, such sincere concern. She smiled and sat up.
“Goodness, I must be a mess. Let me fix myself up and let’s go out. What would you like to do?”
“You look absolutely breathtaking, but do what you have to do, my love. I’d like to see a movie. Let’s do that.”
“Do you want me to ring up CBS and reserve the screening room? Or we could have them send something out to Kiluna and watch it there, in the little theater.”
“Babe, oh, my Babe!” Truman laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. “Don’t you ever go out to the movies, like real people? To an actual theater?”
“Well, no, not since, well, not in a long time.” Babe blushed; sometimes she did forget how rarefied her life had become. Bless Truman for not making her feel utterly ridiculous!
“Well, I meant we should go see a movie. In a movie theater. With popcorn and everything. Not caviar. And it will be my treat.”
“Of course, that sounds wonderful.” And Babe rose, herself once more; she felt her spine straighten, her breathing slow down, and the room once more was a gorgeous thing to behold, a testament to her taste and breeding and wealth. Bill’s wealth. She was Barbara Cushing Mortimer Paley.
And right now, this moment, maybe, perhaps, she was loved.
Babe quickly changed into a Dior day dress, white silk with soft blue polka dots, tight at the waist, with a bow to the side and a portrait collar—she supposed that was appropriate for a movie theater—reapplied her makeup, and selected a deeper blue Hermès bag. She put her gloves on, surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, turning around, craning her neck so she could see over her shoulder. One slight adjustment to her stocking, and she felt ready to sail out and face whoever might be looking her way: maids, waiters, salespeople, photographers, Gloria or Slim or Marella or C.Z. People—friends, families, strangers—looked at her, and they looked for her. They always had. It was a fact of her life. She must be ready, then. She must make it worth their while.
“Before we see the movie, I have a surprise for you.” Babe rejoined Truman in the drawing room. He had reverted back to being rather melancholy; he had not moved from the sofa to fix himself a drink, or to ooh and ahh at the paintings or antiques; he hadn’t followed her into the bedroom to sit and gossip while she got ready, so unlike him. No, he was still seated on the sofa, his spectacles off, his face in his hands; when he looked up at her, she could see he had been rubbing his eyes, as they looked small and tired.
“A surprise?” Now he did put on his glasses; she saw an interested little gleam in his eyes, and she was thrilled to have sparked it.
“A surprise.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see!”
And soon enough they were sailing through the marble lobby of the St. Regis, with its clouds and c
herubs on the ceiling, inlaid floors, gigantic floral arrangements, and crossing Fifty-fifth Street, turning right on Fifth Avenue, and entering Tiffany’s. The top-hatted doorman’s eyes widened in recognition; he held the door open for them with a properly awed “Good morning, Mrs. Paley! Mr. Capote! What an honor!”
Truman’s face was truly gleaming now; he seemed to grow five inches.
“Oh, I do love Tiffany’s.” He sighed as he followed Babe’s lead; she strode surely down the center aisle, not stopping to look in any of the cases, for naturally, Mrs. William S. Paley did not shop like mere mortals; there were private rooms and corridors for her, employees whom the regular shoppers would never see. Hidden doors, soft chairs, teacups, and jewels brought out on velvet trays, just for her. Truman had never known this world, until he met her. “Oh, Truman, one never buys jewelry in public. It’s so dear of you, though, to think of it,” she once told him, when he wanted to pop into Van Cleef to buy her a trinket. And far from being offended, he was grateful for the advice. He’d told her that she was the “best finishing school in the world,” and she’d beamed.
“Tiffany’s is like a country club for the gods,” Truman said with a sigh. “I always think that, when I’m here.” And Babe smiled; the wooden paneling always did remind her of a club. A rarefied, exclusive club.
“Third floor,” she instructed the elevator man, who nodded and pressed the button. “I told you, Truman, dear, that I’d been asked to design a little display upstairs?”
“No, you didn’t, Bobolink. How thrilling!”
“Not really,” Babe said with a wry smile. “They asked several ‘society ladies,’ as I believe they refer to us. Gloria did one, and so did Marella.”
The elevator opened and they stepped out; in the display cases were exquisite place settings of china and crystal and silver, all tastefully illuminated. There was a room off to one side, where a young woman, clad in a dress, hat, and gloves that made her look forty, not twenty—already dressing for the role, Babe decided—sat with her mother, obviously registering for wedding gifts.
Babe slowed down and took Truman’s hand in hers; she was already smiling, anticipating his reaction, when she led him into another room and pointed to the display.
There, amid several boring, uninventive set pieces (Marella had set a wicker table with a china pattern of yellow roses and grapevines—“How typically, revoltingly Italian,” Truman whispered, while Babe shook her head in admonishment; Gloria Guinness’s table setting was equally uninspired—“La Guinness can’t disguise the peasant in her,” was Truman’s pronouncement even as Babe tried to shush him), was a flowered chaise longue that Truman recognized from Babe’s bedroom at Kiluna. Next to the chaise stood a round table holding a full place setting of bone china with a lattice-worked border, along with a silver coffeepot and a crystal glass filled with orange juice.
On the chaise longue, half-opened, was a copy of Truman’s book.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s!” he squealed, his face pure joy; he laughed so delightedly, from his belly, that the smattering of hushed, earnest shoppers all turned his way. But Babe didn’t care; she had done it. She had surprised him, delighted him. Given him something back—given him back himself, the assured, triumphant self that had fled him the morning after, leaving him hollow and empty and so sad.
“Oh, Babe, you dear! You love, you perfect creature! I’m utterly delighted. Tickled to death, spank my bottom and call me Daddy!”
“I’m so glad you like it,” Babe said, her face flushing with accomplishment. She couldn’t help but think of how much time she’d put into this “silly little thing,” as she’d pronounced it to one and all. How she’d racked and racked her brain to come up with something different from the expected, and how pleased she’d been when she’d hit on the idea. She’d longed for weeks to tell Truman about it, but now was satisfied that she’d waited until just the right moment to share it with him.
“Now, let’s go see that movie,” she said, and he nodded as they left, pausing only to sign one or two autographs from patrons who had finally recognized him. With each signature, his eyes sparkled just a bit more.
So did Babe’s.
—
THE MOVIE TRUMAN CHOSE was Pinocchio. That old Disney cartoon. She was mystified as to why; as to why he dragged her downtown, somewhere around the Bowery, and insisted on hailing a cab instead of phoning for a car. Babe pretended to enjoy riding in the big yellow taxi, making sure that a game “let’s see what happens next!” expression was arranged on her face. But she was fearful the entire ride that she’d sat in something dreadful, like gum, or a squished candy bar. Or worse.
The theater was in what she would euphemistically call an “interesting neighborhood.” There were many young Negro children playing in the street, all by themselves, no parents or nannies in watchful attendance. Rusty cars and delivery trucks dominated the landscape, and the apartment buildings were all in dreadful condition, some of them with broken windows, torn awnings; all had filthy, crumbling stoops.
But she followed Truman into the theater, which was surprisingly clean and spacious and empty. They had an entire row to themselves. The lights dimmed and the movie commenced, the old story about Geppetto, longing for a son, and the Blue Fairy, who granted the wish, and Jiminy Cricket, who yearned to be a conscience—and Pinocchio, the wooden puppet who comes to life.
Babe hid a yawn, not very interested in the movie, although she hadn’t seen it before. She was more interested in Truman’s rapturous face as he gazed at the screen, the movie’s images reflected in his tortoise-shell eyeglasses. He laughed delightedly when Pinocchio went to Pleasure Island, and by the end, when the Blue Fairy granted Pinocchio his wish and turned him into a real boy and Jiminy Cricket was crooning “When You Wish Upon a Star,” Truman grasped her hand and began to sob uncontrollably.
The lights flickered back on, and the few others in the theater rose and filed out, gaping at the two of them, Truman crying, Babe bewildered. She was terrified someone would recognize her; she instinctively ducked her head, averting her famous face. But then she realized that no one would recognize her, not here, not in this neighborhood, and the realization was both a stab of annoyance and a warm bath of safe anonymity. For a giddy moment, Babe longed to run up and down the aisle screaming and waving her arms, or to do something equally scandalous and out of character. No one would ever know it was she.
But she was brought back to reality by her gasping, sobbing friend, clinging to her arm as if he were drowning.
“Truman, what is it, dear? What’s wrong? It’s a happy ending! Truman, it’s a happy film!”
Truman shook his head, the tears still streaming, his face very red, anguish in his eyes. Finally, he collected himself a little; he took a deep breath, let out an enormous sigh, and mopped his eyes with a handkerchief.
“The first time I saw this, my heart broke, it just gave way inside me. Because, you see, that was always my dearest wish, too. To be a real boy for my mother, so she would love me, so she wouldn’t be ashamed of me and say hateful things to me and try to pretend I was something I wasn’t. I just wanted to be a real boy, you see. Not always, you understand—oh, no! But when I saw this movie, all I could think of was how pleased Mama would be, how she’d finally love me, if only I was.”
“Oh, Truman!” Babe’s own heart twisted in sympathy; she wanted to fold him up in her arms and take him home and give him the childhood he so deserved, the love that he had missed. She wanted to be his mother, and his lover, both in one day, and the different emotions, jaggedly different, biblically different, made her disoriented, dizzy once more.
“And now, today, what you said to me earlier. Babe, right now, this minute, I wish I could be a real boy for you, my heart. So I could give you what you need, all you need and desire. So I can give you what Bill won’t, that bastard. That’s what I want so much. Only this moment, you understand. But it’s true, it’s real, it’s the realest thing about me when I’m w
ith you.”
Babe blinked, surprised tears in her eyes. She looked down at Truman’s manicured little hand in hers, and she looked at the rest of him, the short legs, barely touching the floor; the tweed trousers he was wearing, his soft belly just beginning to strain against his cashmere sweater vest. She thought of the hidden rest of him, the parts she’d never seen, and was overcome with desire to see them, touch him, arouse him, challenge him to do the same to her, to overcome his true nature, to be a real boy—a real man.
But then he wouldn’t be Truman, would he? For that otherness, that uniqueness—goodness, let’s just say it, Babe, all right, his queerness—was the gossamer, quirky thread stitching everything else together, the intellect and talent and confidence and thirst for beauty. His seriousness—that’s what she always told people she admired most about him. How serious and dedicated he was about his work, about people, about life.
But if that was all he was, he wouldn’t have made it into her orbit. It was the “other” quality that made it safe for Bill to approve of their friendship, to invite him into their lives as fully as he had. Truman straight just wasn’t Truman. And even she, Babe Paley, goddess among mere mortals, couldn’t bring herself to believe that she could be the one, the only woman in his life, while he continued to sleep with men on the side. That just wasn’t possible, and she knew it.
“Truman, dear, don’t distress yourself about me. It’s just a thing my analyst said, a passing fancy, and a measure of how much I love you. A physical affair couldn’t bring us any closer.” And as Babe said this, she recognized it as the absolute truth.
“I know.” Truman’s eyes were dry now, but his hand was still in hers. It remained there as they got in the taxi, and—sensing that neither wanted to go back to the world that expected too much of them, at times—Babe impulsively asked the driver, “How much will you charge to drive out to Long Island?”