Well, it might have been true! And it just made the whole thing more interesting—really, nobody cared any longer that the woman had gotten away with murder—and served Ann right; he’d never forgiven her for calling him a “garden-variety fag” all those years ago.
Gloria and Loel still did enjoy their Truman, when he wasn’t drunk or stoned or carting around some dock boy. Which meant—they really didn’t enjoy him at all, but then, neither did he enjoy them. God, they were becoming tedious, Loel looked like he’d been pickled in brine, and Gloria was so obsessed with her fading looks that she wouldn’t even come out of her bedroom before three in the afternoon, when the light was best.
C.Z. was as ever: irreverent, yet surprisingly prissy at times unless Truman called her on it—“Oh, dear, it’s Miss Boston Brahmin again. Or has she forgotten she has a nude Diego Rivera of herself hanging over the basement bar?” She—like Babe—professed to worry about him, but then she’d forget about him as soon as he left; she’d go off and write another gardening book or smell a horse, and put him completely out of her mind. But she always welcomed him with her sunny smile the next time they met.
Lady Pamela Digby Churchill Hayward was now Mrs. Averell Harriman—Christ on a cracker, Harriman was old, older than Methuselah, but he had so much money!—and had reinvented herself once more. Now she was a Washington hostess, the queen Democrat with Republican tastes. She claimed she did not own a “television machine,” and so she regretfully missed a lot of Truman’s more delightful appearances. Although she was still happy to include Truman in her fund-raising dinners and parties, if he promised to behave himself. Sometimes he did.
Old habits die hard. Particularly among the wealthy.
And the storytellers, gossips, and snakes.
After “Mojave” was published, Esquire begged Truman for more. And more was what they got.
“What do you think of this? Isn’t it just delicious? Brilliant in every way?” And Truman handed the piece to Jack. Dear, unsuccessful, bitter Jack; he still loved him, always would, even if Jack could barely stand to look at him these days when he was foggy and bloated with drink from ten in the morning on. But still, the two of them could never really sever the tie. And they still trusted each other’s opinion.
“Truman,” Jack had said, aghast, after he’d read the story. “Are you sure about this?”
“What do you mean? Isn’t it good?” Truman, reclining on a rubber raft in a pool, dabbled a pudgy red hand in the cool water. He was on his fifth “glass of sunshine”—a tumbler of vodka with a splash of orange juice.
“To be frank, no, it’s not. Not your best work, my boy.”
“I know someone who’s j-e-a-l-o-u-s,” Truman sang, splashing the water after each letter.
“You know that’s not true. No, it is. It is true. I’ve always been jealous.” Jack met Truman’s triumphant gaze head-on, not flinching. “And you know that. You also know that I’ve never let my jealousy cloud my professional admiration of your work.”
Truman pursed his mouth, took another sip of vodka. “I know,” was all he said.
“But this isn’t very good. And that’s not even the most disturbing thing. Truman, don’t you think they’ll all be upset? All your goddamned swans? The Paleys, especially? Won’t they be furious?”
“Nah.” Truman closed his eyes again and tilted his face toward the sky, not caring if he got sunburned. “They’re all too stupid. They’ll never recognize themselves. Besides, I’m very clever; I did use a few specific names, just to throw the others off the scent.”
“If you say so,” Jack replied. “But I’d think twice.”
“I don’t have to. Anyway, even if they do recognize themselves, what do they expect? They’re the ones who told me everything in the first place. Even after In Cold Blood. Even after I told them, the dumb bunnies, that I was writing a book about society.”
“What about Babe?”
Truman put his sunglasses on and splashed away on his raft.
“Just think twice, Truman, okay? Promise me you’ll do that?”
What he couldn’t tell Jack was that he couldn’t afford to think twice. He’d promised Esquire a second story, and this was all he had, because he couldn’t write, not really, the pages paralyzed him, his thoughts couldn’t be corralled, and he couldn’t let Jack, of all people, see. Jack, who had fallen in love with him because he was a writer; that was how they met, two serious artists who, on those first cozy mornings in bed together when they were intoxicated by discovery, like conquistadors conquering Mexico, planting flags and staking claim, jokingly argued about who was the Virginia and who the Leonard Woolf of their relationship.
No, he couldn’t let Jack see. And so he sent the story off, the first installment (only?), he told the editor, of his new book, Answered Prayers.
“La Côte Basque 1965,” the story was called.
CHAPTER 18
…..
Ann Woodward woke up that morning feeling like hell.
She always felt like hell, but that morning of October 9, 1975, the sky appeared grayer, the air colder, her breath more of a waste than it had seemed the day before. She had a headache; she’d had a headache for so long, she knew she’d feel worse without one. It was a companion. One of the few she could claim.
The headache, the ostracism, the entrapment—for she really was an animal in a cage, a gilded cage, but the bars were well constructed by her mother-in-law, Elsie. The food doled out grudgingly. The few glimpses of sunshine rationed. Her life was a prison.
Her sons, removed from her, raised by Elsie, and really, who could blame her? It wasn’t as if Ann was a good mother, she knew she wasn’t, but still it stung to have them taken from her like that. Her sons were now two more things she couldn’t call her own anymore.
So Ann rose, took a pill or two—because why not? She didn’t even know, for sure, what they did for her anymore—went to get the mail, and found, in a manila envelope, a copy of the upcoming Esquire, with a photo of Rich Little in a rumpled raincoat on its cover. One of the headlines trumpeted, “At last, Truman Capote’s new novel, Answered Prayers, a first look.” And that headline was circled, with a handwritten suggestion that “You might want to take a look at this.”
Ann’s first reaction was to laugh and toss it in the trash. Why the hell would she want to read Truman’s new book? She despised Truman; he despised her. She really didn’t know why, except that he told someone, who told her, that once she’d called him a fag. Apparently, he took offense at that, which was odd. Lots of people called him a fag, and he was a fag, wasn’t he? So why would she want to read his pathetic little story?
But then Ann thought of the day ahead; of the endless, yawning nothingness, perhaps a pained visit from Elsie, the old cow, or if not a visit then a phone call, just so Elsie could tell one and all that they were still close, of course, why wouldn’t they be?
Well, for starters, Ann always longed to tell her, I killed your son.
That was true. That was fact. Ann had killed Elsie’s son, Ann’s husband, Billy. Billy Woodward.
Sometimes it sounded so strange to say his name. It was like the name of a stranger to her now, he’d been gone so long. Dead, dead, dead…from a bullet that came from a gun held by her. Ann had never tried to claim otherwise.
As far as the accident part, though…
Yes, it was an accident. She hadn’t meant to kill him, not really. No, it wasn’t an accident. She sure as hell intended to scare him, or wound him, or do something that would release her from him, cause him to divorce her, give her a good settlement. Billy was a fag, too. He was. Nobody knew that about him, except Ann. She’d tried to use this as leverage, but he’d not risen to the bait. “No one will believe you,” the bastard told her that night, after yet another fight, a knockdown, drag-out brawl in the bedroom hall, even as their sons were asleep at the other end of the house.
So Ann went to sleep with a gun beside her. Who didn’t? Well, Billy did, too. Or at le
ast, that’s what she told the police when they came, later. And indeed, when they went to Billy’s room to see, they found a revolver next to his bed.
She’d heard a prowler. Everyone knew about the prowlers! She’d heard steps on the roof, the dog barking, and when she went to her bedroom door, she saw a figure in the hallway. She blasted away at it, thinking only of her sons, her precious boys, whom she had to protect, didn’t she?
It wasn’t her fault that Billy had gotten up to pee.
That’s what she told the police. Upon her lawyer’s advice. Elsie’s, too.
And so began a lifetime in hell, a hell even more scorching than her miserable marriage had been. Elsie swooped down on her, paid everyone off, locked Ann up only to take her out occasionally, telling one and all that it was a terrible, terrible accident, pure and simple. Of course she believed her daughter-in-law! Of course the two of them were grieving together, finding solace in memories of dear Billy.
When the two of them were alone, though, Elsie was anything but the gracious society lady; she spewed forth a lifetime of pent-up venom against “the other woman,” who just happened to be her daughter-in-law. Did Elsie truly mourn her son? Ann never really knew. She had to sit through streams of invective followed by the cold shoulder, then a car would pick up her and deposit her back into her apartment, until the next time Elsie wanted to trot her out for “appearance’s sake.”
Then even Elsie ran out of hateful things to say, in her crisp, modulated voice, and sent Ann away to Europe with instructions to stay put or else. Well, Ann did, for a while, but Europe was so damn old and boring and nobody there wanted anything to do with her, either, so she came home. Elsie then locked her back in this cage, not even bothering to trot her out to ease the gossip, but it didn’t matter. Everybody had forgotten about the whole thing, anyway. Society had a very short memory. But still, nobody wanted to see her. The phone didn’t ring. Invitations didn’t appear in the mail.
All she’d ever wanted was to have a little fun, ya know? Back in Kansas, where she was born, where she had first married for kicks, then ran away from the louse, then to New York, where she got in the shows, had the stage-door Johnnies eating out of her hands, then bagged a big fish, ol’ Bill Woodward, who then passed her on to Billy. Who married her. And took all the fun away.
Because being rich, she’d found out, wasn’t really that much fun. In order to be rich, she was supposed to act differently; the money, the position came with so many gilded strings attached. She must dress a certain way, behave a certain way—decorum, Elsie was always harping. Taste, dear, taste. That’s the thing.
The other dames could do it—look at Babe Paley, with her quiet voice, her regal posture, her graceful movement, unhurried, focused. But Babe wasn’t much fun at all; Ann had never seen her really cut a rug in public, or laugh with abandon, or drink too much, or smile too broadly. What good was money, without fun? Ann really couldn’t play the game, when all was said and done.
You know who else couldn’t play the game? Capote. That mincing little creep. He might give himself airs, throw that goddamn party to which she hadn’t been invited, not that she ever expected it, but still. Elsie had been invited.
But Capote wasn’t any better at being rich than Ann was; he couldn’t hide his stripes any more than she could. The two of them were trash, scum, or maybe even worse.
The only difference was the Babe Paleys of the world didn’t know it about him, because he hadn’t pulled that goddamn trigger.
Not yet, anyway.
Goddamn, the day was shaping up to be another winner. Ann fingered the torn lace on her negligee and whimpered. She’d have to beg Elsie for another, and the thought of scraping through the rest of her life on her knees, begging for handouts, all for the sake of appearances—
Wasn’t it time for a drink yet? Or more pills?
Ann poured herself a good one—a tumbler of bourbon, no ice—and settled in an armchair with the magazine.
She might as well read what the faggot had written. It couldn’t be any worse than the stories she told herself, every single worthless, endless day of this worthless, endless life she was barely living.
—
WHEN THEY FOUND HER the next day, the tumbler was empty. And the magazine was still clutched in her cold, stiff fingers.
CHAPTER 19
…..
OCTOBER 17, 1975, LOS ANGELES
Truman was on top of the world. He, Truman Streckfus Persons Capote, Mama’s Little Disappointment, was starring in a movie! Finally, after years and years, ever since he was a little boy watching Shirley Temple wiggle and flirt and tap her way to fame—oh, my, remember that time he dressed up in one of Sook’s old dresses and tapped for his mama in the kitchen of the house in Monroeville? It was during one of Mama’s rare visits. Sook loved to let him dress up in her old gowns, so this time, they rigged him up in a yellow silk dress with torn lace flounces; Sook pinned it up so he wouldn’t trip over it, and then she turned on the phonograph and he tapped and lisped around like Shirley herself, giving the performance of his life. Mama, it need not be said, was not amused; she ran to the outhouse, actually, and he heard her retching from inside the kitchen.
Well, look at me now, Mama! I’m a movie star!
Neil Simon had asked—begged! implored!—him to play the part of the villain in his latest movie, Murder by Death. “What Billie Holiday is to jazz, what Mae West is to tits…Truman Capote is to the great god Thespis!” Truman crowed to one and all.
And it was true! Maybe.
If he was being honest with himself—which he was not in the habit of being, but sometimes one did slip a little—making a movie was not easy, even if he was basically playing Truman Capote, as he’d been instructed to do. But he had to speak other people’s words, not his own; Neil Simon had not taken kindly to the suggestion that Truman rewrite his part, even after Truman reminded him he had written very good screenplays in the past. So Truman did, sometimes, stumble over the dialogue—when he could remember it. And, yes, perhaps he did keep looking down at those marks that he was told, repeatedly, that he had to hit or else he’d be out of camera range; how on earth was he supposed to hit them without looking at them, while remembering someone else’s words to say? But the director didn’t seem to understand this predicament.
And the hours were ungodly! Strange, he didn’t remember having to get up at the crack of dawn when he was working on Beat the Devil, with Bogie and Huston, true cinematic geniuses, not like this hack director. But he had to report to the studio every morning he was on call at six A.M., even if all he did during the day was sit around in his costume, just biding his time. And the lights were hotter than Hades, and the other actors—Maggie Smith and David Niven among them—didn’t seem as amused by his stories as Bogie had been, back in the day.
But now the phone was ringing, and it was Liz Smith, calling him from New York. New York! Oh, how he missed it! He squealed into the phone, happy to hear a familiar voice.
“Liz! My angel, my rescuer! I’m so glad to hear from you! Do you have any idea what that amateur Maggie Smith said to me the other day? Now, this is strictly off the record, of course—unless you think it should be otherwise—but—”
“Truman, do you have any idea what’s going on here?” Liz, in her laconic Texas drawl, interrupted him.
“No, what do you mean?”
“Well, Esquire came out today.”
“Of course! I’d nearly forgotten! Tell me, tell me—is it brilliant? Wonderful? The most astonishing thing you’ve ever read?”
“Well, it’s astonishing, all right. Did you hear about Ann Woodward?”
“No, what about her? What did Miss Bang Bang do now?”
“She killed herself, Truman.”
“No!” Truman sat down; oh, this was good! He hadn’t heard half so good in ages.
“And, Truman, the rumor is she had a copy of Esquire in her hands. And the pages were open to your story, ‘La Côte Basque 1965.’ ” r />
“NO!!!” Truman didn’t try to stifle a squeal; think of the publicity! Oh, thank you, Ann Woodward, you fag-hating murdering bitch! “Oh, Liz, really? You’re not making that up, are you, my darling girl?”
“Truman,” Liz said slowly, “I don’t think you quite understand.”
And then Liz proceeded to inform him that all hell was breaking loose in Manhattan; screams and hysterics were being witnessed in penthouses, restaurants, 21, Bergdorf’s. His name was on everyone’s tongues—for his friends, his swans, were not so dumb as he’d assumed them to be; they’d recognized themselves and their stories, after all. Everyone had. And were happy to tell Miss Smith that never again would Truman Capote darken their marble doorsteps.
“How delicious!” Truman kept screaming throughout. “How delightful! What a dream come true!”
“Slim, Gloria, Marella—they’ve all vowed that you’ll never be accepted again. Jackie O, apparently, has taken to her room with her salts. Gloria Vanderbilt is seething, possibly suing.”
“Oh, they’re just saying that! Their plastic noses are out of joint, that’s all. They’ll change their minds in a few days—they always do. I’m simply too famous and fun for them to give me up! But, Liz, really, my darling—is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald?”
“At the very least,” Liz affirmed. “Truman, everyone is furious, even those who aren’t in the story! And Ann—well, you’ve managed to get everyone all misty-eyed about someone they all simply hated before your story. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“How did she die?”
“Cyanide pill.”
“Well, darling, I didn’t go out and buy the pill for her, so why blame me?”
“Because of the story, Truman. The part about Ann—you really dredged it all up, and then some, saying that she’d never divorced her first husband. Is that true?”