The Swans of Fifth Avenue

  “It might be.”

  “Well, everyone thinks it was vile and unnecessary, at the very least. But the stuff about the Paleys—well, that’s the capper. The nail in your coffin.”

  “There’s nothing about the Paleys in my story,” Truman said primly.

  “Truman, cut the crap. A Jewish media mogul with a fabulous, kind, beautiful wife, and who can’t keep his pecker in his pants?”

  “Darling, read it however you want. That’s what great literature does—it allows people to interpret it in different ways.”

  “Great literature?” Truman heard the wry doubt in Liz’s voice.

  “Yes, darling, my gossip queen.” And Liz heard the acid condescension in his.

  “Well, I can’t reach the Paleys—they’re the only ones who won’t talk to me. Slim, however, is absolutely livid. She’s threatening to sue.”

  “Oh, my dearest Big Mama—she never will! Slim’s a smart girl. She knows better—they all know better. What did they expect, anyway? Who did they think I was? I’m a writer! This will all be over soon. But not too soon, I hope!”

  “Well, I’m going to write an article about the whole thing for New York magazine.”

  “Oh, wonderful! Tremendous! How can I help?”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Truman hung up the phone and clapped his hands with glee. Oh, goody, goody, goody! Maybe Hollywood didn’t know what to do with him—he knew the film was going to be a turkey and he wasn’t going to exactly set the screen on fire. But New York certainly did! He imagined he could hear, from across the continent, all the millions of voices shouting his name—Truman, Truman, Truman!

  He looked down at his knees; they were knocking, hitting each other, and he thought, How odd. Then he plopped down on a chair, licked his lips, and reached for the ever-present vodka.

  Then he bit his lip. He rubbed his forehead, which had begun to throb. He picked up the telephone. He began to dial. And dial. And dial.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Agnelli is out.”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Keith is unavailable.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Guinness is away.”

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Harriman isn’t in.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Paley is resting.”

  He hung up, drank more, watched the clock; concentrated on the second hand, ticking away steadily, and he decided to take a small sip of vodka with every tick, until he grew dizzy and gave it up. But an hour had gone by, and so he dialed again.

  “No, Mrs. Agnelli is still away.”

  “No, Lady Keith is not available.”

  “No, Mrs. Guinness is still out.”

  “No, Mrs. Harriman isn’t in yet.”

  “No, Mrs. Paley is still resting.”

  Two more hours; two more tumblers of vodka, no ice, and Truman was now shaking from head to toe, his chest constricting, tightening, so that he felt his face growing more and more purple, he knew it, even if he didn’t look in a mirror. He imagined himself this violet, pulsating monster, and then he took another drink and dialed again.

  “Mrs. Agnelli asks that you please stop calling.”

  “Lady Keith says to tell you to go to hell.”

  “Mrs. Guinness has requested that you no longer call.”

  “Mrs. Harriman would like you to stop phoning.”

  “Mrs. Paley is—is no longer taking your calls.”

  And that’s when Truman began to cry; he rolled off the chair, threw himself on the carpet, threw himself a tantrum that splashed over him like a hallucination from his childhood, drowning him with its force, and he was alone again, all alone in the dark, and the door was locked and Mama was gone, and when would she be coming back? What if she never came back? What if he died here, alone?

  And then he vomited into the thick shag carpet of the tacky Beverly Hills apartment he had rented; his stomach spasmed, his throat burned as he puked vile, pink-tinged liquid all over the white carpet, and soon his face was covered in his bile, and he started to roll around in it, slathering himself with shame.

  And then he passed out.

  CHAPTER 20

  …..

  OCTOBER 17, 1975, NEW YORK

  Earlier that morning, Babe put the magazine down. Or, rather, it slipped from her trembling fingers, falling to the carpeted floor.

  Her mouth was dry, her body shaking. She had the curious feeling of falling, even though she was sitting up, straight-backed in an armchair. She gazed down at her feet; they were solidly on the ground. But still the room seemed to loom up at her, and she felt herself being weighed down by gravity so palpable she could see its mist.

  When she’d heard the whispers about Ann last week—that she’d swallowed cyanide pills—she hadn’t believed them. Even when Elsie told Slim, at the wake, “Well, Ann killed Billy, and now Truman killed Ann. So I guess that’s that”—still, Babe hadn’t believed it.

  That a woman, even tattered, self-destructive Ann Woodward, would kill herself simply because of a story? A story written by Truman? Babe couldn’t comprehend it. For Truman wrote fiction, or serious nonfiction, like In Cold Blood. Why on earth would Ann Woodward kill herself over something he’d written?

  Babe understood now. She understood humiliation and betrayal, as well, but these were familiar to her.

  What was unfamiliar—unbelievable—was that Truman could be the one to humiliate and betray.

  She sat for a long while, her ears ringing with the whispers of all New York outside her window. Finally she sipped some water, until she felt she could speak in a normal tone. She would not allow her voice to quaver; she would not dissolve into tears. She was Barbara Cushing Mortimer Paley—her mother’s daughter, after all. When she finally felt composure settle over her like a silk shawl, she picked up the phone.

  “Slim? Slim, have you read the new issue of Esquire? And Truman’s story?”

  “No.” Slim sounded sleepy, and Babe realized it was rather early in the day. But first thing this morning, after another restless, sleepless night, she’d had an urgent need to read the story, and so she’d asked her maid to go out and buy an issue, hot off the newsstand.

  Odd, she had thought at the time, that Truman hadn’t sent a copy himself, as he always did. But then, he was away in California, preparing to make a cameo in a movie. Absurd, to think of it—Truman in a movie! But then so many things were absurd these days.

  “Slim, go out right now and buy it. Then read it and call me. Call me right away.”

  “Babe, are you all right?”

  “Just do as I said.”

  Babe hung up the phone, bit her lip, reached down for the magazine, and read the thing again. It was not easy to read; she grimaced through it as she’d never grimaced through the carnage of In Cold Blood. The Clutter family’s gruesome wounds had nothing on what was dripping from the pages of Truman’s latest—story.

  And the thing was—oh, the damnable thing was—Babe could hear Truman’s voice in every word. Absolutely in every word, phrase, inflection. As if he were seated at her dinner table, or they were gathered around the terrace of Round Hill, or the two of them were curled up with Slim in a private cove in the garden at Kiluna with a thermos of martinis snuck out of the house, laughing like naughty schoolchildren. Always listening to Truman talk and talk and talk, outrageous, hysterical, but just to them. Only to them.

  Not to the world.

  Babe skimmed through the first part of the “story”—it wasn’t that, not really. It was a poisoned pen letter, a grievance, a mockery. She skimmed through it, sucking in her breath as she read about a typical lunch at La Côte Basque, narrated by Lady Ina Coolbirth, gossipy, catty—and sounding and acting an awful lot like Slim Keith, “a big, breezy, peppy broad” who happened to be married to a dull English lord. And who grew louder and drunker as the story progressed.

  In the story, Lady Ina gossiped and catted about a parade of the rich and famous—Jackie Kennedy looking like an exaggerated version of herself, Princess Margaret so boring she ma
de people fall asleep, Gloria Vanderbilt so ditzy she didn’t recognize her first husband.

  And then who should enter but “Ann Hopkins,” and the entire lurid Woodward tale was laid out, by Truman’s pen, for everyone in Keokuk, Iowa—people who had no business knowing about it in the first place—to salivate over. Babe winced as she read how Lady Ina wondered about Ann and her mother-in-law, “What do they have to talk about, when they’re alone?” For Slim had asked that exact same question once, long ago. In front of Truman.

  But it was when Truman—or rather, Lady Ina—started to tell the tale of Sidney Dillon that Babe felt nauseated. She had to go to the bathroom, press a cool cloth against her head, take another drink of water, before she could read the tale again.

  The tale of a man, a “conglomateur, adviser to presidents.” A Jew, the story emphasized; a man forever on the outside looking in. A man with a wife named Cleo, “the most beautiful creature alive.” A man who had many affairs.

  One in particular: a slovenly mess of a one-night stand involving bloodstains, sheets, a cool, collected blond shiksa whom he desired for the sole purpose, evidently, of making up for his Jewishness, for seeking revenge upon the Protestant world that wouldn’t have him in their clubs. Seeking revenge in the most disgusting, sordid way.

  Babe set the magazine down once more, just as the phone rang.

  “Babe?” It was Slim, breathless, cautious.

  “Yes.”

  “I read it. I’m—I’m horrified. Beside myself. That little twerp! How dare he put such bitchy words in my mouth? How dare he make me the centerpiece—‘Lady Ina,’ my ass. It might as well say ‘Lady Keith’!”

  “Did you read the part about the man? Sidney Dillon?”

  There was a silence, and Slim finally whispered, “Yes.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I have no idea, Babe.”

  “I’m not sure who the woman in the story, the mistress, is supposed to be. But I think I know who the man could be.”

  Slim didn’t answer for a moment. Then she began to sputter anew. “I’m so furious, I’ll kill that bastard, absolutely kill him, just wait until everyone reads this—and Ann Woodward! Poor Ann Woodward! He murdered her, Babe, that’s what happened. You know she was found with the magazine in her hands? He drove a woman to suicide, Babe! And he used me to do it!”

  “Oh, Ann!” Babe’s gut took another punch; she was appalled that she’d forgotten about poor Ann, and those motherless boys—orphaned boys now. “I—I don’t know anymore, Slim. I don’t know how he could have done this—why? I’m so sorry, dear, that you’ve been used in that way. That we all have been—used. I—I have to go now. I’m sorry.”

  “Babe? Are you all right? Do you need me to come over?”

  “No, I’m not all right. But I prefer to be alone now.”

  Babe hung up the phone, and she had never craved a cigarette in her life as she did right now. And she would have had one, too—hang the doctors and their ridiculous worries! She was going to die. So what did it matter if she smoked once in a while? But she had thrown them all out, forbidden the household staff to smoke. And she wouldn’t send anyone out to buy more, that was too desperate.

  Then she glanced over at the little red Moroccan pillbox. And she buried her face in her hands, remembering how Bill had found the pills, how white with fear and rage he had been when he heard her plan—so rational, she’d thought at the time. But now, now that poor Ann had done the same thing, and the way people were talking—Babe shuddered. Bill was right to have taken them from her, doling out her medicine now himself. She must spare her children—and her husband—that humiliation, anyway. She mustn’t let them be the talk of the town, like poor Ann’s boys were now.

  But Truman hadn’t been that kind, had he? And Bill—she snatched up the magazine and strode into Bill’s room; he was at work, of course. She laid it on the bed, where he couldn’t help but see it. Then she went back to her room, lay down on her bed, sprawled on it, ungainly, her face pressed deep into the pillow, and she knew her makeup would stain it beyond repair, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything anymore.

  There was an ache in her chest, a hole, and for once it wasn’t the memory of what had been taken from her physically—her lungs, her future; now it was the memory of what had been excised from her even more precisely than the surgeon’s scalpel. The one relationship she thought she could count on for however much time she had left.

  The memories she carried with her of golden days, of communion, of a filigreed cocoon built for two; that cozy, intimate table big enough, and small enough, just for them. Truman. And Babe.

  He hadn’t loved her, after all; he’d used her, just as he used the others. She was important to him only for material—oh, it wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true! The one person in her life whom she had trusted enough to expose herself, scars and all—her Truman.

  And now it was gone. All gone. Only her emptiness remained.

  After all the time together, all the confidences shared, the fears revealed, how had he not understood her at all? He alone saw how desperately she worked to hide the unpleasantness in her life, in herself—and in her husband; to live up to the expectations bestowed upon her from birth. Truman, alone, knew how terrified she was of anyone seeing the truth.

  Anyone but him.

  So how could he not understand that in publicly exposing Bill’s true nature, he was exposing Babe, as well? He’d humiliated her beyond reason, beyond anything Bill could ever do. Because Bill, for all his faults, was not a storyteller. Bill did not know how to use words to wound and expose. Now every housewife from Maine to California would read about her, Babe Paley—the woman in the fashion magazines, the epitome of all they desired to become—and see her, defective, ugly, out of control; all the flaws she battled, all her life, so that she could be a good girl, the perfect girl, Beautiful Babe.

  Daddy’s perfect little girl; Mama’s great hope.

  Babe rolled over on her side, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort, and began to rock back and forth. She heard the phone ring, and she knew who it was, but she did not leap to get it, as she always had, and knew, finally, that she never would again. Hot tears oozed out of her eyes, and she began to sob, mourning, keening, the loss of something so profound she marveled that the world outside her window still seemed to continue on, untouched.

  The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself.

  The loss of her true heart.

  —

  WHEN BILL JOINED HER for a quiet dinner in her room—she took many of her meals now on a tray, barely able to eat although she still did her best to see that Bill’s palate was continually delighted—he didn’t say anything at first. Babe folded her arms and glared at him, steadily, all the while he was peppering his steak. Finally he looked at her.

  “I read it,” he said.

  “And?”

  “If I ever see that fat little fag again, I’ll kick him all the way back to Dixie.”

  “And?”

  “I’m sorry.” Bill put the pepper grinder down with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry, Babe. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry you’re ill. I’m sorry I’m such a bastard. I’m sorry that our friend did this to you—and to me. I’m sorry I ever saw Truman Capote, allowed him on my plane that evening. I’m just sorry, all the time, every minute of the day.”

  “All right.”

  That’s all Babe said, that’s all Bill said, about the matter. They ate their dinner in silence. And they never spoke to each other of ugliness, betrayal, mistakes—or Truman Capote. Ever again.

  The end.

  CHAPTER 21

  …..

  The next morning, Truman went to the set with a mouth so dry he could barely whisper his god-awful lines, but nobody seemed to notice; in fact, the director had already given up on him and this picture. The man simply threw up his hands an
d filmed what he could, which wasn’t much. Truman was excused from the set and spent the rest of the afternoon composing witty telegrams and sending them off.

  His phone rang, all the time, and he answered, with a practiced smirk, “Truman Capote, literary assassinator,” which never failed to elicit a laugh. It rang and rang with the calls of gossip columnists, the booking agents for Johnny and Dick, old “friends,” such as Mailer, asking, with fake concern, how he was holding up; it rang with the calls from the editor of Esquire, who gloated over the number of copies flying off the stands—“You’ll give us another story, won’t you, Truman? As soon as possible?”

  But Babe didn’t call. Neither did Slim nor Marella nor Gloria nor Pam; he had no one with whom to gush and preen and tell him he was simply the tops, True Heart, really; how on earth do you do it? He had reached C.Z. late yesterday, and burst into tears, so relieved to have someone—important, familiar, and dear—answer the phone that he could scarcely articulate his joy, his appreciation at being invited down to Palm Beach to commiserate—no, of course, he meant celebrate—on her golden shoulder.

  Then he glanced at the clock; it was nine o’clock in the evening back in New York. Well, why not give it one more try?

  He dialed the Paleys, and at the last minute had the brilliant idea to ask for Bill, instead of Babe. And joy of joys! He was put right through! His heart pounded so loudly in his ears, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. But then Bill’s voice said “Hello,” and he sounded perfectly dry and calm. Normal.

  “Bill! It’s me, Truman, darling!”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, did you read it?”

  “What?”

  “My article, my story in Esquire! What did you think? I’m dying to know, of course—everyone is being so coy!”

  “I started it, Truman, but then I fell asleep. And then someone threw the magazine away while I slept.”

  “I can get you another one, you know—”

  “No, it’s fine. I don’t have time for that right now. My wife is very sick.”