Diana Vreeland shrugged. She refilled her cigarette holder from a silver box on her desk, struck a match, lit the cigarette, puffed, and leaned forward.
“Darling, it was like this,” Diana began in her sandpaper bleat. And Truman smiled, closed his eyes—the better to imagine—and listened to
The Story of the Three Beautiful Cushing Sisters
First, I suppose, we have to start with the mother. Gogs, that’s what she was called by the girls—the most ordinary woman, darling. Not a spark of anything to her, at first glance. A matron from Ohio, plump. Correct in every way—the most beautiful manners, which you see in the girls to this very day. But a hausfrau, a total geisha to that husband, Harvey Cushing. He was a genius, of course. Di-vine! Quite handsome, a surgeon. A brain surgeon! He absolutely invented brain surgery! And the mother, Gogs, she waited for him forever until he felt he was established. And, once married, provided him with the most serene house and life. Everything run perfectly, a real salon, in Boston, where he went to work, you know. (What a ghastly place is Boston, isn’t it, darling? No imagination. Colorless. The clothes—well, let’s not speak of the clothes.)
And Gogs, she was shrewd. She knew that her two boys could fend for themselves, but her girls would never be truly accepted by Boston society simply because she and Harvey weren’t from there, and you know those Brahmins. It takes generations to get in! And old Gogsie, she was determined that her three beautiful girls would marry the best. The very best—princes and shahs or, at the very least, mountains of money. Gobs and gobs of it. Betsey was the most like her mother; rather a mousy little thing, I sometimes think, until she gives you that imperious look down her nose. Betsey’s the most mannered, in her way. As if she truly was the queen of England. She was the first to marry, to James Roosevelt. Son of FDR! The president’s daughter-in-law! A brilliant match, of course! Except that James couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants, and all but abandoned Betsey and their two little girls. But FDR adored her—adored her! Eleanor, of course, detested her. She didn’t like Betsey taking her place by FDR’s side, but then Eleanor was never there herself. What a dreary woman she is.
(“And a big ol’ lez,” said Truman.)
(“Oh, darling, that’s old news,” said Diana. “But why are lesbians always so dowdy? I would love to know. It simply doesn’t make sense—why, women dress for women, anyway! Everyone knows that.”)
(“Well, I don’t know,” Truman said, and sniffed. “It’s not like we all have a club or anything.”)
Anyway, Betsey’s wedding to young Roosevelt was quite the coup, of course. It brought the Cushings into old New York—leapfrogging over stuffy old Boston!—the Roosevelts and the Knickerbockers and all that fabulous old musty society, which still counts, you know! Not as much as it used to, but it still does, good God, I would say so! And due to sister Betsey’s marriage, Babe’s coming-out party was held at the White House—so you’d think that Gogs would be satisfied. But she still had the other two to launch, and Betsey’s marriage was in trouble. But I’ll give the old girl this much—she always told those three girls to stick together, no matter what. And they did—they were a triumvirate! All slender, with those cutting cheekbones, like a ship’s prow, although Minnie is too much of a scarecrow for my taste. A girl should have a little meat on her bones, so the clothes will hang! But the most beautiful, of course, was Babe. Beautiful Babe: That’s what they called her from the instant she was born. And the other two simply never were jealous of her, to hear them say it, but I think Betsey secretly is. Not Minnie—she’s not got a jealous bone in her bony body. But Betsey used to be the queen, and now she isn’t.
But Babe had a dreadful car accident when she was nineteen, did you know?
(Truman, his eyes wide with horror, shook his head.)
Oh, yes! Legend has it the young man was so besotted by her beauty, he turned to gaze at her and ran smack into a tree. Babe’s face was horribly disfigured, apparently. But her father brought in the very best surgeons and patched it all up—you can’t even tell! She’s as beautiful as before. Maybe even more so.
Betsey divorced Roosevelt. Then Minnie started her affair with Vincent Astor. The Cushing girls were truly in New York now—appearing at all the nightclubs, the charity functions. Gogsie didn’t much like this, at first—Mother Cushing was Victorian, you see. From the time when a lady did not go out, get photographed, have her name in the papers. But this was in the forties when Café Society was really in, of course. Cholly Knickerbocker’s column—if you wanted a man, a real catch, as those girls did—as they were brought up to do!—you had to be seen in the right places, be in the newspapers. So those girls stuck together, and brother, what an entrance they made! The three of them entering the Stork Club—Golly! What a sight! Regal Betsey, the former Roosevelt; tall, kind Minnie, whom everyone knew was sleeping with Vincent Astor on top of simply piles and piles of money. And Babe. The beautiful, sweet Babe, whom I’ve never heard say a cruel word about anybody. And in New York! Babe was always wearing the latest fashions, not that she could afford them; brother, she could not! Pops Cushing lost all his money in the Crash. But Babe was given these gorgeous clothes by simply everyone, because she made exquisite clothes look heavenly and they all wanted her to wear their fashions, knowing they’d be photographed and in the newspapers. Babe even worked here at the Bazaar, for a time, then at Vogue—as a fashion editor. She was quite the little career girl. She even had an affair or two—I do sometimes think she was happiest then. She took her work very seriously, unlike most of those society girls who are hired just for their names and connections. Babe had those, of course, but she worked hard, that girl. She went on shoots, modeled some herself. But with Gogs pulling the strings, it was only a matter of time before Babe married, too. And she did, to young Stanley Mortimer. Standard Oil heir. Tuxedo Park—you know, that true old-money Protestant background, good golly!
And Babe quit her job then, and had two children. Gogs finally threatened Vincent Astor, and he married Minnie. Then Betsey got the catch of them all—Jock Whitney! So Gogs had a Mortimer, an Astor, and a Vanderbilt-Whitney in the family.
Then Babe divorced Stanley Mortimer. Well, she had to! He came back from the war an absolute wreck! Not that he was all right even before. There were rumors that he hit her, plus all his money was tied up in trust, which Babe didn’t know before the marriage. But Babe, true to her mother’s training, never let on. Those girls were bred, you see. Bred! Like show horses! Appearance matters most. Loyal families. No troubles. Stick together, put on a happy—perfectly made-up—face! Never air your dirty laundry. So you’d see Babe, impeccably dressed, so beautiful, going about as usual, but still, there was a sadness in her eyes—
(“I see it still,” Truman whispered.)
(“Well, she has pots of money now and I’ve never heard of Bill hitting her, so I don’t know why,” Diana scoffed.)
Anyway, divorce. I really think Gogs did not approve of divorce, and yet all three of her daughters have had one. Gogs probably thought, Well, if I had to put up with a sorry old so-and-so who never cared about me except for how I ran his house and made him comfortable, so can they! But those sisters are more modern, of course. And in the end, except for Minnie, they each traded up—Cadillac for Rolls-Royce! Betsey traded a Roosevelt for a Whitney and all that divine cash. And Babe, well—good God! William S. Paley! He runs everything—the world! Of course, he’s Jewish. That’s the puzzling thing. Babe, marrying a Jew. It killed her mother, truly. Poor old Gogs died a couple years after. Oh, by then I think she was reconciled to the money—good God, who wouldn’t be? Rich as Croesus, Paley is! But the Jewish thing…well. But Babe doesn’t mind. I think she takes it as a challenge. You don’t want us? Well, then we’ll make our own society, even better. And she has! Although she was dropped off the Social Register, of course, tout de suite. And there are clubs that simply won’t have them. But Babe is determined. Rot in hell, those who won’t have us! Although Babe would never say such a t
hing. Too well bred. Too damn nice.
After Gogs died, Minnie divorced Astor. Well, who wouldn’t, really, except for all that money? Vincent Astor was one cold fish, only interested in his toy railroads, if you can believe that! True to form, though, Minnie found him his next wife before she left. Those women do know how to take care of their men! Now Minnie’s married to Jim Fosburgh, the artist. Although he’s queer, isn’t he? You would know.
“Darling Mrs. Vreeland,” Truman cooed, with just a hint of ice behind his lisp. “As I told you, we are not all members of one big club. Believe it or not, I do not know the name, rank, and serial number of every homosexual in Manhattan.”
“But you do know about Jim Fosburgh, don’t you?” Diana asked serenely.
Truman sighed. “Yes, I do. He is.”
“Of course. I think Minnie’s a bit of a lez, too, if you ask me. But that breeding and training. Never would she admit it, probably not even to herself.”
“I have no patience for people like that,” Truman snapped.
Diana looked at him, her eyes gleaming in admiration. “No, I see. True to yourself, that’s who you are, Truman. And God bless you. You are a champion! Now, when are you going to give us another story here at the Bazaar? You know I don’t run that particular show—God, I barely even read!—but circulation is always up when we run one of yours.”
“Darling, you’ll be the first to know. In fact, I’m working on something now. A delicious story. But I’m not going to share a word of it yet. It’s too soon.” He rose, stretched, way up on his tiptoes, glimpses of his crimson socks peeking out beneath the turned-up hem of his plaid pants. He wrapped a scarlet scarf around his throat with a flourish. Then he leapt around the desk to hug Mrs. Vreeland, who did not generally allow hugs, but with Truman, of course, exceptions were made.
“You are a dear dragon lady. The dearest! And I mean it in the most admirable way. I happen to love dragon ladies. They are fiercely protective of those they love.”
“Truman, you could charm the rattle off a snake,” Diana Vreeland pronounced. “I’m going to lunch at Le Pavillon. Will you join me?”
“No, my dearest dragon lady, I’m going to work now. On that story. Another time. And do not gossip without me, do you hear? Don’t go to any dives or pick up any sailors. No naughtiness without me, Mrs. Vreeland!”
Diana laughed, her great, echoing “ha ha,” every guffaw as articulated as every syllable she spoke. Truman turned to go, hands in pockets, golden head bent in thought. So lost in contemplation was he, he didn’t even notice that, indeed, hovering outside of Mrs. Vreeland’s office were hordes of emaciated mannequins clad in the latest fashions, nervously awaiting their reckoning.
He got into a cab and told the driver, “Brooklyn Heights.” And the cab carried him across the bridge, up up up and then down down down, away from Neverland, from Mother Goose, from Oz.
It pulled up in front of a canary-yellow townhouse on a quiet, tree-lined street. Truman paid the fare and walked down into a basement apartment.
And then he went to work.
CHAPTER 5
…..
TRUMAN AT WORK
So many wanted to catch him at it! Watch as genius burned! Not his fellow authors, of course; they were far too blasé and jaded to care. But his swans, in particular, all longed to see Truman Capote write. They went out of their way to offer him help—for if they weren’t patrons of the arts, then who were they?
They weren’t patrons of the arts.
But Gloria offered him his own beach villa at her place in Palm Beach. Slim provided him with hampers of food from 21 so he would be properly nourished. Pamela offered to sit at his feet, literally, a muse. Marella invited him to work on her yacht, bobbing up and down in the Mediterranean.
Truman refused. As much as he loved and appreciated their lives, their comforts, their wealth and bounty, when it came to his work, he displayed a monastic discipline none of his new friends could have suspected. Work was work; play was play. And never the twain shall meet.
Except—
Well, perhaps there was a time ahead when they could; he wondered. There were marvelous stories here, ripe for the picking. And if Truman wasn’t a storyteller, then who was he?
Truman was a storyteller.
But for now, the story he was telling was not theirs, although he already knew they would all want to lay claim to it when it was done. But this particular story was entirely of his own invention; he resented the implication by so many that he could write only from his own life. Other Voices, Other Rooms—why, that wasn’t autobiographical at all! It was a story. Made up in his own mind. The story of a young boy without a family, without a home, seduced into darkness, born into light—but the darkness beckoning, always beckoning.
No, his first novel wasn’t autobiographical at all.
And this new story; he had an idea for a title. He’d heard a sailor on leave, during the war, tell another sailor that he’d take him to breakfast at the most expensive place in town. Where did he want to go?
“Well,” the naïve sailor had replied, “I always heard that Tiffany’s was the most expensive place in New York.”
Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It was a great title, that much Truman knew. Beyond that—
Truman gathered up a notebook. A simple composition book with lined paper. He sharpened his pencils, settled in on a velvet sofa beneath a window, and propped up the notebook on his knees.
His forehead furrowed, he read what he had written the day before, the words in his tiny, squared-off handwriting, meticulous, spare.
“Listen, Fred, you’ve got to cross your heart and kiss your elbow—”
And Truman was lost in the words. Awash in sentence structure, agonizing over punctuation. Studying the picture on the page; rearranging paragraph breaks so that there was just enough white space. Going back and forth, in his mind, between the words approximation and facsimile until finally choosing approximation.
Perhaps contortionists can kiss their elbow; she had to accept an approximation.
Truman worked through the entire afternoon, then stopped. Some internal alarm inside him, as nascent as the primordial switch that turns winter to spring, simply said, “Enough. Enough for today. One more word and you will question everything you’ve written so far.” And he put the notebook and pencil away on his desk, scratched himself in those patient places that required scratching, having been ignored all day, and went into the kitchen, where Jack was flinging pots and pans about, preparing dinner. Gruffly. Which was how Jack approached life.
Gruffly.
“Good day’s work?” Jack grumbled, viciously grinding pepper over a flank steak.
“Hmm-mmm.” Truman reached for the cocktail shaker with one hand, the vodka with another. “I’ll read you some tonight, if you want.”
“Sure.”
“And you?”
“It’s rubbish. It always is.”
“It’s not. And you just want me to tell you that, so stop fishing. By the way, the Paleys invited us both to Kiluna this weekend.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Jack.”
“I don’t like those people.”
“Jack, you’ve not even met them.”
“Yes, I have. In various guises over the years. They’re all the same. Phonies.”
“No, they’re not, Holden Caulfield. The Paleys are different. Babe is, for sure. And Bill, well, I think he might be, too. There’s something about him.”
“They distract you,” Jack growled. “They’re not worthy of you. I have no idea why you’re so fascinated with the rich and famous and pretentious.”
“But they’re beautiful, Jack! Their lives are so quietly beautiful, devoted to graciousness, taste, decorum. I admire that—I think that’s the epitome of living, to be able to create art out of your life. It’s what we do, in a way, isn’t it? In writing?”
“Hardly.” Jack flung the pepper grinder down with a snort. Jack, tall and fre
ckled and lean, reddish-blond hair balding, glared down at Truman, short and pale and lean, blond hair receding. “I can’t bear the thought of you comparing yourself, with your talent, to them. It’s ridiculous. And I thought you said you despised Paley, after that weekend with those parasites.”
“Well, I barely know him. I should be fair.”
“Men like that don’t deserve your charity, Truman. People in general don’t.”
“Oh, my misanthropic darling.” Truman sighed, putting his arms about Jack’s waist, allowing one hand to slide between the waistband of his pants and warm, yielding flesh. “What would you do without me to shine light on your dark and dreary world?”
“I did just fine without you, before,” Jack growled. But he did not throw off Truman’s embrace. The two leaned into each other for a moment, surrendering to blissful, ordinary domesticity—oil sizzling in a pan on the stove, fragrant rosemary in a pot on the windowsill, their two dogs warming their ankles with their heavy, stupid dog breathing. A quiet meal ahead, a martini or two, reading in bed before the lights were out. Familiar yearnings satisfied by familiar bodies; Jack had been a dancer, which never ceased to thrill Truman as he traced those muscles still retaining their disciplined sculpture, those battered feet with their astonishingly high arches. Truman’s body was much less disciplined but still wiry, with a surprising hardness of the abdomen and biceps, so slender that lanky, raw-boned Jack could almost put two hands about his lover’s waist—“like Scarlett O’Hara,” Truman liked to boast. Then sleep, in their ordinary basement apartment in ordinary Brooklyn Heights, Manhattan and all its tempting glitter safely across the bridge, for now.
It should have been enough, Truman knew. Enough to be with Jack, wrapped in his arms, satiated and sleepy, a good day’s work behind him, another ahead. He had projects galore on his plate, because he was Truman Capote, literary darling: a trip to the Soviet Union with a touring company of Porgy and Bess paid for and the resulting story to be published by The New Yorker, his old employer (and his first real publishing disappointment, long ago but never forgotten). House of Flowers, based on one of his short stories, was still running on Broadway, even though it was only a matter of time before it closed. Breakfast at Tiffany’s was simmering, percolating, proceeding one agonizing word at a time.