The Swans of Fifth Avenue (18 page)

“Now, do not look at the price tags,” Babe instructed in a soothing voice through the closed door. “Promise?”

“Promise,” said Slim as she studied herself in a mirror, turning so she could see her backside, lifting her breasts with her hands and frowning as they fell back into middle-aged place. “Babe?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I didn't mean what I said, earlier. Of course Truman will still have time for us. We're his swans, remember? I was only being flippant. He's still our True Heart.”

There was a long pause, then Babe murmured, “Thank you.”

“Now”—Slim threw open the dressing room door with a grand gesture, just like Claudette Colbert in a movie from the thirties. She swept around the little parlor where Babe was perched on a chair, enjoying another tiny cup of tea. Posing, posturing, Slim modeled the most exquisite—and expensive—of the gowns, a white silk one with delicate black embroidered flowers across the cups and straps; it plunged down in the back to just barely above her tailbone, and the silk felt like cool lips on her skin. “What do you think?”

“I think whoever it's for will be unable to resist you for a second.”

“Then I'll take it. And thank you, my dearest friend.” Slim ran to Babe and threw her arms about her, kissed her on the cheek, then fled back to the dressing room, leaving them both breathless and slightly dizzy from the unexpected physical contact.

They simply didn't do that, normally. Friendship among their set was sedate, wry, at arm's length.

But something about Babe today—how pale, how uncertain she had looked before Slim called out to her, her hesitancy in discussing Truman—touched Slim to the core. In taking Babe's gift, Slim felt she was giving, instead. Giving Babe something she very much needed.

“Let's go make sure Truman doesn't forget us,” Slim urged, after Babe had paid for the gown. “Let's go buy him the kind of present that he likes. Something shiny and garish and too damn expensive for him to ignore.”

“That's a wonderful idea!” Babe's eyes lit up. “Something for his new apartment; I know exactly what he needs—he saw the most exquisite foo dogs at this little antiques store on Seventh Avenue.”

“Seventh Avenue it is!” As the two women exited Bergdorf's, the CBS limo was already waiting for them. Mr. Stevens had done his job well. They handed their purchases, wrapped up in the signature Bergdorf purple, to the driver, who carefully placed them in the trunk.

Then they sank down into the seats, and were driven two blocks west.

“It's fun, sometimes, pretending,” Babe said.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, today. Today, I just pretended I was someone else. It was fun, in a way. Not to be me, just to be a person. A normal person.”

Slim gnawed her lip, watching her friend settle happily into the plush leather of the sedan. She looked outside the window; they were stuck in traffic, people walking briskly by. They could have strolled to the shop faster than their luxurious car was moving.

“Darling Babe,” Slim murmured, taking her friend's hand.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just don't pretend too often, please. I love you just the way you are. And so does Bill. And so does Truman.”

Babe blushed and folded her arms; she looked outside and didn't say a word. But Slim glimpsed a tear rolling down her cheek, reflected in the discreetly tinted windows of the Town Car.

N
ew York loved a parade.

For war heroes, baseball players, prizefighters, presidents, holidays. Ticker tape raining down from the tallest buildings; ridiculous giant balloons floating down Broadway for Thanksgiving. Fireworks over the Statue of Liberty on the Fourth of July.

But as much as he wanted to, longed to, ached to, Truman Capote could not give himself a parade. Or erect a statue in his own honor. Or name a park after himself. Or rent the Statue of Liberty.

Second to parades, statues, and parks, then, New York loved a party. A really splendid soiree.
The
Mrs. Astor's famous Patriarch's balls, admission only to the Four Hundred as determined by her little lapdog, Ward McAllister. Mrs. Vanderbilt's costume ball to christen her new mansion, the one that
the
Mrs. Astor deigned to attend, thus allowing those upstart Vanderbilts into real Society and ushering in the excesses of the Gilded Age. The Bradley-Martins' infamous Louis XIV party, given in the middle of one of the worst recessions in American history. The Bradley-Martins felt it necessary to leave the country soon after. But every single guest thought it a fabulous time.

Then there were the more recent parties before the war, given by the legendary Elsa Maxwell, that corpulent darling of society. Elsa invented the scavenger hunt: heiresses in their evening clothes accosting hobos for scraps of food, canned goods, whatever was on the list, screeching with laughter, running off with prizes. Treasure hunts in the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria, millionaires elbowing one another viciously for tin trinkets and plastic whistles.

Then there were the charity galas and openings galore, one practically every night during the season; socialites and their reluctant husbands dressed to the nines. But it was always for a good cause! It was work, really. One simply had to do her part, no matter how tiring it might be, planning a wardrobe for an entire season, spending hours before the mirror ensuring that each gown was flattering from any angle, because, really, one could not trust those photographers to capture the most beguiling aspect.

But there hadn't been a truly grand party, an honest-to-God, “Honey, let's get Grandmama's tiara out,” fancy-dress party in decades. And Truman decided it was his duty to rectify this.

All summer long—the summer of 1966, the golden summer, as even then he knew he would look back on it; the summer of his ascendancy to the very top of the world, literary, popular, social—Truman sang a little tune to himself.

Well, didja evah, what a swell party, a swell party, a swellegant elegant party, this is….

For Truman was going to throw himself a party in lieu of a parade. A party so grand, so exclusive, it would keep him in the headlines for months. It would make those who weren't invited weep and flee the country, or change their names and go into hiding. It would go down in history as the
most,
the cherry on top of the sundae, the caviar on top of the toast. The diamond as big as the Ritz.

And so that golden summer, as Truman lounged poolside at his friends' mansions, sunned himself on their yachts in the Mediterranean, even on the rare occasions it was only him and Jack, silent but companionable on the beach between their adjacent houses in Southampton, he planned (when he wasn't clipping reviews for his scrapbook, or giving interviews, or posing for photographs). He schemed. He was never without his notebook, a plain, black-covered lined notebook, and he wrote down and crossed out names, over and over and over again. For he was Ward McAllister and
the
Mrs. Astor and himself, Truman Capote, literary giant/social arbiter, all rolled into one.

He had the power now. And the money.

As he lay on the Agnellis' yacht that summer—refusing to go off on their exhausting little excursions to some ruin or another, smirking when they all trooped back, dusty and footsore while he had spent the day being served champagne by swarthy stewards, bobbing up and down in the turquoise Mediterranean, admiring the scenery from afar—or lounged by Babe's pool, or danced with Lee Radziwill (Jackie's sister, don'tchaknow, the newest addition to his swans), Truman, on the outside, was the same as ever. The same jokester, prankster, entertainer. The same lapdog, pocket fairy, jester.

“I want to pay you all back,” he drawled, when questioned about his notebook, which he guarded fiercely, joked that he kept it locked up in a safe at night. “You've all been so kind to me, giving me parties, dinners, vacations, even! Marella, your yacht, it is to die for! A floating palace! So it's the least I can do, to throw a little ol' party in return!”

Yes, I want to pay you all back,
he said to himself.
I want to make you jump through the hoops. Amuse me, amuse me! I want you to remember just who I am now. Truman Capote. The acclaimed author of the acclaimed
In Cold Blood,
the book that everyone is talking about this summer of 1966. The book none of you shallow idiots could ever have written. I'm not just your little True Heart, your favorite dinner guest, your token fag. I'm just as powerful as you!

And just as glamorous. And just as headline-worthy.

And infinitely more interesting.

Still, as rich as he now was from the proceeds of the book—rich enough to make Nina/Lillie Mae spin in her urn, rich enough finally to move from dreary Brooklyn into a stunning Manhattan apartment at the new UN Plaza, an apartment that Babe helped him decorate, with heady views of the East River, the Brooklyn Bridge, lower Manhattan; rich enough to buy Jack's Southampton house for him, in his own name, and give it to him as a present, possibly the most generous act of his life, and thinking about it still brought tears to his eyes; rich enough to throw this party—still, he wasn't rich enough to own a yacht. Or a plane. Or a television network.

So he bit his tongue and planned his party gleefully, telling all his swans that of course they'd be invited—why, they'd be the very top of the list!

Still, it wouldn't do to throw the party for himself. Far too tacky, even for him. And he couldn't throw it for any of his swans—dear God, what a tangle of shredded feathers, rent designer gowns, torn jewels that would be! No, best to throw it for someone else, someone rather small and dreary; someone not nearly as fabulous as him, if he was going to have to share the spotlight. Someone like Kay Graham.

Poor Kay!

Poor plain Kay, wife of Phil Graham, a tragic suicide. Poor Kay, left with pots of money and a newspaper,
The Washington Post,
to run. Poor Kay of Washington, D.C., that dowdy little town where women did not dress for lunch, where they did not get their hair done by Kenneth, where the parties were soggy with politicians and other earnest drabs who talked more than they drank.

Poor Kay, whom Babe had introduced him to, and whom Truman had immediately liked, because of her very plainness. Just as he'd been drawn to Alvin and Marie Dewey of Kansas, whom he'd met while researching
In Cold Blood
(Alvin was the lead detective on the case); just as he was drawn irresistibly to truck drivers and appliance repairmen and dumb, brawny dockworkers. Truman knew he had a fascination for the ordinary that almost overshadowed his fascination with the rich and famous. He truly couldn't live without either. He'd left many a dinner in a penthouse apartment on Fifth to go down to the docks and pick up a Teamster.

So, Kay. Dowdy, pitiful Kay, who, he insisted in a phone call that summer, needed cheering up.

“No, not really,” she'd replied, puzzled. “I'm just fine, Truman.”

“No, you're not. I'm going to give you a party. Just a little party, to put a smile back on your face.”

“You don't have to, but if you want to, I'd be honored.”

“Fine. It's settled, then. Just an intimate party with dear friends.”

By August, that intimate party had swelled to five hundred “dear friends.” Only five hundred. Maybe five forty. No more. Because that was all the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza Hotel could comfortably hold. And that was to be the setting for this intimate little cheering-up party for his good friend, poor Kay Graham. He, Truman, was giving a party at the Plaza!
Mama, Mama, look at me now!

“Now, Marella, don't feel put out. I couldn't have you as the guest of honor because everyone else would be jealous! But I will need you to host a pre-party dinner, sweetheart, if you don't mind. I'm only asking a very few of my dearest friends.”

“Now, Slim, Big Mama, darling! Of course you'll be tops of the guest list, but I couldn't have you as the guest of honor—can you imagine how furious La Guinness would be? Knives would be thrown! Daggers! But I'm saving the first dance for you, my darling!”

“Now, Gloria, don't get furious, but you couldn't be the guest of honor. That's going to be Kay Graham, poor Kay! But you know, don't you, darling, that you're the guest of honor in my heart of hearts? And I'm instructing you to wear your finest jewelry because it's going to be fancy, fancy, and you'll be the belle of the ball, anyway!”

“C.Z.! My pet! What fun we're going to have! I know you won't mind if you're not the guest of honor—you know Kay Graham, don't you? Poor Kay! I decided she needed some cheering up so she's going to be the center of attention, because she needs it. But really, who'll be looking at her, poor dreary soul, when you're there, the golden goddess of all time?”

“Babe! Bobolink, my heart! Of course, I thought of you right away when I wanted to throw a party. I longed to give it for you, in your honor, after all we've been through together! But can you
imagine
how Slim would feel, the poor dear? Her life with that dreadful English lord is dreary enough. But I absolutely will rely on you for help in planning! And would you be the dearest of dears and host a pre-party dinner? I'm asking only a few really special friends, so that some of the guests who won't have escorts won't have to arrive alone. Everyone can dine together, and arrive en masse!”

And Marella, Slim, Gloria, C.Z., Babe, all that summer while they indulged their favorite, showed him off, now even more in demand than ever, a true prize at the dinner table, an intellectual feather in their jeweled caps, all murmured and agreed and felt special, singled out, and superior to poor Kay Graham. Who was a dowdy, dear soul.

And so Truman cackled and rubbed his hands with glee, a Machiavellian party planner, and dangled and withheld, delighting to see all Manhattan dancing at his feet, begging to be invited to what was already, that summer, shaping up to be the biggest event of the season. Truman dropped hints in the press. He called up his famous friends and drawled into their famous ears, tantalizing, purring—“So Tony, Tony Curtis, my favorite actor of all time! You'll be in Manhattan in November, won't you?”

Tony Curtis, his favorite actor of all time (that day, anyway), cleared his schedule. And waited for an invitation that never appeared.

“Carson, darling! My pet, my favorite author! You'll be in town in November, of course?”

And Carson McCullers, former friend and champion of a then-unknown writer named Truman Capote, waited. Until she heard, via Norman Mailer, that she wasn't invited. Then she grandly announced she'd be giving her own party that same night. But no one paid any attention.

All summer long, Truman schemed and planned and finalized. The guest list was the major work, and he spent as much time agonizing over it as he had any of his manuscripts. It had to be perfect. It had to be a unique mix of the beautiful people, the wealthy, the respected, the new and exciting, for this was 1966! Nineteen sixty-six, and the Beatles were absolutely
it,
and people were dancing the go-go at the Cheetah, and Andy Warhol was holding parties of his own at his workspace, the Factory, and skirts were up to
there,
and hair down to
here,
and Frank Sinatra had just married Mia Farrow!

Frank Sinatra. Mia Farrow. Truman scribbled their names down. Along with Aly Khan. Lynda Bird Johnson—but not Lady Bird, God no; he didn't want any dreary Secret Service men invading his party. Candice Bergen. Henry Fonda. The Windsors, for the expected touch of royalty.

Cecil Beaton. Henry Ford III. McGeorge Bundy. Norman Mailer. The Deweys and their friends from Kansas. Bennett and Phyllis Cerf, of course. The doorman at his new apartment building. Jack.

Margaret Truman—but not Bess or Harry. Alice Roosevelt. The Whitneys,
naturellement.
A couple of Vanderbilts and Astors, just for nostalgia's sake.

Should he invite the Beatles? Nah. But Andy Warhol, definitely. Christopher, of course—Christopher Isherwood. And John Knowles. He thought, briefly, of the entire Pulitzer Prize committee, sure to award
In Cold Blood
the prize for nonfiction in the upcoming year, but decided against that as too calculated, even for him.

Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, the Harry Belafontes. Tallulah Bankhead—who was apt to show up naked, please, God! Think of the publicity. Rudolf Nureyev, definitely! George Balanchine. There would be dancing, of course; better book Peter Duchin now.

Betty Bacall. Pamela and Leland Hayward—well, hell, of course he had to invite
them;
surely Slim was over that whole thing by now! The cabdriver who took Truman home for free one night because he'd had his wallet stolen at a dive bar. Rose Kennedy. Ethel and Bobby, his neighbors at the UN Plaza. Jackie, naturally. Although Truman had taken to whispering, to anyone who would listen, that she looked like a drag version of herself, in person.

For every name added there were two crossed out, perhaps to be added later. Or not. Truman was God. And not a benevolent one, either. Old grievances were dredged up—of course, Carson McCullers wouldn't be invited, the sow. The bitchy, envious sow who had turned on him ever since he became more acclaimed than she was. And forget Gore Vidal, that bitch. Ann Woodward could forget it, too, and not just because she was a murderess. They'd met at a party at the Windsors' not too long ago, where the other guests were giving her a wide berth. Ann was standing alone, one arm on the fireplace mantel, surveying the crowd. Truman strolled right up to her.