The Swans of Fifth Avenue (4 page)

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 thing. 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.