The Swans of Fifth Avenue (6 page)

Babe didn't want to catch the bouquet. She wanted to pretend that she was someone else—Odeal, that was the name she told her brothers and sisters to call her, while she pretended to be an ordinary scullery maid, dirtying her hands, calling them “m'lord” and “m'lady” in a terrible cockney accent. Odeal was an orphan, admired by all for her pluck and wit.

But her mother was so furious, she forbade anyone to talk to Babe while she was pretending to be Odeal. “Do not encourage her,” her mother hissed. “We can't have that kind of behavior. What will people think?”

Babe gave up being Odeal, after a while. She couldn't remember just when her imagination left her, flew away like a bird; she just knew she was happy being alone, in her own dreamy world, for a time. And then she was not; she missed her sisters telling her what to do, her brothers coaxing her along in their games. She burned with shame at the dinner table, when no one would speak to her or pass her the salt. So she gave it up, and accepted that she was Babe, only Babe. She would never be anyone else, anything other than what her mother wanted for her. She willed herself not to imagine or dream, because there was no profit in it. The only profit was in being the best, most perfect little girl in the world, then the best, most perfect debutante, then the best, most perfect wife. Because if she wasn't perfect, precisely who others expected her to be, no one would talk to her. Or even acknowledge her existence. She would simply wink out, disappear like a vapor.

All that energy she'd had as a child, as Odeal—she remembered running just to feel the wind blow through her hair; she recalled rolling down a hill, miraculously not getting grass stains on her dress, and she was so thankful for that, she never did it again, but oh, the dizziness! The delicious head rush, the scratching of twigs against her cheek, the feeling that the sky was on the bottom and the earth was on top but she remained where she was, by some mysterious force called gravity—all that energy, she learned to channel into the one thing she could count on, as her mother drilled her over and over. Her face, her appearance, her decorative quality. Her mother never stinted on praise when it came to how Babe looked, if her clothes were neat and pressed, if her skin was clear and her cheeks flushed and her hair glossy. If she attracted the stares of the rich young men she met at her sisters' parties and dances.

Even now, now that she was forty and Gogs was dead, she felt the heavy weight of her mother's admonitions, her quick disapproval, her religious appreciation of beauty and grace and manners. The pulse-racing terror that if she didn't live up to everyone's expectations, she would be shunned, abandoned. So Babe had to rise early, long before Bill, to put on her makeup and take out her hairpins, so he would see her at her absolute best when he awoke. As he always had, and always would. And to tell the truth, she was dependent on her cosmetics as others might be dependent on alcohol, in a tactile, pleasurable way. She loved the faint, flowery smell of her favorite blush; she delighted in the heavy silver of the brushes, the silkiness of the bristles against her skin. She enjoyed applying foundation, personally mixed for her by Elizabeth Arden herself, taking the sponge and dabbing it on her skin, each dab like a scale of armor, of power. She never grew tired of seeing her cheekbones come into sculpted glory with each swipe of the brush; she stared into the mirror as she blended and stroked and dabbed, and little by little, like pointillism, her face, the face she knew and depended on, emerged into a complete portrait. Perfection.

No one had ever seen her without makeup. Not even Bill on their wedding night. Just the thought of showing a bare face to the world—Babe squirmed again, turning away from Bill as if he could read her thoughts and might wake up, despite the fact that he was still snoring steadily. This was one reason why she didn't like the tiny apartment at the St. Regis; she and Bill had to share a bed, as there were only three rooms. At least at Kiluna, and the summer house up in New Hampshire, and in Round Hill, their place in Jamaica, they had separate bedrooms. So there was never a chance he might awaken in the middle of the night and see her naked, exposed: imperfect.

Had she ever loved Bill enough to show him her true self? Had she ever loved anyone? Or was this another of her defects, something else to hide from the world beneath the latest Chanel jacket? She didn't know if she loved her husband, although she appreciated him, and enjoyed his company, and ached to be touched by him, noticed, wanted for something other than being a very glamorous concierge.

Which was what Babe was, really.

And so, every morning, her makeup and hair immaculate, clad in a fresh negligee and fabulous quilted housecoat, she sat at her desk and compiled her lists. First, she planned all the day's meals, resigning herself to hours of scavenging in the most obscure markets for some new, exotic vegetable or fruit to tempt him. Bill loved food, had a voracious appetite, ate several meals a day. She had to make sure they were memorable, each and every one. Seated at the dinner table, she took notes in her custom-made palm-sized notebook from Tiffany's, jotting down Bill's comments about the food, what he liked, what he didn't. So that next time, she would not repeat any mistakes.

She had lists pertaining to clothes—Bill's blue suit needed its buttons tightened. His shoes needed polishing. Her coats needed storing. The lace on her negligees needed repairing.

Her mind, even knowing how early she had to rise, was a list now, as she rolled back on her side, gingerly, so as not to disturb her husband. Tomorrow night was dinner at Quo Vadis with the Guinnesses. Bill wanted her to pick him up at the office before. She must send the chauffeur out to buy supplies to take back to Kiluna this weekend: mundane, necessary supplies such as toilet paper and cleaning sprays and new hand towels for all the guest bathrooms—supplies Bill would never imagine needed to be procured. His hand reached—for a bar of soap, a paper clip, a length of toilet paper to wipe his ass. And it was there. Because of her, Babe, concierge extraordinaire. And he never, ever thanked her for it.

She began to grind her teeth, even as her mind raced on. Her hair needed to be done by Kenneth tomorrow, before the weekend. The Agnellis had had to cancel their visit to Kiluna, so she must find a replacement couple, because Bill couldn't stand it if the house was less than full, the weekend less than jam-packed with activities. If he despised anything more than pontificating newsmen and disgruntled advertisers, it was boredom. Which reminded her, she must buy a new pair of tennis shoes because she'd torn her old ones playing softball last weekend. Every Saturday, either the Paleys or the Whitneys—sister Betsey and her husband, Jock, whose weekend home was adjacent to the Paleys' in Manhasset, Long Island—hosted a softball game for their combined guests.

Softball. Babe wrinkled her nose. She detested the sport, but Bill didn't know. He'd never know, for she played it determinedly, a serene smile on her face, taking care not to get dirt on her pressed dungarees or muss up her makeup, which she had to set with a spritz of water to ensure it would last outside. How she'd torn her tennis shoes, she had no idea, but after the game, as they all sat out on the veranda with tall, cool drinks—Pimm's Cups—she'd noticed it and quickly excused herself to go change, before Bill or anyone else could see.

Truman had immediately followed her, though. He'd played surprisingly well, fielding balls with a fawnlike grace, and Bill had even given him a rare “atta boy!” when he'd hit a home run. But she'd known that Truman had detested playing as much as she had; they'd exchanged looks in the outfield. He'd made such a funny, wry face that she'd laughed out loud.

Truman.

He'd join them again this weekend; he'd promised, crossing his heart as solemnly as a child. And the realization finally allowed her to relax her limbs, so stiff her joints ached; her jaw, too, was released so that she was no longer grinding her false teeth, a necessity after that long-ago car accident—Babe shuddered at the memory, still. Always. Her hand reached up to trace a line along her jaw, where the skin was just slightly tougher, imperceptibly raised; her neck began to throb, reminded of how long she'd had to hold it still in that hospital bed, not move a muscle, or else.
“Don't you want to look as beautiful as before, Babe? Hold still, or you'll scar even more. And we can't have that, can we, dear? Your face is your fortune.”

Who'd said that? Papa or Mother? It was so long ago. The scars remained, though. Only Babe had ever seen them. And her teeth—oh, how she hated having false teeth! It was so cruel to be reminded of the inevitability of old age, teeth in a glass, when you're only nineteen, as she had been. And no matter how much she spent, how many new dentists she saw, the teeth were always the same. They ached incessantly, rubbing against her gums, forcing her to nibble at food; she'd not bitten into an apple since before the accident. She had no choice but to sleep in them, whenever Bill shared her bed.

But, of course, he didn't. Not in the most intimate sense, the most coveted, beloved sense. And no one knew this. No one. She was lonely in her own home, in her own bed—in her own skin—and she couldn't tell a soul. “Don't air your dirty laundry outside the family,” Mother had said a million times.

But Truman. Did he suspect? The way he looked at her, adoringly—but more. Or was it less? Sympathetically. Understandingly. He'd actually taken the time, that first weekend at Kiluna, to write down a reading list for her—suspecting the truth. That Babe was unfinished, as most decorative objects are; scratch the surface and all you see is a blank piece of porcelain or a canvas. And that she was ashamed of it, deep down.

“Just for you, Bobolink. I think you would enjoy these books. A mind, a heart, can't be neglected.”

How did he know? They'd not discussed much of anything, beyond his childhood. After Bill had come home, and she hadn't been ready for him, the rest of the weekend had passed in a blur of company and arrangements, meals and games and drinks and minor crises, like the mystifying disappearance of one of the game cups for the Parcheesi set, a dress strap of Slim's breaking, requiring a last-minute stitching before Saturday's dinner. She and Truman hadn't had another opportunity for conversation, although she had longed for it the entire weekend.

And yet, before he left, he'd presented her with this reading list;
Madame Bovary
had been underlined twice. His eyes, behind the thick black-framed spectacles he wore while reading, were preternaturally wise and solemn, studying her as she scanned the list. Seeing right through her—the makeup, the clothes she'd picked out so carefully. He didn't notice all that, didn't care for it, except to admire her artistry. But surface wasn't what mattered, not to Truman. Was it?

She wished that it wasn't. She shut her eyes, determined to dream that it wasn't. For Babe longed to confide—her true self, her hopes, her fears, yes, even her imperfections, Odeal in middle age—in someone; she yearned for it so desperately that her heart swelled with pent-up fears and frustrations to the point where she wondered if it could be seen beneath her tailored shirts and couture dresses, this pulsating, swollen, disgusting sac of desire. If the world only knew! Perfect Babe. Full of ugliness on the inside, teetering on the side of her bed, unable to sleep; unloved, unwanted.

Except by Truman. She had known it from the first moment they'd met, on the plane. Someone had arrived. Someone very important to her. How does one know that, before the first hello? It's a heaviness in the air combined with a lightness of step. It's a slowing down of the past, and a speeding up of the future. A desire to both giggle and cry. A table for two, not one. But tucked away in the darkest corner of the restaurant, curtains drawn tight about it, the table groaning with enough wine to loosen tongues and hearts.

“Don't air your dirty laundry,” her mother whispered in her ear, one last time, as Babe's mind finally slowed down, welcoming blanketing, numbing sleep.

“But Truman doesn't count,” she protested softly, even in her drowsiness taking care not to disturb a sleeping Bill.

“Truman. He might be a friend, I think. And I haven't had a friend in so long.”

And Babe finally went to sleep.

T
ell me about—
your first kiss.

“A boy in second grade.” Babe grinned slyly. “He told me I was too pretty not to kiss, so, of course, I let him! Mother sent me to private girls' school after that.”

“A boy in second grade,” Truman said, and cackled. “Me, too! He didn't tell me I was too pretty. He had no idea what I was doing to him. Neither did I! But I saw his lips, his rosy lips, and I simply had to taste them, to see if they tasted like roses or cherries—something candied. Something sweet. I was hungry for that, for sweetness. In my life.”

“And did they? Taste sweet?”

“No. They were lifeless, stunned. Flat as old champagne. It was the greatest disappointment of my childhood.”

Tell me about—
your favorite pet as a child.

“My dog, Bobo. I loved that dog! He was a black poodle. He wasn't supposed to sleep with me, but I always snuck him up when no one was looking. Betsey knew, and once, because I'd borrowed a sweater from her and ruined it, she told Mother. Bobo was banished outdoors after that, for good. I guess he ran away. Like most dogs do.” Babe, whose gaze had been so grave and thoughtful, suddenly smiled. “I haven't thought of Bobo in years. We have English bulldogs now. Bill thinks they're very chic. Purebred, of course, kept in heated and air-conditioned kennels. I don't even know all their names. Someone else takes care of them, and brings them in once a day to be petted, maybe walked, if I'm about to take some exercise. It's not the same, though, at all.” And her eyes widened, as if realizing this for the first time. “We have dogs. But we don't have pets.”

“We had so many animals back in Monroeville! Sook had a fat old bird she kept in a cage in the kitchen. I always had a lizard or two in a shoe box. Cats simply draped themselves about the house, on the porch, the windowsills, the eaves and rain barrels. Most everyone had an old hound dog, just because. That's how the South is. I don't know that I had a favorite, though. I finally persuaded Jack to let me have a dog about a year ago. Now the dog loves Jack more than he loves me—typical!” Truman laughed, but there was a hollowness to it that made Babe impulsively grasp his hand in sympathy.

“Why do they always love the one that doesn't love them?”

Truman shrugged. “Bitches. We're all the same, after all.”

Tell me about—
your guiltiest pleasure.

“Sex,” Truman said immediately, his eyes sparkling. His pink tongue darted between his white teeth, and he licked his lips, as if tasting candy on his own flesh.

“That doesn't count,” Babe retorted, squirming slightly even as she managed to look very prissy. Like the most fabulously dressed Puritan, her Roman nose tilted very high, her fastidiously lipsticked mouth pursed. Truman noticed her discomfort. And said nothing, for the time being.

“All right, then,” he drawled. “Chocolate milk shakes. I adore chocolate milk shakes, with whipped cream and sprinkles.”

Babe's eyes widened. “I do, too! Ice cream of any kind! Oh, we should go to Berthillon in Paris sometime!”

“Paris would be too
magnifique
with you! We could go to the Latin Quarter and see the most divinely decadent shows, and then go backstage and talk to the girls and boys. I love talking to them. They have the most fascinating stories, you know.”

“I, well—” Babe frowned. Of course, she could never do that! Bill would have a fit! What if someone recognized her and took her picture? What on earth would people say? Oh, but it would be fun, wouldn't it? Although entirely out of the question.

Tell me about—
your most amazing accomplishment.

“It's not yet happened.” Truman tilted that stubborn chin, steeled those blue eyes. “But it will. The Pulitzer. Of course.”

“Of course,” Babe agreed, thrilled. That her friend, her intimate new friend, would win a Pulitzer Prize! That she should know someone—be sitting by the side of her pool at Round Hill with him, their bare feet cooling off in the silky water—who was an intellectual, a writer of such stature! How had this happened? No one in her life, save her father, had ever been what you could call an intellectual. Not even Bill, for all that he had accomplished. Bill moved through life like a shark, fueled by sheer instinct. His instincts were sound—miraculous, even—but still. One of his most endearing traits was that he was the first to admit he did not have the kind of mind of, say, an Ed Murrow. That was why Bill worshipped Murrow so, had tried to emulate him to the point of wearing the same trench coat and hat, London-made, when they first became friends during the war.

But Truman, with his shrewd eyes, his interest in everything yet an ability to home in on the most intriguing, unusual aspect, his talent for understanding people and what made them tick, his vast knowledge of literature and craft, his precise, yet expansive vocabulary—Truman was an intellectual, she was certain of it. An intellectual with a love of gossip and high society and low life, to be sure. But still an intellectual. And he was her friend.

Hers, not Bill's. She'd seen him first.

“My greatest accomplishment?” Babe repeated the question. “My children, of course.”

“No. That's bourgeois. No woman should mistake nature for an accomplishment. It's distasteful, this emphasis on reproduction. It's biological, and that is all. Besides, I've never met your children, so how can you be so proud of them?”

Babe colored. “I am. All mothers are.”

“Yet you let others care for them? You leave them all week, while you're in the city or traveling, and they stay out at Kiluna with their keepers?”

“It's better that way, Truman. More stability. And there's no room for them in the apartment, you know.”

“And whose idea was that? To live in such a tiny little space with no room for anybody else?”

“Bill's,” Babe admitted, her throat suddenly tight, unwilling to allow the disloyal words. “Bill wanted that. It's close to his office.”

“What about you?”

“You don't understand. Bill needs me, and women always go where they're needed. I have to take care of him. I have to make sure he eats well, and is entertained, looked after.”

“Your children need you. They need you to take care of them, even with all the nurses and nannies. Children need their mothers, Babe. Oh, honey, that is one thing I do know!”

“Stop!” Babe held up her hand, her breath coming heavily, gearing up for flight. “I don't—how dare you say these things?”

“I say these things because I'm your friend,” Truman replied with a shrug that threw off her anger and bewilderment—and with a smile that melted the ice threatening to encase her.

And then she knew, with a clarity that echoed some long-forgotten childhood sense of justice, of knowing right from wrong, because it was the simplest thing, because it was
true.
She knew that he was right. And that he
had
the right to say this to her.

Because Truman is your friend. Truman is a real friend, the only one who has ever talked to you like this. The only one who cares enough to tell you the truth. The only one who wants to see past the surface. This moment is important. It is the template for the rest of your life. Don't run away from it.

“I'm not used to having friends,” Babe finally confessed, kicking a foot up so that it broke the surface of the water, like a porpoise. “I have acquaintances.”

“Not anymore,” Truman said solemnly. He crooked his little finger and held it out to her. “Best friends. Pinkie swear.”

Babe smiled, and crooked her own finger through his. “Pinkie swear.” Then her heart—that swollen sac of regret—tore, and she felt something slide down her cheek. She swiped away a tear, as astonished to see it as she would have been to see a lizard floating in the clarion-blue pool, as blue as Montego Bay itself, just down the lush, verdant hill. The air was silky, warm on winter-parched skin; Truman was paler than smoke, while Babe's flesh was tawny, from years spent following the annual migration of her flock—several long stays each winter in the Caribbean, summers in the country, an annual yachting trip in the Mediterranean. A year spent chasing the sun, in golden chariots. “I've never done that before—pinkie swear, I mean. Not with my sisters. Not with my children.”

“There are a lot of things you've never done before, but that you'll do with me. I just know it. We're good for each other, Bobolink. Perfect, actually. We're so alike.”

And Babe, searching the face of her new friend, so brash and confident, yet because he believed in that confidence, touchingly vulnerable, wasn't so sure. And then, suddenly, she was. Because, of course, that was how she'd recognized him in the first place, when he, all five feet four of him, wrapped in an absurd plaid scarf, his hands nonchalantly in his pockets as he stood in the front of her plane, blinked to adjust his eyesight from the dark outside to the light within.

He was exactly like her. Rare and exotic and yet so completely messy and ordinary. Disgustingly ordinary. So ordinary that great pains must be taken to disguise the fact, to protect the feelings of those who invested so much in exoticism and perfection.

How could anyone else but the two of them ever know the cost?

“Let's get out of here.” Truman stood up, shook his tiny white feet, and helped Babe rise. “I want to buy you something. A present—it's only proper. Your hospitality, as advertised, is legendary and I have to pay you back.”

“No, Truman, you don't have to. You have already given me more than you can know.”

Truman threw his arms about her.

“Of course you'd say that! But still, isn't there some divinely picturesque market around here? I've heard so much about the colorful Jamaicans—I want to see some! It's exquisite up here on your mountain, but a tad—well, you know.”

“A tad isolated and exclusive?” Babe laughed; just down the hill from their cottage was Noël Coward's. And up the hill, Oscar Hammerstein sometimes vacationed. “Yes, there's a lovely little market down the hill in Montego Bay. I'll drive—it will be fun. I so rarely get to.”

Babe went inside the luxurious villa—all filmy white curtains and palm fronds and wicker, but weighed down by English antiques, a nod to the colonial history of the island—to “freshen up.” She emerged minutes later in the chicest pink linen sundress, not flouncy, but a cool column. She had on white leather sandals, carried a straw bag, and had subtly adjusted her makeup so that her lipstick now complemented the pink. She'd brushed some kind of iridescent powder on her cheekbones, to catch the sun. Truman clapped his hands at the sight of her, causing Bill Paley to look up from a hammock on the veranda and grunt.

“Darling Bill, we're just going down to the market for a bit. Would you like me to get you anything?”

“How about some conch? Do we have any of that around? I like those little conch balls that the cook makes, rolled up and fried in that batter.”

“I'll make sure you have some for dinner! We'll be back before then.”

Babe leaned over to kiss her husband, who said, “Don't wreck the car,” before he closed his eyes and resumed his nap.

The warning was not unfounded, Truman soon discovered. Babe was a terrible driver; he found himself clutching the dashboard and squeezing his eyes shut as she took the hairpin corners down the mountain to the bay. They roared past palm trees so fast, they were just blurry giants with fuzzy green hats; the dusty road was full of ruts, which launched the car into the air before it landed with a jolt that caused Truman to bite his tongue, hard, and wince in pain.

But Babe was jubilant; she had a fierce grin on her face the whole time, and when she roared to a stop outside a small courtyard in the middle of the town of Montego Bay—a collection of cobbled streets and brightly painted buildings—she brushed her hair out of her eyes, adjusted the Gucci scarf about her throat, threw back her head, and laughed.

“My, that was fun!”

“I'm glad one of us enjoyed ourselves.” Truman grimaced, gingerly tested his tongue, and Babe instantly stopped laughing. She whipped off her sunglasses and laid a hand on his arm, her gaze grave, a pucker between her eyes.

“Oh, was my driving terrible? I suppose it was—I don't get to do it very often. Bill doesn't think it's fitting. I'm so, so sorry, Truman. Bill's right. I never should have driven, because I scared you, and oh, that's the last thing in the world I want to do!”

“No, no, it was fine. Really. Just fine.”

But Babe seemed troubled, and stayed that way as they strolled through the market. It was small, a cluster of stands made out of wooden crates or palm fronds, piles and piles of the most tempting fruit—bananas and papayas and kumquats and peaches and limes and lemons and oranges, ruby grapefruit, pineapples as big as Truman's head. There were adorable little Jamaican children, their clothes vivid white against their dark skin, dancing around for money. Women in brilliantly colored dresses, turbans on their heads, sat at their stands, spreading their wares; there were scarves and straw hats and bags, gauzy cotton dresses in vivid tropical colors, leather sandals.

But Babe's mood remained downcast, despite Truman's running narrative—“Oh, my, I've never seen such fruit, not even down in the Village!” “These little children are simply gorgeous—look at how graceful the girls are, the way they carry themselves, so tall and proud. Mrs. Vreeland would want to collect them all!” “Do you hear that music? It's Calypso, isn't it? It reminds me of Harry Belafonte—who is divine, by the way. A gentleman, and a true artist. I'll introduce you to him.”

Then Truman stopped in his tracks; they'd come upon a stall overflowing with colorful paper flowers. Blossoms burst out of baskets, carpeted a small rattan table, were pinned to the grinning vendor, covering her so that she looked like a float in the Tournament of Roses Parade.