The Swans of Fifth Avenue (21 page)

With one last glance in the mirror at his tuxedo, he patted his pocket where his dime-store mask—shades of Holly Golightly!—resided. Truman decided he looked wonderful—no longer the lithe young fawn of his youth, perhaps; he was settled now, settled into his legacy, into posterity. Maybe a little heavier than he'd like, true. His hair, absolutely thinning but he had invested in a hair transplant a few months back, and so the battle line was being held, for now. But his eyes were clear and bright, and he was reminded of the last time he gave a great party, a really terrific party. It was back in Monroeville when he was twelve and about to leave for New York, finally summoned by his mother. He'd thrown a farewell party for himself and invited a couple of local niggers, and the Klan had shown up and made a fuss, and it was
the
scandal of Monroeville for simply years and years.

Oh, he did hope tonight would be like that!

B
ABE STOOD IN THE DINING ROOM
of her apartment, so filled with white, old-fashioned flowers, it looked like an English garden.

Babe had not had her hair done at Kenneth's, as she knew it would be a madhouse, and according to Betsey, who'd telephoned earlier, it was. So she'd had a stylist come to her, and was very satisfied with the result; she looked stunning, actually, in a white Castillo, a long chiffon column of a dress, but sleeveless, showing off her lovely arms, bracelets, and rings. Her hair was perfect for the mask she would wear, white satin, framing her eyes. She had made sure she looked perfect from every angle, posing sideways in the three-way mirror in her dressing room, turning this way and that. Every image was reassuring, despite her worries; the dress looked divine, the mask complemented it beautifully and did not obscure her eyes, which she had accented with darker liner than usual, and with false eyelashes.

She'd helped Truman in the weeks leading up to the party, relieved to the point of tears, actually, to have been asked. This was his party, but somehow she wanted it to be hers, as well, and she was shocked and ashamed of herself. He must have understood, for he did seek her advice when it came to picking the decorations for the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza; he'd wanted to drape the walls in red, but she'd convinced him that would be too claustrophobic, and he'd agreed. So they decided on massive red floral arrangements on every table instead, leaving the ballroom more or less in its own glorious state, with the gilded mirrored walls unadorned, the chandeliers unobscured. “Let your guests be the décor,” she'd suggested, and he'd hugged her, one of his impulsive, childlike hugs. And for that moment, anyway, she felt their old kinship; she felt “his.” And knew that he was “hers.”

But other than that one instance, Truman had arranged everything himself, obviously reveling in his role as host. He so rarely was, at least on this scale—although he was simply brilliant at putting together casual, intimate little last-minute dinners—and she knew it meant so much to him, to be able to do this. “I'm paying you back, my love,” he whispered. “I'm paying you all back. For all the generosity you've shown me.”

Who could fail to be touched by that? By that innocent, impulsive generosity? Who could fail to be proud of him, Truman Capote, achieving such heights, basking in the glow of well-deserved success?

Yet…

Babe felt a little shaky, at that, as she put the final touches on the dining room, adjusting a knife here, a crystal glass there, picking up a few fallen flower petals. She felt a little shaky a lot these days; she never seemed to have enough air in her lungs. She was out of breath no matter what she was doing, shopping or talking to the help or even simply lying in bed reading. Her stomach, too, always sensitive, acted up far too often.

Change. Change was in the air, that's what it was. Bill was the same, she supposed; taking her for granted, trotting her out for shareholders' meetings, showering her with the best jewels and clothing, not because she desired or even asked for it, but to reflect well on him and his taste. Screwing around, discreetly enough.

But her children were grown now; poor Kate and her nervous condition at boarding school, same as Bill Junior. Her eldest daughter, Amanda, was married to a young up-and-coming politician named Carter Burden and suddenly, to Babe's astonishment, the Burdens were the “It” couple of the younger set.

Was Babe jealous of her own daughter? She asked herself this in times of honesty, and had to answer in the affirmative. After all, youth and beauty were fleeting and she was at the upper end of her prime, she knew it, faced it head-on—unflinchingly staring at herself in the mirror every morning and night, assessing, taking notes. She did everything she could to make the most of her assets while she had them; her hair was still thick and luxurious, although mostly gray now, defiantly so—another Babe Paley trend. Her skin was still firm, tight, due to repeated trips to spas and salons, daily facials, massages, electric treatments.

And, yes, perhaps a discreet tightening up, under the scalpel. She could admit this—to herself, anyway.

Her figure was still lean; no middle-aged pooch or hump for her, due to her devotion to a new form of exercise called Pilates—a torturous regimen of pushing and pulling and stretching. And of course she wore the best clothes, the most fabulous jewels—tastefully.

But the sixties weren't about taste, were they? She wasn't sure she would be able to accommodate these new times; Babe understood her style, had never given in to trends, but that didn't seem to be enough anymore. And if she wasn't the most stylish, the most perfect of them all, then—who was she?

Truman was the one who could answer that; he always had been able to. And despite her fears when
In Cold Blood
came out, he'd not really abandoned her or her friends; if anything, he'd thrown himself more fully into their midst, laughing louder, telling even more outrageous stories—“Oh, Babe, darling Babe, do you know what that awful Gore Vidal said about me this time? Of course, I drank him for lunch, so it doesn't matter now”—dancing even more desperately (gyrating, shaking all over, his eyes closed, his face beet red, wispy hair plastered to his head), indulging himself in every way. But it wasn't quite the same, at that; the moments when it was just the two of them were more precious, because they were more rare.

Truman was also drinking too much, and Babe had yet to mention this to him, although she felt she must, sometime. But lately, one martini at lunch was not enough; it had to be two, three, followed by brandy, and then on to the cocktail hour.

She must, mustn't she? Mention this to him? If she loved him, as she most certainly did? They'd always told each other the truth. But the truth wasn't always pleasant.

Babe bit her lip, glided back to her fabulous bedroom in her fabulous apartment on Fifth Avenue, twenty rooms, the penthouse, decorated fabulously by Billy Baldwin and Sister Parish with the usual fabric-covered walls, tented ceilings, priceless antiques and paintings—and Bill's prized Picasso,
Boy Leading Horse,
taking pride of place in the entranceway so it was the first thing you saw when you stepped off the private elevator. It was a glorious apartment and Babe was proud of it, the same way she was proud of her figure and her face and her clothes and her jewels. It was all for show, it was all for prestige; figure, face, and apartment all equally photographed and coveted.

But outside the tasteful walls, it was all changing; already Babe felt as much a relic as the gorgeous Louis XVI commode in the hallway. Prized and coveted—by a certain person, anyway. A person who looked back on the past, instead of forward to the future.

Oh, Babe! What a load of crap
—she almost laughed out loud, so surprised was she by the little voice that called her out, shook her from her morbid musings.
Look at you! You're dressed gorgeously, about to go to the party of the year, see all your friends, be part of Truman's big night. What on earth is wrong with you?

And then she heard the buzzer, footsteps as Bill left his room, the butler open the front door, and Truman's cry of, “Oh, it's gorgeous! So perfect! Babe! Babe, come here this minute and let me feast my eyes on you, you glorious creature!”

And Babe was happy again. She adjusted a shoulder strap, straightened the diamond-and-ruby floral burst of a necklace at her throat, and sailed out of her bedroom to greet her friend. Confident, serene, her stomach fluttering in anticipation of being the most beautiful, the most photographed.

The most loved by the only one who mattered.

T
HE
D
EWEYS WERE HAVING
a ball. No pun intended.

From the moment Truman arrived in Kansas all those years ago, such a strange creature with his velvet jackets, long trailing scarves, and Gucci loafers, their world had been turned upside down. Of course, at first it was because of the terrible tragedy of the Clutter family, whom they had known very well, all four of them; that November of 1959 was just an awful month, what with the uncertainty, fear, and Alvin's around-the-clock pursuit of the killers in his role as detective for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. Truman had been annoying at first, this New York outsider whom nobody trusted because obviously he was only there to make a buck, write a story about them, make fun of them, probably; the first time he asked to interview Alvin he stated blithely, “It doesn't mean anything to me if you ever catch who did this, it doesn't matter one way or another,” and Alvin had had to forcibly restrain himself from punching the little fairy in the face. It meant a lot to
him;
he had to catch the killers, he had to close the case and bring justice and peace to his neighbors once more. That was his
job.

But over time Truman charmed them and the other citizens of Holcomb and Garden City, Kansas, he and his friend Nelle Harper Lee; and even after it was all over and he went back to New York and he never really had to see them again, he'd stayed in touch. He seemed to need them, in a strange way; he was both fascinated by their midwestern plainness and envious of something about them, too. Marie preferred to think of it as their solid values, God-fearing trust in the land and in their fellow man. Alvin thought it was more like they were simply collectibles for Capote; strange, plain, twangy people to dust off and put on his shelf next to all those socialites, where they couldn't help but stand out.

But Truman was so generous, he overcame any doubts or fears the Deweys might have had about his devotion. He paid for them to go to Hollywood, where they'd been feted by movie stars—Natalie Wood had danced with Alvin at a party thrown by Dominick Dunne! Steve McQueen had sat at Marie's feet, asking her for recipes. And Truman brought them to New York regularly, got them tickets to Broadway shows, asked people like the Paleys to throw parties for them. He made them stay with him in his new apartment, that magnificent modern structure by the United Nations.

And now he had invited them to his party! They'd never been to the Plaza before and couldn't help but gape; it was nothing like the Muehlebach in Kansas City, the fanciest hotel in their previous experience. No, this was a palace, and the ballroom was fit for a fairy tale, with crystal chandeliers, masses of flowers, parquet dance floor, and gilded mirrors on the wall. There was a small orchestra—Truman had whispered, “It's Peter Duchin!” earlier, but the name didn't really mean anything to them. And the people—the people! Well, Marie simply had to sit and stare at the beautiful gowns. She was quite pleased with hers, bought from Bergdorf Goodman—oh, she'd never, ever tell Alvin how much it cost! She was going to save the box forever. But the entire effect of gorgeous black tuxedos and white gowns swirling about the ballroom, the jewels that were real, not fake, reflecting the chandeliers, the feathered and sequined masks—it really was like being in a movie.

And everywhere you looked, there was somebody famous! Lauren Bacall! Joan Fontaine, so big on the movie screen but so tiny in person! Margaret Truman and Alice Roosevelt Longfellow and Lynda Bird Johnson, swapping confidences about what it was like to live in the White House!

Of course there were so many Vanderbilts and Astors and Whitneys that the Deweys simply couldn't keep them straight, so they didn't try. And Truman's friends, who were always so kind—the Paleys and the Guinnesses and the Agnellis, all complimenting Marie on her gown, her hair. They'd dined at the Paleys' before the party and had been stunned by their apartment in one of those fancy buildings overlooking Central Park. It had a real doorman, and a private elevator, and an honest-to-God Picasso hanging in the hallway! It was like a museum, really, but Babe's kindness had put them at ease. She and Bill made such an elegant couple! They were both so tall and glamorous, and they seemed deeply devoted to each other, but…well, Marie couldn't quite believe it, what Truman had told her about them.

Truman loved to shock her, that was true; he loved to tell her somewhat salacious tidbits about these rich and famous people who were his friends. So Marie wasn't sure if she should believe what he'd told her about the Paleys, how they didn't sleep together, and Bill had many affairs, and Babe had wanted to leave him more than once. Oh, Marie did love hearing the gossip from Truman; he had a way of making her feel like she was his very best friend, part of his world, too. And he was so funny about it, arching his eyebrows and making a great show of whispering while he told her simply awful things! So maybe it was true about the Paleys. But she did hope it wasn't; why, Babe had lent her a necklace to wear tonight! And Bill had been so nice in introducing them to the CBS cameras outside the Plaza, and Bill and Babe had drawn them in so that Alvin and Marie could have their pictures taken, too, in all the crush; the photographers' flashbulbs had practically blinded her! They'd fallen on Truman and Mrs. Graham in the receiving line, laughing, hanging on to them for dear life until Babe ushered Marie into a dressing room, where they could adjust their masks, fix their hair, before meeting up with the men and entering the Grand Ballroom, ablaze with light.