“Great literature?” Truman heard the wry doubt in Liz’s voice.
“Yes, darling, my gossip queen.” And Liz heard the acid condescension in his.
“Well, I can’t reach the Paleys—they’re the only ones who won’t talk to me. Slim, however, is absolutely livid. She’s threatening to sue.”
“Oh, my dearest Big Mama—she never will! Slim’s a smart girl. She knows better—they all know better. What did they expect, anyway? Who did they think I was? I’m a writer! This will all be over soon. But not too soon, I hope!”
“Well, I’m going to write an article about the whole thing for New York magazine.”
“Oh, wonderful! Tremendous! How can I help?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Truman hung up the phone and clapped his hands with glee. Oh, goody, goody, goody! Maybe Hollywood didn’t know what to do with him—he knew the film was going to be a turkey and he wasn’t going to exactly set the screen on fire. But New York certainly did! He imagined he could hear, from across the continent, all the millions of voices shouting his name—Truman, Truman, Truman!
He looked down at his knees; they were knocking, hitting each other, and he thought, How odd. Then he plopped down on a chair, licked his lips, and reached for the ever-present vodka.
Then he bit his lip. He rubbed his forehead, which had begun to throb. He picked up the telephone. He began to dial. And dial. And dial.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Agnelli is out.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Keith is unavailable.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Guinness is away.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Harriman isn’t in.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Paley is resting.”
He hung up, drank more, watched the clock; concentrated on the second hand, ticking away steadily, and he decided to take a small sip of vodka with every tick, until he grew dizzy and gave it up. But an hour had gone by, and so he dialed again.
“No, Mrs. Agnelli is still away.”
“No, Lady Keith is not available.”
“No, Mrs. Guinness is still out.”
“No, Mrs. Harriman isn’t in yet.”
“No, Mrs. Paley is still resting.”
Two more hours; two more tumblers of vodka, no ice, and Truman was now shaking from head to toe, his chest constricting, tightening, so that he felt his face growing more and more purple, he knew it, even if he didn’t look in a mirror. He imagined himself this violet, pulsating monster, and then he took another drink and dialed again.
“Mrs. Agnelli asks that you please stop calling.”
“Lady Keith says to tell you to go to hell.”
“Mrs. Guinness has requested that you no longer call.”
“Mrs. Harriman would like you to stop phoning.”
“Mrs. Paley is—is no longer taking your calls.”
And that’s when Truman began to cry; he rolled off the chair, threw himself on the carpet, threw himself a tantrum that splashed over him like a hallucination from his childhood, drowning him with its force, and he was alone again, all alone in the dark, and the door was locked and Mama was gone, and when would she be coming back? What if she never came back? What if he died here, alone?
And then he vomited into the thick shag carpet of the tacky Beverly Hills apartment he had rented; his stomach spasmed, his throat burned as he puked vile, pink-tinged liquid all over the white carpet, and soon his face was covered in his bile, and he started to roll around in it, slathering himself with shame.
And then he passed out.
CHAPTER 20
…..
OCTOBER 17, 1975, NEW YORK
Earlier that morning, Babe put the magazine down. Or, rather, it slipped from her trembling fingers, falling to the carpeted floor.
Her mouth was dry, her body shaking. She had the curious feeling of falling, even though she was sitting up, straight-backed in an armchair. She gazed down at her feet; they were solidly on the ground. But still the room seemed to loom up at her, and she felt herself being weighed down by gravity so palpable she could see its mist.
When she’d heard the whispers about Ann last week—that she’d swallowed cyanide pills—she hadn’t believed them. Even when Elsie told Slim, at the wake, “Well, Ann killed Billy, and now Truman killed Ann. So I guess that’s that”—still, Babe hadn’t believed it.
That a woman, even tattered, self-destructive Ann Woodward, would kill herself simply because of a story? A story written by Truman? Babe couldn’t comprehend it. For Truman wrote fiction, or serious nonfiction, like In Cold Blood. Why on earth would Ann Woodward kill herself over something he’d written?
Babe understood now. She understood humiliation and betrayal, as well, but these were familiar to her.
What was unfamiliar—unbelievable—was that Truman could be the one to humiliate and betray.