“Oh, Ann!” Babe’s gut took another punch; she was appalled that she’d forgotten about poor Ann, and those motherless boys—orphaned boys now. “I—I don’t know anymore, Slim. I don’t know how he could have done this—why? I’m so sorry, dear, that you’ve been used in that way. That we all have been—used. I—I have to go now. I’m sorry.”
“Babe? Are you all right? Do you need me to come over?”
“No, I’m not all right. But I prefer to be alone now.”
Babe hung up the phone, and she had never craved a cigarette in her life as she did right now. And she would have had one, too—hang the doctors and their ridiculous worries! She was going to die. So what did it matter if she smoked once in a while? But she had thrown them all out, forbidden the household staff to smoke. And she wouldn’t send anyone out to buy more, that was too desperate.
Then she glanced over at the little red Moroccan pillbox. And she buried her face in her hands, remembering how Bill had found the pills, how white with fear and rage he had been when he heard her plan—so rational, she’d thought at the time. But now, now that poor Ann had done the same thing, and the way people were talking—Babe shuddered. Bill was right to have taken them from her, doling out her medicine now himself. She must spare her children—and her husband—that humiliation, anyway. She mustn’t let them be the talk of the town, like poor Ann’s boys were now.
But Truman hadn’t been that kind, had he? And Bill—she snatched up the magazine and strode into Bill’s room; he was at work, of course. She laid it on the bed, where he couldn’t help but see it. Then she went back to her room, lay down on her bed, sprawled on it, ungainly, her face pressed deep into the pillow, and she knew her makeup would stain it beyond repair, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything anymore.
There was an ache in her chest, a hole, and for once it wasn’t the memory of what had been taken from her physically—her lungs, her future; now it was the memory of what had been excised from her even more precisely than the surgeon’s scalpel. The one relationship she thought she could count on for however much time she had left.
The memories she carried with her of golden days, of communion, of a filigreed cocoon built for two; that cozy, intimate table big enough, and small enough, just for them. Truman. And Babe.
He hadn’t loved her, after all; he’d used her, just as he used the others. She was important to him only for material—oh, it wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true! The one person in her life whom she had trusted enough to expose herself, scars and all—her Truman.
And now it was gone. All gone. Only her emptiness remained.
After all the time together, all the confidences shared, the fears revealed, how had he not understood her at all? He alone saw how desperately she worked to hide the unpleasantness in her life, in herself—and in her husband; to live up to the expectations bestowed upon her from birth. Truman, alone, knew how terrified she was of anyone seeing the truth.
Anyone but him.
So how could he not understand that in publicly exposing Bill’s true nature, he was exposing Babe, as well? He’d humiliated her beyond reason, beyond anything Bill could ever do. Because Bill, for all his faults, was not a storyteller. Bill did not know how to use words to wound and expose. Now every housewife from Maine to California would read about her, Babe Paley—the woman in the fashion magazines, the epitome of all they desired to become—and see her, defective, ugly, out of control; all the flaws she battled, all her life, so that she could be a good girl, the perfect girl, Beautiful Babe.
Daddy’s perfect little girl; Mama’s great hope.
Babe rolled over on her side, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort, and began to rock back and forth. She heard the phone ring, and she knew who it was, but she did not leap to get it, as she always had, and knew, finally, that she never would again. Hot tears oozed out of her eyes, and she began to sob, mourning, keening, the loss of something so profound she marveled that the world outside her window still seemed to continue on, untouched.
The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself.
The loss of her true heart.
—
WHEN BILL JOINED HER for a quiet dinner in her room—she took many of her meals now on a tray, barely able to eat although she still did her best to see that Bill’s palate was continually delighted—he didn’t say anything at first. Babe folded her arms and glared at him, steadily, all the while he was peppering his steak. Finally he looked at her.
“I read it,” he said.
“And?”
“If I ever see that fat little fag again, I’ll kick him all the way back to Dixie.”
“And?”
“I’m sorry.” Bill put the pepper grinder down with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry, Babe. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry you’re ill. I’m sorry I’m such a bastard. I’m sorry that our friend did this to you—and to me. I’m sorry I ever saw Truman Capote, allowed him on my plane that evening. I’m just sorry, all the time, every minute of the day.”
“All right.”
That’s all Babe said, that’s all Bill said, about the matter. They ate their dinner in silence. And they never spoke to each other of ugliness, betrayal, mistakes—or Truman Capote. Ever again.
The end.
CHAPTER 21
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