The next morning, Truman went to the set with a mouth so dry he could barely whisper his god-awful lines, but nobody seemed to notice; in fact, the director had already given up on him and this picture. The man simply threw up his hands and filmed what he could, which wasn’t much. Truman was excused from the set and spent the rest of the afternoon composing witty telegrams and sending them off.
His phone rang, all the time, and he answered, with a practiced smirk, “Truman Capote, literary assassinator,” which never failed to elicit a laugh. It rang and rang with the calls of gossip columnists, the booking agents for Johnny and Dick, old “friends,” such as Mailer, asking, with fake concern, how he was holding up; it rang with the calls from the editor of Esquire, who gloated over the number of copies flying off the stands—“You’ll give us another story, won’t you, Truman? As soon as possible?”
But Babe didn’t call. Neither did Slim nor Marella nor Gloria nor Pam; he had no one with whom to gush and preen and tell him he was simply the tops, True Heart, really; how on earth do you do it? He had reached C.Z. late yesterday, and burst into tears, so relieved to have someone—important, familiar, and dear—answer the phone that he could scarcely articulate his joy, his appreciation at being invited down to Palm Beach to commiserate—no, of course, he meant celebrate—on her golden shoulder.
Then he glanced at the clock; it was nine o’clock in the evening back in New York. Well, why not give it one more try?
He dialed the Paleys, and at the last minute had the brilliant idea to ask for Bill, instead of Babe. And joy of joys! He was put right through! His heart pounded so loudly in his ears, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. But then Bill’s voice said “Hello,” and he sounded perfectly dry and calm. Normal.
“Bill! It’s me, Truman, darling!”
“Yes?”
“Well, did you read it?”
“What?”
“My article, my story in Esquire! What did you think? I’m dying to know, of course—everyone is being so coy!”
“I started it, Truman, but then I fell asleep. And then someone threw the magazine away while I slept.”
“I can get you another one, you know—”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t have time for that right now. My wife is very sick.”
And then Bill hung up.
His wife! Not Babe, not their shared dream, not his dearest friend in the world. But simply “my wife.” As if Truman didn’t know her at all.
Oh, the bitches! Bitches, all! And he was glad, glad, glad that he’d stung them so. Look what it was doing to his career! Look at how many more people recognized him on the street!
“I simply don’t understand,” Truman said, with a sorrowful, superior sigh, to Jack, to Liz Smith, to C.Z., to anyone who would take his call these days, who were never the people he wanted, after all. “They knew I was a writer. They knew I’d remember everything. What did they expect? And Babe! I really thought she was smarter than that. More sophisticated. Doesn’t she get it, that I love her so, even if Bill never did? And now the world knows what a bastard he is. I did it for her! Doesn’t she understand that?”
“You did it for yourself, Truman,” was all Jack replied. He never, not once, said, “I told you so.”
“Well, so what? So what if I did? I have to look out for myself, don’t I? Nobody else ever has.”
And so he girded himself; he booked a facial, a manicure, he bought some new clothes and took a flight back to the East Coast, descending upon Manhattan like a potentate. Grandly, he granted interviews, cooperated with Liz Smith in her article—“Truman Capote in Hot Water”—and fanned the fires of scandal, dancing ever faster as the flames leapt ever higher. He lunched at La C?te Basque, accompanied by photographers; he grinned devilishly up at the camera as he brandished a knife and fork. When Esquire ran another story, Truman gleefully posed for the cover dressed in black, pretending to file his fingernail with a stiletto.
Truman Strikes Back! Another Excerpt from Answered Prayers!
And that was it for Answered Prayers. He didn’t have much of anything else written, and he knew, now, he never would. But he didn’t tell anyone, not even Jack.
His phone rang; it rang off the hook. Mostly it was people eager to tell him just whose party he hadn’t been invited to.
“Never mind,” he told one and all. “I’ve been thinking of giving another party myself, you know, even better than my famous Black and White Ball! And this time, I won’t invite any of those old dinosaurs, those ancient swans. This time, baby, it’s only the fabulous people!”