“We betrayed him,” she told Slim on one of her good days, when she was able to sit up against the pillows, wear one of her beautiful quilted satin bed jackets, have a visitor for a precious few minutes. One of the days when the medicine didn’t dull her senses and put her under so deeply that she had no idea what day it was, even if it was day or night, if she was five or twenty-five or fifty-five, if she was Alice through the Looking-Glass or Tweedledum or Tweedledee; if she was healthy or ill.
“What on earth are you talking about, Babe?” Slim sat in a chair next to Babe’s bed; her hands twitched, not sure what to do without the usual cigarette. Babe always insisted that her guests be treated as of old, but most were too polite to smoke in her presence.
So Slim examined her manicure instead and frowned at Babe. “What the hell do you mean, Babe?”
“I think—I think part of the whole thing was that he was testing us, testing us to make sure we loved him. Really loved him. Because true love means forgiving, no matter what. And we failed him. We didn’t love him that way.”
“Nonsense. You did.”
“I did. But—maybe I didn’t. Not enough. Maybe I never could love anyone, truly. Maybe I’m just not capable.”
Babe’s eyes were dry, her voice weak, but steady. She was not seeking sympathy, Slim understood. She was quietly stating a fact of her life, a fact that she must have suffered hell to conclude. Her friend had gone through the trials of Hades lately; maybe she’d gone through them all her life but never let on. Because, of course, she wouldn’t. Babe Paley could never reveal that her life was anything but enviable.
“I think you’re wrong, Babe. Don’t make excuses for Truman. That bastard doesn’t deserve it.”
“Yes, he does. We all do, Slim. You’ll understand, one day.”
Babe leaned back and closed her eyes; Slim wondered if she should leave her.
“I have everything planned, you know,” Babe murmured, opening her eyes, even more solemn and thoughtful now that they could see beyond the physical plane.
“What do you mean?”
“My funeral. The reception, after. The menu is already planned. The flowers, everything. I couldn’t leave that for Bill, or my children. They shouldn’t have to worry about all that. So I left everything with my secretary, but I wanted you to know, too. She has all the details. The caterers and florists have already been notified.”
“Christ, Babe.” Slim was shaking. Babe smiled and reached out her hand; Slim grasped it blindly.
“It’s fine, Slim. I wanted to do it. It seemed—it seemed right. The best way. I’m a doctor’s daughter, remember? I know what’s happening, what will happen. I have no illusions about death. We do what we have to do, what’s right and important, while we’re living. Not after.”
Slim inhaled, a big, sloppy, phlegm-soaked breath; she started coughing, a true fit, and had to have a glass of water. When finally the fit was over, and her chest hurt and her eyes were streaming, she saw that Babe was laughing, quietly.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to do that,” she teased, with that rare twinkle in her eye; the twinkle that Truman had so often brought out, to the surprise and delight of all. “Not you!”
“I’m going to miss you,” Slim blurted out, then clasped her hand to her mouth, horrified for saying it.
“I know.” Babe nodded, and seemed relieved to hear it. “But you’ll be fine, Slim. That’s one thing I know about you. You’re a survivor.”
Slim left Babe then, after a kiss to her smooth, moisturized, made-up cheek, and a whisper to “get some sleep, dear.”
But as she went down the hall, stopping first to see Bill, who was slumped in an armchair outside Babe’s room, kissing him, as well, embracing him as if the big, rangy man was a child, clutching him to her chest for a few moments while they both murmured soothing, nonsensical words, she wondered what Babe had meant by that.
“You’re a survivor,” Babe had said, and there was no emotion in her voice at all, none of the tears that Slim had shed upon hearing it.
What did she mean? Slim told herself she’d never know, even as she felt a tickle of fear race up and down her spine. She turned to Bill, thought about asking him, but knew that now was not the time. Bill was a broken man, crumbled by enough guilt to bring down the Empire State Building. No need to pile on. She would not be that woman; the kind of woman who made someone else’s tragedy all about herself.
There would be plenty of time for wondering, once it was all over. Too much time. Too much time without Babe, without Truman, without kindness and elegance and oh, Christ, the laughter.
A dull, dismal lifetime.
—