He knew Babe was dying; hadn’t he resigned himself to the fact that they wouldn’t reconcile? Hadn’t he taken it like a good, stoic little boy? Hadn’t he stopped calling, stopped telegraphing, letting her die in peace?
Hadn’t he known he wouldn’t be invited to the funeral, and had determined to spend that day in quiet reflection in his apartment, surrounded by the things she’d bought him over the years, the antique paperweights for his collection, a painting here, a bibelot there, the Oriental rug in the foyer, the ruby cuff links, the silly, thoughtful little things that amused him, like the scarf printed with tiny little Elvises holding guitars, because Truman had once rolled his eyes and growled, “That boy from Memphis really gets my motor running!”
But when the day arrived, he couldn’t get out of bed. He felt crushed by a despair more enormous than his good intentions. He watched those intentions fly right out the window; weightless, fluttering, silly little things, chased away by the rhinoceros that settled on his chest.
So he reached for a drink; the vodka bottle was on the nightstand.
Soon, he’d had enough to enable him to shove that rhinoceros off the bed, throw on some clothes, cover himself in a black opera cloak—and in a corner of a drawer, a flash of color caught his eye. It was the orange flower he’d bought at the market in Jamaica that wonderful, glorious day with her, when the sky was azure, the sun was a luscious golden dream, and everyone was smiling, bright white teeth flashing, the air scented with jasmine and Babe’s perfume—what was it again?
Oh, yes. Vent Vert, that grassy, crystalline fragrance.
Truman’s hands shook as he picked up the flower, now faded, the edges frayed. He pinned it to the cloak with fat, fumbling fingers; he stuck his forefinger with the pin and sucked the droplet of blood. Tasteless, he thought, only mildly curious. My blood has no taste. I have pickled it beyond its essence.
Then he stumbled out the door, into the elevator, and into the arms of the doorman. He mumbled that he needed a taxi.
“Where to?” inquired the doorman.
“Manhasset.”
“Long Island?”
“Where else?”
The doorman shrugged, picked up a phone, and in five minutes a taxi was at the door. Truman handed the man a wad of cash and croaked, “Christ Episcopal Church in Manhasset.”
The driver pocketed the money and they drove off; once in a while, he looked in his rearview mirror, unsure if his passenger was or was not Truman Capote. The bloated, pink face, the outrageous black hat, black opera cloak, flaming flower—they sure looked like something a fag would wear. But the eyes were obscured by dark round glasses, so he didn’t know for sure.
“Hey, are you Truman?” He couldn’t stand it; he had to know.
“Yessss,” Truman lisped, exaggeratedly, like a snake hissing. “Yesssss, I ssssure am.”
“Thought so!” And the cabbie left him in silence the entire way, except for when Truman asked him to stop at a liquor store and he said, “Sure thing!” and waited while Truman lurched inside, only to emerge with a bottle of vodka.
“Proceed,” Truman instructed. So they did.
“What’s the traffic for?” the cabbie asked, when finally they drew near the church fronting a tree-lined street packed with limousines and Town Cars and cabs. “Is it a wedding?”
“No.” Truman told the cab to stop and wait; then he got out, still grasping the bottle. He looked about, furtively; he seemed to tuck his head into his cloak, like a turtle, and he sank back into the embrace of a wisteria tree. The cabbie rolled down his window; it was hot this July of 1978, and he wondered how Truman could stand the heavy cloak.
Truman, safely hidden, watched as they gathered on the sidewalk in front of the church, embracing, air-kissing, dabbing eyes. There was Diana, the divine Mrs. V, in a fabulous long-sleeved embroidered dress with a dragon-red mandarin collar; there were Betty Bacall, Kay Graham, Kenneth himself, and, of course, all his swans, Slim and Marella and Gloria and Pam and C.Z. Those bitches. Those glorious creatures. Oh, what were they talking about? Were they mourning Babe?
Had they ever mourned him, as he mourned them?
And did they hate him, as he hated them? For being so stupid, so breathtakingly idiotic, as to not understand who he was, after all?
“I made you all,” he whispered, the words as tart upon his tongue as his blood had been bland.“You were just material. And I fooled you. I fooled you all.”