As he watched them air-kiss and shake their glorious heads—goodness, Gloria’s turban was absolutely to die for, he could see the ostrich egg–sized jewel all the way over here!—it was like his ball, all over again, all the same players, only this time, everyone was wearing black. A black ball. And he was blackballed—Truman giggled, and drank more, and his stomach was like a vat of gurgling lava, everything bubbling up and over, and he belched, hiding it behind his hand even though he was across the street and in a bush, and nobody could see him.
And then he saw the casket come out, and Bill was following it, his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed, and Truman studied him for a moment, silently applauding his performance. The man did look devastated, he’d give him that. He wondered if the bastard would pick up someone at the funeral reception?
But then Truman forgot Bill, and vowed that he never would again think of him, Big Bill, the Great White Father. Instead, he watched the casket, very small, covered in flowers, carried on the shoulders of men he couldn’t identify from so far away, presumably Babe’s nephews and cousins. The casket was his only focus, and inside it was the very best part of him and he knew it would be buried deep within the ground, and soon it would be autumn, then winter, and snow would fall upon it, covering all traces of the only good thing that had ever happened to him. He heard sounds coming from deep within himself, moans, songs of sadness, broken lullabies, as he rocked back and forth, registering, finally, the loss of love, the shattered romance of it, the tragic ending handed to him by fate and disease.
It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t hers. It was simply the universe, deciding to tear them apart, like all great lovers. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde.
Truman and Babe.
And it was hell now, knowing that he wasn’t invited, wasn’t asked to say good-bye, and it was the same old thing, the same well-worn record, played over and over and over, that he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t man enough, wasn’t enough for her, after all. For anybody. Look at him, standing here, crying all by himself, pissing himself, choking on vodka and tears, all alone, again. Still. Forever.
Truman watched as the casket was loaded into the hearse; one of the pallbearers fumbled a bit, didn’t let go, and almost found himself dragged into the hearse right along with it. Then the door was closed, the beautiful people slid into their cars—into the backseats, behind their drivers—and the procession left, and Truman still remained, freezing cold despite the sun, a terrifying emptiness in which something cold and brittle rattled around, maybe it was his heart, maybe it was just the glass shards of the last vodka bottle, and he didn’t know what to do next; he was Vivien Leigh at the end of Gone with the Wind, a tearstained, remorseful bitch.
Oh, Rhett! Where shall I go? What shall I do?
“Rough day, huh, Truman?”
Truman blinked, squinted his eyes; the cabbie was in front of him.
“That’s not the line, darlin’.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“Let’s go home, huh, Truman? You don’t look so good.”
“Neither do you,” Truman retorted, but it wasn’t malicious; he hiccuped, shook with drink and loss and grief, and allowed the cabbie to fold him back into the car.
“Let’s go home, chum.”
As the yellow cab turned around in the now-empty street, Truman leaned back, dizzy and suddenly drenched in heat and sweat; he threw off the black cloak, crushing the flower beyond repair. He closed his eyes and slept.
An hour later, he opened them; they were on Fifth Avenue.
“Tell me,” he cooed, rubbing his eyes, “are you single?”
The cabbie’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror; there was a flicker of interest that Truman had seen all his life in men of the heterosexual persuasion who suddenly found themselves propositioned by a celebrity.
But then the cabbie flashed an apologetic grin and said, “Nah.”
“Pity,” Truman replied, closing his eyes, resigned to his loneliness now and forevermore.
And then he took another drink. Because that’s what Mama would want him to do.
—
“I HALF EXPECTED TRUMAN to show up,” Pamela whispered, and though everyone leaned in to hear, they were not accosted by her bosom, as she had covered it up with black Italian lace for the solemn occasion.
“If he had, Bill would have thrown him out himself.” Gloria sipped the impeccable wine that Babe had chosen for the occasion, her favorite Pouilly-Fumé de Ladoucette.
They were at Kiluna, surrounded by Babe. In every flower, every white-jacketed waiter, every elegantly folded napkin, every soft note of music playing from the outdoor speakers, even the birds chirping, the scent of freesia, lilies, roses everywhere—she was there.
The women were seated together; their husbands surrounded Bill, a silent ring of wealthy and powerful bodyguards, protecting him from something, something none of them could recognize, but there was a threat, nonetheless; they sensed it.
And the threat was female, had they been able to think clearly; already there were anxious women circling, hovering, waiting to have a sympathetic word with the new widower, to assure him they were there for him, would be happy to console him in his grief with a quiet dinner, just the two of them, some evening when he was up to it.