First, I suppose, we have to start with the mother. Gogs, that’s what she was called by the girls—the most ordinary woman, darling. Not a spark of anything to her, at first glance. A matron from Ohio, plump. Correct in every way—the most beautiful manners, which you see in the girls to this very day. But a hausfrau, a total geisha to that husband, Harvey Cushing. He was a genius, of course. Di-vine! Quite handsome, a surgeon. A brain surgeon! He absolutely invented brain surgery! And the mother, Gogs, she waited for him forever until he felt he was established. And, once married, provided him with the most serene house and life. Everything run perfectly, a real salon, in Boston, where he went to work, you know. (What a ghastly place is Boston, isn’t it, darling? No imagination. Colorless. The clothes—well, let’s not speak of the clothes.)
And Gogs, she was shrewd. She knew that her two boys could fend for themselves, but her girls would never be truly accepted by Boston society simply because she and Harvey weren’t from there, and you know those Brahmins. It takes generations to get in! And old Gogsie, she was determined that her three beautiful girls would marry the best. The very best—princes and shahs or, at the very least, mountains of money. Gobs and gobs of it. Betsey was the most like her mother; rather a mousy little thing, I sometimes think, until she gives you that imperious look down her nose. Betsey’s the most mannered, in her way. As if she truly was the queen of England. She was the first to marry, to James Roosevelt. Son of FDR! The president’s daughter-in-law! A brilliant match, of course! Except that James couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants, and all but abandoned Betsey and their two little girls. But FDR adored her—adored her! Eleanor, of course, detested her. She didn’t like Betsey taking her place by FDR’s side, but then Eleanor was never there herself. What a dreary woman she is.
(“And a big ol’ lez,” said Truman.)
(“Oh, darling, that’s old news,” said Diana. “But why are lesbians always so dowdy? I would love to know. It simply doesn’t make sense—why, women dress for women, anyway! Everyone knows that.”)
(“Well, I don’t know,” Truman said, and sniffed. “It’s not like we all have a club or anything.”)
Anyway, Betsey’s wedding to young Roosevelt was quite the coup, of course. It brought the Cushings into old New York—leapfrogging over stuffy old Boston!—the Roosevelts and the Knickerbockers and all that fabulous old musty society, which still counts, you know! Not as much as it used to, but it still does, good God, I would say so! And due to sister Betsey’s marriage, Babe’s coming-out party was held at the White House—so you’d think that Gogs would be satisfied. But she still had the other two to launch, and Betsey’s marriage was in trouble. But I’ll give the old girl this much—she always told those three girls to stick together, no matter what. And they did—they were a triumvirate! All slender, with those cutting cheekbones, like a ship’s prow, although Minnie is too much of a scarecrow for my taste. A girl should have a little meat on her bones, so the clothes will hang! But the most beautiful, of course, was Babe. Beautiful Babe: That’s what they called her from the instant she was born. And the other two simply never were jealous of her, to hear them say it, but I think Betsey secretly is. Not Minnie—she’s not got a jealous bone in her bony body. But Betsey used to be the queen, and now she isn’t.
But Babe had a dreadful car accident when she was nineteen, did you know?
(Truman, his eyes wide with horror, shook his head.)