She began to grind her teeth, even as her mind raced on. Her hair needed to be done by Kenneth tomorrow, before the weekend. The Agnellis had had to cancel their visit to Kiluna, so she must find a replacement couple, because Bill couldn’t stand it if the house was less than full, the weekend less than jam-packed with activities. If he despised anything more than pontificating newsmen and disgruntled advertisers, it was boredom. Which reminded her, she must buy a new pair of tennis shoes because she’d torn her old ones playing softball last weekend. Every Saturday, either the Paleys or the Whitneys—sister Betsey and her husband, Jock, whose weekend home was adjacent to the Paleys’ in Manhasset, Long Island—hosted a softball game for their combined guests.
Softball. Babe wrinkled her nose. She detested the sport, but Bill didn’t know. He’d never know, for she played it determinedly, a serene smile on her face, taking care not to get dirt on her pressed dungarees or muss up her makeup, which she had to set with a spritz of water to ensure it would last outside. How she’d torn her tennis shoes, she had no idea, but after the game, as they all sat out on the veranda with tall, cool drinks—Pimm’s Cups—she’d noticed it and quickly excused herself to go change, before Bill or anyone else could see.
Truman had immediately followed her, though. He’d played surprisingly well, fielding balls with a fawnlike grace, and Bill had even given him a rare “atta boy!” when he’d hit a home run. But she’d known that Truman had detested playing as much as she had; they’d exchanged looks in the outfield. He’d made such a funny, wry face that she’d laughed out loud.
Truman.
He’d join them again this weekend; he’d promised, crossing his heart as solemnly as a child. And the realization finally allowed her to relax her limbs, so stiff her joints ached; her jaw, too, was released so that she was no longer grinding her false teeth, a necessity after that long-ago car accident—Babe shuddered at the memory, still. Always. Her hand reached up to trace a line along her jaw, where the skin was just slightly tougher, imperceptibly raised; her neck began to throb, reminded of how long she’d had to hold it still in that hospital bed, not move a muscle, or else. “Don’t you want to look as beautiful as before, Babe? Hold still, or you’ll scar even more. And we can’t have that, can we, dear? Your face is your fortune.”
Who’d said that? Papa or Mother? It was so long ago. The scars remained, though. Only Babe had ever seen them. And her teeth—oh, how she hated having false teeth! It was so cruel to be reminded of the inevitability of old age, teeth in a glass, when you’re only nineteen, as she had been. And no matter how much she spent, how many new dentists she saw, the teeth were always the same. They ached incessantly, rubbing against her gums, forcing her to nibble at food; she’d not bitten into an apple since before the accident. She had no choice but to sleep in them, whenever Bill shared her bed.
But, of course, he didn’t. Not in the most intimate sense, the most coveted, beloved sense. And no one knew this. No one. She was lonely in her own home, in her own bed—in her own skin—and she couldn’t tell a soul. “Don’t air your dirty laundry outside the family,” Mother had said a million times.
But Truman. Did he suspect? The way he looked at her, adoringly—but more. Or was it less? Sympathetically. Understandingly. He’d actually taken the time, that first weekend at Kiluna, to write down a reading list for her—suspecting the truth. That Babe was unfinished, as most decorative objects are; scratch the surface and all you see is a blank piece of porcelain or a canvas. And that she was ashamed of it, deep down.
“Just for you, Bobolink. I think you would enjoy these books. A mind, a heart, can’t be neglected.”
How did he know? They’d not discussed much of anything, beyond his childhood. After Bill had come home, and she hadn’t been ready for him, the rest of the weekend had passed in a blur of company and arrangements, meals and games and drinks and minor crises, like the mystifying disappearance of one of the game cups for the Parcheesi set, a dress strap of Slim’s breaking, requiring a last-minute stitching before Saturday’s dinner. She and Truman hadn’t had another opportunity for conversation, although she had longed for it the entire weekend.
And yet, before he left, he’d presented her with this reading list; Madame Bovary had been underlined twice. His eyes, behind the thick black-framed spectacles he wore while reading, were preternaturally wise and solemn, studying her as she scanned the list. Seeing right through her—the makeup, the clothes she’d picked out so carefully. He didn’t notice all that, didn’t care for it, except to admire her artistry. But surface wasn’t what mattered, not to Truman. Was it?