She wished that it wasn’t. She shut her eyes, determined to dream that it wasn’t. For Babe longed to confide—her true self, her hopes, her fears, yes, even her imperfections, Odeal in middle age—in someone; she yearned for it so desperately that her heart swelled with pent-up fears and frustrations to the point where she wondered if it could be seen beneath her tailored shirts and couture dresses, this pulsating, swollen, disgusting sac of desire. If the world only knew! Perfect Babe. Full of ugliness on the inside, teetering on the side of her bed, unable to sleep; unloved, unwanted.
Except by Truman. She had known it from the first moment they’d met, on the plane. Someone had arrived. Someone very important to her. How does one know that, before the first hello? It’s a heaviness in the air combined with a lightness of step. It’s a slowing down of the past, and a speeding up of the future. A desire to both giggle and cry. A table for two, not one. But tucked away in the darkest corner of the restaurant, curtains drawn tight about it, the table groaning with enough wine to loosen tongues and hearts.
“Don’t air your dirty laundry,” her mother whispered in her ear, one last time, as Babe’s mind finally slowed down, welcoming blanketing, numbing sleep.
“But Truman doesn’t count,” she protested softly, even in her drowsiness taking care not to disturb a sleeping Bill.
“Truman. He might be a friend, I think. And I haven’t had a friend in so long.”
And Babe finally went to sleep.
CHAPTER 6
…..
Tell me about—your first kiss.
“A boy in second grade.” Babe grinned slyly. “He told me I was too pretty not to kiss, so, of course, I let him! Mother sent me to private girls’ school after that.”
“A boy in second grade,” Truman said, and cackled. “Me, too! He didn’t tell me I was too pretty. He had no idea what I was doing to him. Neither did I! But I saw his lips, his rosy lips, and I simply had to taste them, to see if they tasted like roses or cherries—something candied. Something sweet. I was hungry for that, for sweetness. In my life.”
“And did they? Taste sweet?”
“No. They were lifeless, stunned. Flat as old champagne. It was the greatest disappointment of my childhood.”
Tell me about—your favorite pet as a child.
“My dog, Bobo. I loved that dog! He was a black poodle. He wasn’t supposed to sleep with me, but I always snuck him up when no one was looking. Betsey knew, and once, because I’d borrowed a sweater from her and ruined it, she told Mother. Bobo was banished outdoors after that, for good. I guess he ran away. Like most dogs do.” Babe, whose gaze had been so grave and thoughtful, suddenly smiled. “I haven’t thought of Bobo in years. We have English bulldogs now. Bill thinks they’re very chic. Purebred, of course, kept in heated and air-conditioned kennels. I don’t even know all their names. Someone else takes care of them, and brings them in once a day to be petted, maybe walked, if I’m about to take some exercise. It’s not the same, though, at all.” And her eyes widened, as if realizing this for the first time. “We have dogs. But we don’t have pets.”
“We had so many animals back in Monroeville! Sook had a fat old bird she kept in a cage in the kitchen. I always had a lizard or two in a shoe box. Cats simply draped themselves about the house, on the porch, the windowsills, the eaves and rain barrels. Most everyone had an old hound dog, just because. That’s how the South is. I don’t know that I had a favorite, though. I finally persuaded Jack to let me have a dog about a year ago. Now the dog loves Jack more than he loves me—typical!” Truman laughed, but there was a hollowness to it that made Babe impulsively grasp his hand in sympathy.
“Why do they always love the one that doesn’t love them?”
Truman shrugged. “Bitches. We’re all the same, after all.”
Tell me about—your guiltiest pleasure.
“Sex,” Truman said immediately, his eyes sparkling. His pink tongue darted between his white teeth, and he licked his lips, as if tasting candy on his own flesh.
“That doesn’t count,” Babe retorted, squirming slightly even as she managed to look very prissy. Like the most fabulously dressed Puritan, her Roman nose tilted very high, her fastidiously lipsticked mouth pursed. Truman noticed her discomfort. And said nothing, for the time being.
“All right, then,” he drawled. “Chocolate milk shakes. I adore chocolate milk shakes, with whipped cream and sprinkles.”
Babe’s eyes widened. “I do, too! Ice cream of any kind! Oh, we should go to Berthillon in Paris sometime!”
“Paris would be too magnifique with you! We could go to the Latin Quarter and see the most divinely decadent shows, and then go backstage and talk to the girls and boys. I love talking to them. They have the most fascinating stories, you know.”
“I, well—” Babe frowned. Of course, she could never do that! Bill would have a fit! What if someone recognized her and took her picture? What on earth would people say? Oh, but it would be fun, wouldn’t it? Although entirely out of the question.
Tell me about—your most amazing accomplishment.