Babe shook her head, the silk tassels of the pillow tickling her cheek. If she could only stay buried; if she never had to look at Truman’s face.
But that was impossible; she felt his hands, strong and masculine and soft and feminine, pulling her up, turning her toward him. He pushed her hair out of her eyes, and finally she had to look. His face was naked, completely vulnerable; he’d taken off his glasses, an act of intimacy that made her heart race with hope. He leaned in to her, carefully, and holding his breath, just like the most tender, most unsure of hopeful lovers, he kissed her, his lips tickling hers.
But then he pulled away, although he kept his hands on her shoulders. There were tears in his beautiful eyes.
“But it’s not possible. I am who I am, and I’m not ashamed of it. I like men. I always have. I’ve never even been tempted by the thought of being with a woman. But now, this moment, is the first time in my entire life when I have wished, just for the teensiest bit, that I was. You must know that, and remember it. We must remember this moment forever, because it is love we feel for each other. And we’re so lucky to have it.”
Babe took a deep breath, let the air fill her lungs almost to bursting, holding it in, like a child desperate for a wish to come true. If it had been anyone else but Truman, she would have run, hidden herself. If it had been anyone else but Truman, she wouldn’t have said this in the first place, would never have exposed herself so thoroughly, allowed herself to be seen as someone real with raw needs and desires. If it had been anyone else but Truman whom she did love, just as he said—she released her breath. If it had been anyone else, but Truman.
But it was Truman, wasn’t it? Now, and always. He was still the same soul who saw her, and appreciated her, no matter how she allowed herself to be seen: vulnerable or impenetrable, exquisitely clothed and coiffed or with her hair unkempt, her eyes pink and runny.
It was Truman.
“It’s ridiculous, I know. I told Dr. Cameron so. It’s just that—” and Babe suddenly found herself with her friend again, not rejected at all; and best of all, most startling of all, loved, even if it wasn’t quite the way she longed to be. But sometimes one had to make the best of things. Hadn’t her mother taught her that, all her life? Bill might not see her, might not love her. But Truman, in his way, did.
So Babe indulged herself, pouring out that swollen sac of loneliness and regret, spilling it all over his lap, knowing he wouldn’t mind the mess of it, after all. “It’s just that I do get lonely, you know. For love, in that way. Bill won’t be that for me again, if he ever was. Oh, but I do miss it! I long for it. I long to be touched, and desired. I don’t know how I can live the rest of my life, knowing that my husband doesn’t want me. And I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Dr. Cameron. Not even my sisters. I don’t know why I told you, even. But I’m glad. I’m so glad that I did!”
Babe closed her eyes and laid her head back down in Truman’s lap; he didn’t say a word for a very long time. He only continued to stroke her hair, bend down to kiss her on the lips—chastely, but lovingly. She could have gone to sleep; she could have slept better than she ever had, no need for a Miltown. She felt sated, physically. As if they had, indeed, consummated their passion.
And, perhaps, they had.
After several minutes, she opened her eyes. Truman was gazing down at her with such love, such sincere concern. She smiled and sat up.
“Goodness, I must be a mess. Let me fix myself up and let’s go out. What would you like to do?”
“You look absolutely breathtaking, but do what you have to do, my love. I’d like to see a movie. Let’s do that.”
“Do you want me to ring up CBS and reserve the screening room? Or we could have them send something out to Kiluna and watch it there, in the little theater.”
“Babe, oh, my Babe!” Truman laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. “Don’t you ever go out to the movies, like real people? To an actual theater?”
“Well, no, not since, well, not in a long time.” Babe blushed; sometimes she did forget how rarefied her life had become. Bless Truman for not making her feel utterly ridiculous!
“Well, I meant we should go see a movie. In a movie theater. With popcorn and everything. Not caviar. And it will be my treat.”
“Of course, that sounds wonderful.” And Babe rose, herself once more; she felt her spine straighten, her breathing slow down, and the room once more was a gorgeous thing to behold, a testament to her taste and breeding and wealth. Bill’s wealth. She was Barbara Cushing Mortimer Paley.