On the chaise longue, half-opened, was a copy of Truman’s book.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s!” he squealed, his face pure joy; he laughed so delightedly, from his belly, that the smattering of hushed, earnest shoppers all turned his way. But Babe didn’t care; she had done it. She had surprised him, delighted him. Given him something back—given him back himself, the assured, triumphant self that had fled him the morning after, leaving him hollow and empty and so sad.
“Oh, Babe, you dear! You love, you perfect creature! I’m utterly delighted. Tickled to death, spank my bottom and call me Daddy!”
“I’m so glad you like it,” Babe said, her face flushing with accomplishment. She couldn’t help but think of how much time she’d put into this “silly little thing,” as she’d pronounced it to one and all. How she’d racked and racked her brain to come up with something different from the expected, and how pleased she’d been when she’d hit on the idea. She’d longed for weeks to tell Truman about it, but now was satisfied that she’d waited until just the right moment to share it with him.
“Now, let’s go see that movie,” she said, and he nodded as they left, pausing only to sign one or two autographs from patrons who had finally recognized him. With each signature, his eyes sparkled just a bit more.
So did Babe’s.
—
THE MOVIE TRUMAN CHOSE was Pinocchio. That old Disney cartoon. She was mystified as to why; as to why he dragged her downtown, somewhere around the Bowery, and insisted on hailing a cab instead of phoning for a car. Babe pretended to enjoy riding in the big yellow taxi, making sure that a game “let’s see what happens next!” expression was arranged on her face. But she was fearful the entire ride that she’d sat in something dreadful, like gum, or a squished candy bar. Or worse.
The theater was in what she would euphemistically call an “interesting neighborhood.” There were many young Negro children playing in the street, all by themselves, no parents or nannies in watchful attendance. Rusty cars and delivery trucks dominated the landscape, and the apartment buildings were all in dreadful condition, some of them with broken windows, torn awnings; all had filthy, crumbling stoops.
But she followed Truman into the theater, which was surprisingly clean and spacious and empty. They had an entire row to themselves. The lights dimmed and the movie commenced, the old story about Geppetto, longing for a son, and the Blue Fairy, who granted the wish, and Jiminy Cricket, who yearned to be a conscience—and Pinocchio, the wooden puppet who comes to life.
Babe hid a yawn, not very interested in the movie, although she hadn’t seen it before. She was more interested in Truman’s rapturous face as he gazed at the screen, the movie’s images reflected in his tortoise-shell eyeglasses. He laughed delightedly when Pinocchio went to Pleasure Island, and by the end, when the Blue Fairy granted Pinocchio his wish and turned him into a real boy and Jiminy Cricket was crooning “When You Wish Upon a Star,” Truman grasped her hand and began to sob uncontrollably.
The lights flickered back on, and the few others in the theater rose and filed out, gaping at the two of them, Truman crying, Babe bewildered. She was terrified someone would recognize her; she instinctively ducked her head, averting her famous face. But then she realized that no one would recognize her, not here, not in this neighborhood, and the realization was both a stab of annoyance and a warm bath of safe anonymity. For a giddy moment, Babe longed to run up and down the aisle screaming and waving her arms, or to do something equally scandalous and out of character. No one would ever know it was she.
But she was brought back to reality by her gasping, sobbing friend, clinging to her arm as if he were drowning.
“Truman, what is it, dear? What’s wrong? It’s a happy ending! Truman, it’s a happy film!”
Truman shook his head, the tears still streaming, his face very red, anguish in his eyes. Finally, he collected himself a little; he took a deep breath, let out an enormous sigh, and mopped his eyes with a handkerchief.
“The first time I saw this, my heart broke, it just gave way inside me. Because, you see, that was always my dearest wish, too. To be a real boy for my mother, so she would love me, so she wouldn’t be ashamed of me and say hateful things to me and try to pretend I was something I wasn’t. I just wanted to be a real boy, you see. Not always, you understand—oh, no! But when I saw this movie, all I could think of was how pleased Mama would be, how she’d finally love me, if only I was.”