“No! How could I! She did what I told her to do—she looked after Leland while I was away in Italy. She made sure he wasn’t lonely. God, what a damned fool I was! I am!”
“What was it you told Leland, again, when he called you? It was so perfect, Slim! So completely cutting and truthful!”
“I told him, when he said he wanted a divorce, I told him—‘Leland, nobody marries Pam Churchill!’ And nobody does! How many affairs has that tramp had?”
“Dozens. Hundreds. Hence the clap!”
“But wouldn’t you know it. My husband. The last of the great romantics. He wants to marry the bitch.” Slim got up, kicked at the foot of the coffee table, and went to the bar. She opened a bottle of Scotch, raised an eyebrow at Truman, who nodded, and poured them both two tall glasses, not even bothering with ice.
“Babe had no choice but to invite her. Pam was a guest of Jock and Betsey’s, and Babe needed an extra woman for dinner one night, and Leland was there, and so—”
“I know, I know! And it’s not as if Leland didn’t know Pam before! Why that time, that particular dinner, I’ll never understand. And she was so nice to me, when Betty and I were in Europe! She kept sending me flowers, telephoning to see if there was anyone she could introduce us to! That a friend—that someone who called herself a friend—could do that—” Slim’s hands began to shake, and she had to set the Scotch down. She seemed on the verge of more hysterics, but then she took a deep breath, clenched her fists, and picked up the drinks, handing him his.
“But that’s that, I guess. Some might say it’s only what I deserve. Leland wants a divorce. I’m not going to contest it, not anymore.”
“So get back at him. Have an affair of your own.”
“Well, you know. I did. Sinatra. Peter Viertel.” Slim glanced at Truman, bit her lip. “Others. And yes, I guess that—I know that’s part of why he was susceptible to that British whore’s charms. But for Christ’s sake, Truman—that’s what marriage is, of course. You take care of what you need to on the side, but for God’s sake, you stay married!”
“Naturally. Unless you’re some poor sop from the Midwest, with enchanting midwestern notions about marrying for love. Where was Leland born again? Nebraska?”
“I do love him, True Heart! I do! That’s the thing! I love the man, and I thought—oh! Oh, my God, that’s it!” Slim looked stricken; she set the glass down without having taken a sip.
“What?” Truman didn’t wait; he took a long gulp from his Scotch; he was still a bit damp, raw from the rain. Then he grimaced; this was not the good stuff, not the usual Johnnie Walker Black. He didn’t know what it was, but he heroically hid his distaste from Big Mama, who continued to stand, stock-still, as if she’d taken a good long look at her unkempt self in a mirror.
“Oh, my God. I married the last old-fashioned man in New York, didn’t I? That poor, dumb, softhearted bastard! Leland simply can’t imagine sleeping with someone unless he marries her. He was that way with me, with Maggie Sullavan before me. Even with Kate Hepburn, now that I think about it. Leland wanted to get married and Kate didn’t, because she wanted to focus on her career. And now Pam. He slept with her, and so he has to marry her.”
“She’s wasting no time making sure that he does, I hear.” Truman took another swig and gestured that Slim ought to do the same. “She’s picking out china at Tiffany’s.”
“God. China. As if that’s what defines a marriage—the china pattern. The silver. None of that matters in the end. I took care of his children, you know! Those poor kids, Maggie Sullavan’s children, so messed up. I arranged his life. I picked out his socks and shirts and threw his opening-night parties and traveled with him to every tryout of every show, staying up late, ordering sandwiches and coffee when they stayed up all night trying to fix things. That’s marriage. And he’s throwing it all away.” Slim’s eyes watered again, and she even let one big tear roll down her patrician nose and drop into her drink, but she didn’t appear to notice.
“Now, Big Mama, listen to True Heart.” Truman patted the sofa. Slim sat down. He had the feeling that she was a marionette and he the puppet master. Right now, he could get her to do anything. Which was what he was counting on.
“You understand marriage. Marriage, as it’s done among our crowd. That stupid little Carol Matthau doesn’t—she’s a dear girl, but she marries for love. Not practicality. She’s just like poor Leland. But you are much more intelligent than that. And I wonder if you have any idea how much you might be able to help out a friend? A couple of them, to be exact?”