“What? What could I do to help anyone now? Without Leland—I’m nobody. I’m a divorcée with no money of her own. Marella and Gloria and C.Z.—they’ll drop me in a minute.”
“No, they won’t! I’ll stab them in the heart!” And Truman was absolutely fierce in his conviction that he would do it; that he would champion Big Mama, who loved him. Not as much as Babe; no, never did he think that. Always Slim seemed to be looking at him with one eyebrow arched in anticipation of something. Slim was smart; Slim knew how to protect herself. And so she would never love him like Babe did—but then again, she didn’t need him as much as Babe did. Nor did he need Slim as much. And they knew that about each other, which was both comforting and not.
“True Heart,” Slim said with a whiskey-soaked sigh. She patted his hand, took a sip of her drink, and hiccuped. “I love you. I really do. Tell me a story. Something amusing. Cheer me up, for I’m blue.”
“No, you don’t.” Suddenly Truman was sick; sick of these people and their dramas and their selfishness, their favors. Their very wealth and privilege, which they used to get what they wanted, used to get him, ensnare him, make him feel ugly and dirty and sordid—more so than usual.
“I don’t what?”
“You don’t love me, Big Mama. Nobody does.”
“Of course we do! We all love you!”
“No, you don’t. Nobody does—except maybe Jack. Look at me. I’m a freak to you, all of you, aren’t I? A distraction, an impulse, some big joke. Someone to be used.”
“No, no—what are you talking about?”
Truman leaned back into the sofa and hugged a pillow to his chest. He looked up at his Big Mama, now standing before him, stricken, lost. Forlorn. But she was a woman, she would be all right. She’d find someone else to marry, soon enough. She was tough, Big Mama was. Tough as nails; tougher than him.
Tougher than Babe; the one who did love him, he remembered, his stomach souring at what he’d already done—and what he had been about to do. To Babe, and Babe alone, he was something other than a jester, the flavor—the fairy—of the week.
“True Heart, what do you mean? Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry, I’m—I’m just not myself today.”
“No, Slim, no.” He sighed. It was too hard, to tell the truth to these people, to speak honestly, seriously, and not in witty one-liners, bitchy repartee. They simply couldn’t see him any other way; he was too small, too different, too precious to be taken seriously. And good Lord, none of them were in any way literary! No, he would never have been admitted to their circles on the basis of anything so drearily ordinary as talent or truth. So he only shrugged, and smiled wanly at Big Mama.
And decided that, at least for today, he would not be Bill Paley’s fairy pimpmother.
“Now, where were we?” Truman patted Slim’s hand. “Weren’t we going to spread that rumor about Pam?”
Slim pushed her stringy hair back from her face—her profile no longer youthful and firm, the poor dear; she might have a tough time of it, after all, finding someone new at her age—picked up the phone, and handed it to him.
“You do it, True Heart. More people will believe it, if it comes from you.”
“Yes,” Truman said slowly, drawling it out, turning up the lisp, the camp, the dazzle. “Yes, Big Mama, you wise, sly thing. Of course. How brilliant of you! Now. Who should we call first? Who’s going to have the privilege—oh, wait, I have it!” He dialed the phone, winking naughtily at Slim.
“Gloria? Darling! It’s me, Truman! Did you hear about Pam Churchill….”
And Slim began to giggle.
Palm Beach, Florida, October 17, 1975
…..
C.Z. hung up the phone.
It had been Truman, of course. Crying, outraged, petulant, remorseful.
“I don’t understand!” he had raged, but in the next breath, he was sobbing pitifully. “What did they think? I’m an author! I write what I know!”
C.Z. had let him rage on, whispering only murmurs and soothing, clucking sounds, much as she would to an outraged child. She’d told him that she didn’t hate him, that she understood, that people were really quite na?ve, that yes, now that he asked, the writing was spectacular, truly. This new short story was the best thing he’d ever written.
“La C?te Basque 1965” was not the best thing he’d ever written, however. C.Z. actually had to suppress her laughter as she read the thing. The short story was just a play, really. A dialogue, running commentary, bitchy gossip. Certainly it was nothing like his best work, which for her remained In Cold Blood.