“Truman, dearest one, I loved it. I devoured it, every word. I’m in awe of your talent—I always have been, but now! This really is it. Your masterpiece.”
“I know!” Truman giggled, and Babe did, too. She wished he were with her, so she could see his expression, even as she knew what it was—she could picture his pink face, his eyes crinkled up, his pure, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin; she knew he was dancing up and down, hopping from one foot to the other in delight. Truman enjoyed himself more than anyone she knew; he luxuriated in his success, did not attempt false modesty, did not attribute it to others, or to luck, or to anything but his own talent. And you had to love someone like that.
“Oh, Babe,” he continued, his voice still a riot of delight, a bubbling, babbling river of joy, “I’m so, so happy you think so! What was your favorite part? Tell me, do. I really want to know. Everyone keeps telling me it’s Perry and Dick, but especially Perry. I captured Perry perfectly. I wanted to show the soul of a killer, but also that of the wounded little boy who had a choice, and made the wrong one.”
“Yes, of course, Perry is brilliant. Your characterization of him, I mean.”
“That’s not your favorite part,” Truman said instantly. “I can tell.”
“No, it was Bonnie. Poor Bonnie.”
“I knew you’d like her.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Because you identify with her, my Babe. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” Babe blushed; how could she feel this way, as if he’d X-rayed her over the phone? “Oh, how did you know, Truman?”
“Because I know you, dear. I know the you no one else can see, not even Bill—especially not Bill—because you don’t let them. And they don’t deserve to! I know the real Babe. The loveliest Babe of all. And the loneliest.”
“Can you—would you like to come out?” Babe wound the telephone cord about her finger, feeling as shy and giddy as a teenager. “I’m all alone out here. I wanted to be, in order to read your book, to be able to really concentrate. But now I’d—I’d like to see you, Truman. If you can, that is. I know you must be so busy.”
“Oh, Babe, dearest, I can’t! Can you believe I’m being interviewed for television? Not CBS, unfortunately. But Lee Bailey wants to come out to my place in Southampton with his cameras.”
“Oh.” Babe would not admit her disappointment, would not diminish her friend’s obvious, deserved excitement in any way—would not be Bonnie Clutter. “Oh, Truman! How wonderful! What will you wear, for the cameras?”
“Well, I was thinking my orange cashmere turtleneck, and some plaid pants. Very colorful, but not too much for the cameras. What do you think?”
“Yes, that sounds right.” Babe didn’t voice her opinion that the sweater would do a good job of camouflaging his tummy; he had grown rather more soft during the writing of this book, the long years of waiting for Perry Smith and Dick Hickock to meet their deaths by hanging so he could finally write the ending. All the delays, the stays of execution, had pushed Truman to indulge himself in food and drink and dejected inactivity. “I always think a turtleneck is proper, for most occasions.”
“And I think I’ll get a manicure before. And a facial. In fact, I have to run right now, if I’m going to work those in.”
“Of course, Truman, you must! You’ll look simply wonderful on camera! I can’t wait to watch the program—will you, will you watch it with me? I mean, let me watch it with you?”
“Babe, I promise. I won’t watch it with another soul, not even Jack—who is simply livid, by the way, at all the attention. Jealous, too. Poor dear boy, he’s such a good writer.” Truman sighed, and Babe could picture him shaking his head. “Though it’s hard on him to see my success, especially now. But I can’t be expected not to enjoy it just because of him, can I?”
“Of course not!”
“I knew you’d understand, Bobolink! Now I must fly. I’ll see you soon!”
“When?”
But Truman had already hung up the phone.
Babe paced around the house for a while, at loose ends. She could go talk to the gardener about the new trees she wanted for the pond this spring, although she couldn’t wander the garden; it was January now. While there was no snow on the ground, she shivered just to think of the bare limbs, dried-out stalks, matted-down leaves, and patches of ice. She really disliked New York in winter; lately, the cold had started to take its toll. It was more difficult to catch her breath in the frigid, dry air. But Bill was in Los Angeles; that was the reason they weren’t in Jamaica, as they normally would be.