“Babe! Bobolink, my heart! Of course, I thought of you right away when I wanted to throw a party. I longed to give it for you, in your honor, after all we’ve been through together! But can you imagine how Slim would feel, the poor dear? Her life with that dreadful English lord is dreary enough. But I absolutely will rely on you for help in planning! And would you be the dearest of dears and host a pre-party dinner? I’m asking only a few really special friends, so that some of the guests who won’t have escorts won’t have to arrive alone. Everyone can dine together, and arrive en masse!”
And Marella, Slim, Gloria, C.Z., Babe, all that summer while they indulged their favorite, showed him off, now even more in demand than ever, a true prize at the dinner table, an intellectual feather in their jeweled caps, all murmured and agreed and felt special, singled out, and superior to poor Kay Graham. Who was a dowdy, dear soul.
And so Truman cackled and rubbed his hands with glee, a Machiavellian party planner, and dangled and withheld, delighting to see all Manhattan dancing at his feet, begging to be invited to what was already, that summer, shaping up to be the biggest event of the season. Truman dropped hints in the press. He called up his famous friends and drawled into their famous ears, tantalizing, purring—“So Tony, Tony Curtis, my favorite actor of all time! You’ll be in Manhattan in November, won’t you?”
Tony Curtis, his favorite actor of all time (that day, anyway), cleared his schedule. And waited for an invitation that never appeared.
“Carson, darling! My pet, my favorite author! You’ll be in town in November, of course?”
And Carson McCullers, former friend and champion of a then-unknown writer named Truman Capote, waited. Until she heard, via Norman Mailer, that she wasn’t invited. Then she grandly announced she’d be giving her own party that same night. But no one paid any attention.
All summer long, Truman schemed and planned and finalized. The guest list was the major work, and he spent as much time agonizing over it as he had any of his manuscripts. It had to be perfect. It had to be a unique mix of the beautiful people, the wealthy, the respected, the new and exciting, for this was 1966! Nineteen sixty-six, and the Beatles were absolutely it, and people were dancing the go-go at the Cheetah, and Andy Warhol was holding parties of his own at his workspace, the Factory, and skirts were up to there, and hair down to here, and Frank Sinatra had just married Mia Farrow!
Frank Sinatra. Mia Farrow. Truman scribbled their names down. Along with Aly Khan. Lynda Bird Johnson—but not Lady Bird, God no; he didn’t want any dreary Secret Service men invading his party. Candice Bergen. Henry Fonda. The Windsors, for the expected touch of royalty.
Cecil Beaton. Henry Ford III. McGeorge Bundy. Norman Mailer. The Deweys and their friends from Kansas. Bennett and Phyllis Cerf, of course. The doorman at his new apartment building. Jack.
Margaret Truman—but not Bess or Harry. Alice Roosevelt. The Whitneys, naturellement. A couple of Vanderbilts and Astors, just for nostalgia’s sake.
Should he invite the Beatles? Nah. But Andy Warhol, definitely. Christopher, of course—Christopher Isherwood. And John Knowles. He thought, briefly, of the entire Pulitzer Prize committee, sure to award In Cold Blood the prize for nonfiction in the upcoming year, but decided against that as too calculated, even for him.
Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, the Harry Belafontes. Tallulah Bankhead—who was apt to show up naked, please, God! Think of the publicity. Rudolf Nureyev, definitely! George Balanchine. There would be dancing, of course; better book Peter Duchin now.
Betty Bacall. Pamela and Leland Hayward—well, hell, of course he had to invite them; surely Slim was over that whole thing by now! The cabdriver who took Truman home for free one night because he’d had his wallet stolen at a dive bar. Rose Kennedy. Ethel and Bobby, his neighbors at the UN Plaza. Jackie, naturally. Although Truman had taken to whispering, to anyone who would listen, that she looked like a drag version of herself, in person.
For every name added there were two crossed out, perhaps to be added later. Or not. Truman was God. And not a benevolent one, either. Old grievances were dredged up—of course, Carson McCullers wouldn’t be invited, the sow. The bitchy, envious sow who had turned on him ever since he became more acclaimed than she was. And forget Gore Vidal, that bitch. Ann Woodward could forget it, too, and not just because she was a murderess. They’d met at a party at the Windsors’ not too long ago, where the other guests were giving her a wide berth. Ann was standing alone, one arm on the fireplace mantel, surveying the crowd. Truman strolled right up to her.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Bang Bang herself,” he had greeted her. “Seen any burglars lately?”
“Well, if it isn’t Truman Capote, literary asshole and garden-variety fag,” Ann had slurred back. She was stoned. Her eyes were glazed over, her lipstick smeared all over her face, and Wallis was surveying her grimly, visibly regretting having invited her. But some people had started to feel sorry for her, trapped in Elsie’s golden grip, and she was starting to make the rounds again.