TRUMAN WAS ALL AFLUTTER. He was simply exhausted by the phone ringing all afternoon in his suite at the Plaza; the Kansas group, the plain, darling people he’d met while researching In Cold Blood, kept calling him, keeping him abreast of their adventures (they’d had their hair done at the Plaza salon, their masks were all delivered, their gowns pressed). They were ecstatic at being invited to his party, and their enthusiasm touched him—really, it was nothing to have invited them, to have given their dreary lives a little color!—even if he didn’t have time for it right now. The management of the Plaza had a flurry of last-minute questions about floral arrangements and details about the orchestra and did he want the buffet served at midnight or later? And about the security…that was a headache! They assured him his guests would appreciate a separate entrance, not through the main doors on Grand Army Plaza, so that some of them could avoid the inevitable cameras and onlookers.
Truman agreed—shuddering at the cost—even as he rolled his eyes. If he knew his guests, and he did, none of them would take advantage of this hidden entrance.
And then Kay kept calling, offering to help, and, sweet, kind soul that she was, it annoyed him to the point where he finally asked her to arrange for a light supper in her room for just the two of them, something they could enjoy before heading down to greet their guests. Even though they were dining at the Paleys’, who were hosting the premier pre-party dinner. Still, they planned only to stop by for a drink before going back to the Plaza, as they had to be the very first ones there to receive their guests.
Anyway. Truman glanced at the stacks and stacks of newspapers surrounding him, all with some mention of the party. His party! The party of the year! The decade! The century!
Now it was time to dress, and he wondered for a moment if Jack was doing the same; dear, gruff, maddening Jack, who thought the whole thing a silly excuse, a ridiculous excess, oh, all the dreary things other people—people who weren’t invited—were saying. “What a waste of time, Truman,” Jack had tsk-tsked. “You have a literary reputation to uphold now. A serious literary reputation.” But he’d promised he’d come anyway, and Truman simply adored him for that, and hoped against hope he would. He did love to show Jack off—when he was behaving.
Almost seven o’clock. Time to go down and fetch Kay. Poor, plain little Kay! God, he hoped Kenneth had done something marvelous to her; if anyone could, it was Kenneth. And he did hope she’d have a wonderful time tonight, the dear thing. Phil Graham’s suicide had been tragic, coming after a lifetime of schizophrenia. Poor Kay deserved a treat.
With one last glance in the mirror at his tuxedo, he patted his pocket where his dime-store mask—shades of Holly Golightly!—resided. Truman decided he looked wonderful—no longer the lithe young fawn of his youth, perhaps; he was settled now, settled into his legacy, into posterity. Maybe a little heavier than he’d like, true. His hair, absolutely thinning but he had invested in a hair transplant a few months back, and so the battle line was being held, for now. But his eyes were clear and bright, and he was reminded of the last time he gave a great party, a really terrific party. It was back in Monroeville when he was twelve and about to leave for New York, finally summoned by his mother. He’d thrown a farewell party for himself and invited a couple of local niggers, and the Klan had shown up and made a fuss, and it was the scandal of Monroeville for simply years and years.
Oh, he did hope tonight would be like that!
—
BABE STOOD IN THE DINING ROOM of her apartment, so filled with white, old-fashioned flowers, it looked like an English garden.
Babe had not had her hair done at Kenneth’s, as she knew it would be a madhouse, and according to Betsey, who’d telephoned earlier, it was. So she’d had a stylist come to her, and was very satisfied with the result; she looked stunning, actually, in a white Castillo, a long chiffon column of a dress, but sleeveless, showing off her lovely arms, bracelets, and rings. Her hair was perfect for the mask she would wear, white satin, framing her eyes. She had made sure she looked perfect from every angle, posing sideways in the three-way mirror in her dressing room, turning this way and that. Every image was reassuring, despite her worries; the dress looked divine, the mask complemented it beautifully and did not obscure her eyes, which she had accented with darker liner than usual, and with false eyelashes.
She’d helped Truman in the weeks leading up to the party, relieved to the point of tears, actually, to have been asked. This was his party, but somehow she wanted it to be hers, as well, and she was shocked and ashamed of herself. He must have understood, for he did seek her advice when it came to picking the decorations for the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza; he’d wanted to drape the walls in red, but she’d convinced him that would be too claustrophobic, and he’d agreed. So they decided on massive red floral arrangements on every table instead, leaving the ballroom more or less in its own glorious state, with the gilded mirrored walls unadorned, the chandeliers unobscured. “Let your guests be the décor,” she’d suggested, and he’d hugged her, one of his impulsive, childlike hugs. And for that moment, anyway, she felt their old kinship; she felt “his.” And knew that he was “hers.”