Oh, Babe! What a load of crap—she almost laughed out loud, so surprised was she by the little voice that called her out, shook her from her morbid musings. Look at you! You’re dressed gorgeously, about to go to the party of the year, see all your friends, be part of Truman’s big night. What on earth is wrong with you?
And then she heard the buzzer, footsteps as Bill left his room, the butler open the front door, and Truman’s cry of, “Oh, it’s gorgeous! So perfect! Babe! Babe, come here this minute and let me feast my eyes on you, you glorious creature!”
And Babe was happy again. She adjusted a shoulder strap, straightened the diamond-and-ruby floral burst of a necklace at her throat, and sailed out of her bedroom to greet her friend. Confident, serene, her stomach fluttering in anticipation of being the most beautiful, the most photographed.
The most loved by the only one who mattered.
—
THE DEWEYS WERE HAVING a ball. No pun intended.
From the moment Truman arrived in Kansas all those years ago, such a strange creature with his velvet jackets, long trailing scarves, and Gucci loafers, their world had been turned upside down. Of course, at first it was because of the terrible tragedy of the Clutter family, whom they had known very well, all four of them; that November of 1959 was just an awful month, what with the uncertainty, fear, and Alvin’s around-the-clock pursuit of the killers in his role as detective for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. Truman had been annoying at first, this New York outsider whom nobody trusted because obviously he was only there to make a buck, write a story about them, make fun of them, probably; the first time he asked to interview Alvin he stated blithely, “It doesn’t mean anything to me if you ever catch who did this, it doesn’t matter one way or another,” and Alvin had had to forcibly restrain himself from punching the little fairy in the face. It meant a lot to him; he had to catch the killers, he had to close the case and bring justice and peace to his neighbors once more. That was his job.
But over time Truman charmed them and the other citizens of Holcomb and Garden City, Kansas, he and his friend Nelle Harper Lee; and even after it was all over and he went back to New York and he never really had to see them again, he’d stayed in touch. He seemed to need them, in a strange way; he was both fascinated by their midwestern plainness and envious of something about them, too. Marie preferred to think of it as their solid values, God-fearing trust in the land and in their fellow man. Alvin thought it was more like they were simply collectibles for Capote; strange, plain, twangy people to dust off and put on his shelf next to all those socialites, where they couldn’t help but stand out.
But Truman was so generous, he overcame any doubts or fears the Deweys might have had about his devotion. He paid for them to go to Hollywood, where they’d been feted by movie stars—Natalie Wood had danced with Alvin at a party thrown by Dominick Dunne! Steve McQueen had sat at Marie’s feet, asking her for recipes. And Truman brought them to New York regularly, got them tickets to Broadway shows, asked people like the Paleys to throw parties for them. He made them stay with him in his new apartment, that magnificent modern structure by the United Nations.
And now he had invited them to his party! They’d never been to the Plaza before and couldn’t help but gape; it was nothing like the Muehlebach in Kansas City, the fanciest hotel in their previous experience. No, this was a palace, and the ballroom was fit for a fairy tale, with crystal chandeliers, masses of flowers, parquet dance floor, and gilded mirrors on the wall. There was a small orchestra—Truman had whispered, “It’s Peter Duchin!” earlier, but the name didn’t really mean anything to them. And the people—the people! Well, Marie simply had to sit and stare at the beautiful gowns. She was quite pleased with hers, bought from Bergdorf Goodman—oh, she’d never, ever tell Alvin how much it cost! She was going to save the box forever. But the entire effect of gorgeous black tuxedos and white gowns swirling about the ballroom, the jewels that were real, not fake, reflecting the chandeliers, the feathered and sequined masks—it really was like being in a movie.