He would love her. And allow her to love him.
And so she told him other stories, stories she’d never told anyone else, all of them true because Babe did not know how to lie. “I had an affair,” she whispered, “but you knew that, didn’t you? You guessed it, long ago. It was only the once, because I couldn’t stomach it. Yet Bill still sleeps with everyone but me, and I’ve told you that so many times before, it’s a broken record, but in its way it’s the truest thing of my life, the one thing I can count on and can you believe it, I’ve grown to rely on it? I’m getting old, older, and so is Bill, so I don’t think of leaving him anymore, because who would have me now? Where would I go? Who would have him? Getting older means having fewer choices, I’ve discovered. Not that I had that many when I was younger. But when I was younger, I knew my face. Now, when I look in a mirror—but when I look in your eyes, I still see myself. And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Truman?”
She looked down at him; his mouth was open, his pink cheeks slack as he snored softly. So she whispered, “And, Truman? Bill can’t hurt me anymore. My children can’t, either. But you—you could. You’re the only person in my life with that power. I don’t know how you could, but it’s true. And I’m afraid of that. Only a little. I’m also happy, because it means I do love you, truly.” And she smiled, because to have Truman fall asleep on her lap was a gift, a precious gift; no one else could claim him like this. Babe knew he had made the rounds before coming to her; she knew it was his nature. Her approval wasn’t enough, it would never be enough; one person’s love never would be enough for him. And that was the difference between them, because she needed only Truman’s love, and he needed the world’s.
But still, hers was the lap he sought; her embrace was where he fell asleep, and she cherished his trust, his childlike repose. For once in her life, Babe felt peaceful, unhurried. Bill’s dinner could go unordered, the dressmaker who was supposed to mend her dress from last night uncalled, the masseuse who was scheduled ignored. Truman’s party receded into the realm of make-believe. This, this moment, was real, but more precious, more golden, than any fairy tale.
And outside, the world spun and spun, the elegant carousel of the 1950s and Camelot speeding up, wobbling on its machinery, threatening to become a psychedelic hurricane of change. But it didn’t wake Truman up. Nothing could stir him from his dream. Shhh, be quiet. Mama’s here. Mama’s back.
Mama loves me best.
La C?te Basque, October 17, 1975
…..
“The sun,” said Slim, nibbling at an olive, “is over the yardarm. Let’s have a drink.”
“The sun has almost set,” Gloria retorted, “and we’ve been drinking all day. What the hell is a yardarm, anyway?”
Slim laughed, noiselessly, her shoulders shaking, her glasses askew.
“What?” Gloria scowled.
Pam was quiet. Too quiet. Pickled, Slim decided, squinting, trying to get her into focus. Marella was mumbling to herself in Italian.
“You—you have a yacht!” Slim pointed at Gloria, gasping for air.
“So?”
“A yardarm is part of a boat, the beam or whatever at the bottom of the sail. You don’t know that!”
“I employ people who do,” Gloria retorted icily, in an exaggeratedly British accent. Then she muttered under her breath, “Besa mi culo, puta!”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Papa used to say that,” Slim mused dreamily. “It was one of his favorite sayings. ‘The sun is over the yardarm.’ It meant it was time to drink.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Slim. Yes, we get it. You were Hemingway’s muse. Papa’s obsession. Papa’s unfulfilled love. And C.Z. was Rivera’s muse, and Babe was Truman’s. Well, who the hell’s muse was I?” Gloria threw a napkin ring down on her plate, hard, and everyone held her breath to see if the plate would shatter. It didn’t.
“Jesus Christ, Gloria! Calm down! We don’t want the Gestapo to arrive!”
“Oh, you would bring that up, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?” Gloria almost spat at Slim; she reared her lovely head back, tasted the saliva in her mouth, felt the Mexican blood finally fire up in her veins, pushing her to do what she’d spent a lifetime suppressing—act, feel, love, live, hate—spit, Dios mío! Spit at the puta’s feet!
She felt Marella’s hand on her arm, settling her down, being the princess that she was, calming her court.
“Shhh, Gloria, shhh. We’re not mad at each other,” Marella whispered, maddeningly reasonable. “We’re mad at Truman, remember?”
“Bastardo. Pendejo. Puto.” Somewhat mollified, Gloria swallowed, drank the brandy stinger Slim was handing her—where did it come from? She hadn’t ordered it—and lit another cigarette.
The smoky haze over their table was epic, even for La C?te Basque. It was like the smog of Los Angeles these days. The smoke from a forest fire. A monster from a horror film.