“No, it’s not.” Truman’s voice was hard, and Bill looked up into blue eyes that were not wide with obsequious approval, as they always had been. Now Truman’s eyes were like chips of ice, and Bill actually shivered. “You are a goddamn bastard, Bill. I like you, I’ve always liked you, but I’ve never liked the way you treated Babe. But I’m not going to make this harder on you now. It looks like you’re doing that yourself. And besides, you need to stop sniveling, and be there for her. She deserves that, at least.”
“I know, I know.” Bill shrugged Truman’s arms off his shoulders, got up, and poured him a drink; his hands were shaking as he grabbed the tongs, filled the glass with ice. Both men relaxed at the blessed clink, clink of ice against glass; once the drink was in Truman’s hands, they each exhaled.
“How is she?” Truman asked, after taking a greedy gulp.
“Quiet. She didn’t say a word on the drive home. What did she say to you?”
“She said, ‘Please come. It’s cancer.’ That’s all.”
“So go. Go to her. I know she needs you, you’re better for her than I am, you always have been, and God knows if I understand why, but I don’t care right now.”
Truman finished his drink, set the glass down on a mahogany table.
“I’m better for her because I love her.”
“So do I,” Bill whispered. “Funny how it takes something like this to remind you.”
“Funny how it shouldn’t.” And Truman left Bill, strode through the fabulous duplex, for once not pausing to gape and admire the magnificent furniture, the crystal chandeliers, the precious objets grouped like still lifes on the polished furniture. What did any of it matter to the Paleys now? Except to provide Babe with a fabulous setting in which to be sick, perhaps die?
Truman knocked on Babe’s door that awful afternoon; softly, for the first time ever not sure of his reception. And he was terrified, he was ashamed to admit; terrified of what—who—she might become. Would this ruin her beauty, this awful thing that was eating away inside? And then he hated himself for thinking that, but he was honest enough to admit that that was Babe’s greatest appeal, even now, after decades of friendship and intimacy and confession. She was simply so lovely, so restful, to look at. And Truman did love beauty so.
“Come in,” she said, sounding like herself, and so he did.
Babe was pacing around her fabulous room—all vivid Oriental fabric on the walls, the curtains, the spread. Priceless paintings hung on her walls, yet this was the room in the house that felt the least like a museum; she had made it personal with framed photos—so many of just the two of them, Truman and Babe in happier times!—silly little knickknacks from dime stores mixed with exquisite antiques from Third Avenue. That old white paper flower, now encased in glass as if it were from Tiffany’s and not a market in Jamaica. Truman recognized it and tears scalded his eyes; tears he hastily blinked away, before Babe could see.
“Well, it’s cancer,” Babe said bluntly, no self-pity in her husky voice. “Cancer. They’re going to remove part of my lung.”
“Oh, Bobolink!”
“I have to stop smoking.” But her hands were reaching to light one up even as she spoke. She did so, taking a defiant drag. Then she stabbed it out viciously after only one puff. “My last one.” She opened a gold filigree casket full of her L&M brand cigarettes, raised a window—letting in the city sounds of cars honking, brakes squealing, the far-off wail of a police siren—and dumped the contents out. Cigarettes spun through the air. Then she slammed the window shut.
“Oh,” she said, looking suddenly stricken. “I should have saved those for the help. That was wasteful.”
“Babe!” Truman held out his arms, walking to her, but she refused to run into them. She was paler than usual, but other than that, she looked like herself, only livelier, more vivid; as if the painting had finally come to life.
“No, no, I’m fine. Really. I’m not afraid. I’m just angry. Angry at myself for somehow allowing this to happen. Angry at the damn cigarettes. Angry at Bill, to tell the truth, although I really don’t know why.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Yes, I do. Of course. You know that. How is he? I assume you saw him just now?”
“He’s a mess. Very remorseful, if you want to know. Very afraid for you.”
“I doubt that will keep his dick in his pants.” Babe’s hand flew to her mouth; her eyes grew wide. And then she giggled.
So did Truman. And then the two of them were seated in a chaise longue, entwined, her head on his chest. Strange, she thought, as she appreciated his surprisingly strong arms about her, how it always was the other way around. Except for that one night, that precious night when she’d bared herself to him, she was always the comforter, even as he was always her confessor.
“You’ll be fine,” Truman soothed.
“I might not be.”
“No, you might not, but still, you don’t know that. You don’t know anything right now.”
“Do you know what I keep thinking? I keep thinking that I’ll only be remembered as the woman who tied a goddamned scarf around her handbag one day, and sparked a national trend.”