Sitting on my front porch, looking out over the sprinklers refreshing the lawn, reading "Music for Chameleons" I could almost feel the presence of my mother.
It was not the emerald green lawn which prompted the memory of my mother, but the book I was reading. I wished she were there to talk about it. The scene was not suburban at all:The Pierre Hotel, across from the Plaza, where the publisher of my first book took me for an early lunch. It was not quite 11:30 in the morning and the dining room had only two or three other diners, but the room was flooded with sunlight and beautiful as only some New York public spaces can be, elegant, understated, clubby and exquisite.
We had just sat down and the waiter had taken our drink orders but had not yet returned when a short, lurching cherub of a man flounced down the aisle between the tables, nearly fell flat, but caught himself on a table, righted himself and made his way to our table to say hello to the publisher, who introduced me.
It was Truman Capote, of course, and despite his bleary eyed haze he managed to methodically examine my face and his eyes lingered on mine for long enough to make any heterosexual man to feel uncomfortable, and I am one of those, but something about his detachment and helplessness put me at ease. He was what he was and I was what I was, and we would get past that.
"You were one of my mother's favorites," I told him truthfully.
"One," he said archly, "Of her favorites. Not the favorite?"
"You had some stiff competition."
Now he was interested and he swung onto a chair between me and my publisher, pulling up one leg under him so he sat on it at an angle which excluded the publisher, as if he were not even there, and he focused entirely on me."Now," he said, "You have my full attention." Somehow, that seemed like an accomplishment. "Who was my competition?"
"Katherine Anne Porter, " I said. "Among others, but mostly her."
"Well," he said. "I suppose I might forgive her a dalliance with another, of that quality."
"She had the advantage of proximity."
"Proximity?"
"We lived in Maryland, and Miss Porter taught at the University of Maryland, and she visited our house for a book club. All the teachers at my mother's school were in it,and they managed to get Miss Porter to visit."
"I might have liked that book club."
"They would have loved you."
"I'm sure."
"My mother loved watching you on T.V., being interviewed," I said. "She would stay up late to watch you on Johnny Carson if she read you were going to be on. And she had to be up early to go to work."
"T.V sells books," Capote said and looked over to the publisher in a conspiratorial way. "What we must do to sell ourselves."
With that he floated off the chair and off down the aisle toward the door to the bar.
"I published Katherine Anne Porter, you know," the publisher told me.
"I know."
"You never mentioned you knew her. You never mentioned her at all and you've been in my office, seen the books."
"It's not like I knew the lady," I said. "She just visited once, for a book club and left."
A crash exploded behind the publisher, several yards away. Capote had collapsed, taking a four foot waiter's tray loaded with a water pitcher and glasses with him.
The staff helped him to his feet and he staggered out of the room.
"How pathetic," the publisher said. "Not even noon and he's falling down drunk."
"Wasted," I said. "Simply wasted."
Three years later, Truman Capote was dead. The publisher died three years after that.
Somehow, I managed to survive them.
But today, we were all back together for a few minutes, my mother, too, on my porch, looking out over sprinklers, streams of water playing across the lawn.
Music for Chameleons did that.
It was not the emerald green lawn which prompted the memory of my mother, but the book I was reading. I wished she were there to talk about it. The scene was not suburban at all:The Pierre Hotel, across from the Plaza, where the publisher of my first book took me for an early lunch. It was not quite 11:30 in the morning and the dining room had only two or three other diners, but the room was flooded with sunlight and beautiful as only some New York public spaces can be, elegant, understated, clubby and exquisite.
We had just sat down and the waiter had taken our drink orders but had not yet returned when a short, lurching cherub of a man flounced down the aisle between the tables, nearly fell flat, but caught himself on a table, righted himself and made his way to our table to say hello to the publisher, who introduced me.
It was Truman Capote, of course, and despite his bleary eyed haze he managed to methodically examine my face and his eyes lingered on mine for long enough to make any heterosexual man to feel uncomfortable, and I am one of those, but something about his detachment and helplessness put me at ease. He was what he was and I was what I was, and we would get past that.
"You were one of my mother's favorites," I told him truthfully.
"One," he said archly, "Of her favorites. Not the favorite?"
"You had some stiff competition."
Now he was interested and he swung onto a chair between me and my publisher, pulling up one leg under him so he sat on it at an angle which excluded the publisher, as if he were not even there, and he focused entirely on me."Now," he said, "You have my full attention." Somehow, that seemed like an accomplishment. "Who was my competition?"
"Katherine Anne Porter, " I said. "Among others, but mostly her."
"Well," he said. "I suppose I might forgive her a dalliance with another, of that quality."
"She had the advantage of proximity."
"Proximity?"
"We lived in Maryland, and Miss Porter taught at the University of Maryland, and she visited our house for a book club. All the teachers at my mother's school were in it,and they managed to get Miss Porter to visit."
"I might have liked that book club."
"They would have loved you."
"I'm sure."
"My mother loved watching you on T.V., being interviewed," I said. "She would stay up late to watch you on Johnny Carson if she read you were going to be on. And she had to be up early to go to work."
"T.V sells books," Capote said and looked over to the publisher in a conspiratorial way. "What we must do to sell ourselves."
With that he floated off the chair and off down the aisle toward the door to the bar.
"I published Katherine Anne Porter, you know," the publisher told me.
"I know."
"You never mentioned you knew her. You never mentioned her at all and you've been in my office, seen the books."
"It's not like I knew the lady," I said. "She just visited once, for a book club and left."
A crash exploded behind the publisher, several yards away. Capote had collapsed, taking a four foot waiter's tray loaded with a water pitcher and glasses with him.
The staff helped him to his feet and he staggered out of the room.
"How pathetic," the publisher said. "Not even noon and he's falling down drunk."
"Wasted," I said. "Simply wasted."
Three years later, Truman Capote was dead. The publisher died three years after that.
Somehow, I managed to survive them.
But today, we were all back together for a few minutes, my mother, too, on my porch, looking out over sprinklers, streams of water playing across the lawn.
Music for Chameleons did that.
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