Topper has been in Europe, visiting friends from school. He’s sent postcards from everywhere he’s passed through, Athens, the islands, Florence, the Cinque Terre, Monte Carlo, Nice, and Antibes.
He writes that he’s happy to be back, and that he needs to see me in Pennsylvania.
Tilly’s gone abroad for the semester, studying Modern Languages at Newnham College, Cambridge.
He arrives the day after I catch him on the phone.
***
He rushes in and hugs me tightly as I open the door.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, burying his face in my hair.
I laugh in surprise. “Why on earth are you sorry?”
“Come here.” He takes my hand and leads me into the drawing room. “I have a few things to tell you.”
He looks up, then down again. I’ve never seen him like this.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you crying?”
I sit beside him and wrap an arm around his shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I thought I was better than this.”
He takes my hands, cold and trembling.
“Darling.” I stroke his hair and gently turn his face toward mine. “Just tell me. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It is,” he says, starting to cry again. Then he gathers himself. “Didn’t think I was the sort to cry in front of a girl. I’m sorry for losing face.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” I say. “It’s better out than in.” I wipe a tear from his cheek.
He says I’m too good for him. I assure him I’m not.
Then he tells me about his summer, about the girl in Monte Carlo, the night he missed me the most, how he let himself be weak.
My heart breaks for him. He’s so honourable, and I’ve been so bad to him so many times.
I tell him it’s okay, that we’ll figure it out.
I ask if he wants her or me.
“You,” he says. “I knew all along it wasn’t what I wanted. I was just… vulnerable.”
I tell him he’s human, and young, and that it’s okay. All he has to do is decide whether he still wants me, or just as a friend.
“I love you,” I say.
He’s relieved. He stays the week, open, playful, different somehow. I love him more for it.
***
In California, the boy is dating Natalie Wood and hanging out with young stars. I see pictures of him kissing his pretty co-star, Debra Paget. Still, when he sends me his latest records, he writes that all the singles are for me.
He asks me to come home for his homecoming performance in Tupelo at the end of September. He wants me there, along with Barbara, his current Memphis girlfriend, who’s independent, without illusion, and far too sensible to lose herself in all this.
I tell him I can’t come. I have too much coursework. He rings me.
“It’s important,” he says. “I want you to see Tupelo. It’s a milestone.”
“You’ll be alright without me.”
“It ain’t about that. It’s about you and me.”
I don’t know why I don’t go. I just don’t want to. I can’t quite explain why it suddenly feels tired. He’s always been like this: dating others, being photographed, playing the game. Maybe it’s Topper. Maybe it’s me. I don’t know.
I hang up and walk to the library. Tears spill down my cheeks. I look up at the sky and try to will them to stop.
Instead of working, I open The Prophet, the chapters on love, on marriage.
I try to understand myself, to work out what holds the boy and me together across all this distance. I try to be grateful, to accept it for what it is, to not disappear inside it.
I read aloud:
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls…
I wonder what draws me to Topper, even as I carry this consuming love for the boy. I wonder which one I need more. I know which one needs me more. I know which one is more lost, and which one is a redwood, rooted in the forest.
On the walk back, I look up at the moon and imagine the boy looking down.
I know I need space. For now.
When I arrive back at the apartment, I ring him. I wish him luck for tomorrow. I tell him not to be nervous. That I’ll see him in December.
“Do you still love me?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Baby, come home soon,” he says. “Ain’t nothin’ but darkness without you.”
“I’ll be there before you know it.”
***
The boy calls again in October. Says he’s been in a fight, it wasn’t his fault, and the charges have been dismissed. Says his “friend” June from Biloxi is visiting him in Memphis. Says the scrutiny is getting too intense. He’s being mobbed everywhere. He wants to come see me but thinks it would be too much for me.
A few days later, he asks if I’ll come to New York for the weekend. Says they’ll pick me up in Pennsylvania on the way.
I miss him, so I agree.
I probably should’ve stayed home.
I trail after him, hotel to rehearsal, meeting to press call. He’s getting so good at all of it. I keep telling him how dignified and graceful and funny he is to watch.
In one interview, when asked about corrupting the youth of America, he says:
“My Bible tells me what a man sows, he’s gon’ reap. And if I’m sowin’ wickedness, it’s gon’ catch up with me. If I really thought I was bad for people, I’d go back to drivin’ a truck. And I mean that.”
I smile at him. He winks back.
I go with him to a March of Dimes publicity event. We are both inoculated with the new Salk polio vaccine. He’s photographed. I hide behind a curtain. He says he wants me out there with him, says he doesn’t care about the Colonel’s plan.
But I do. I don’t want scrutiny, or to become anyone other than myself. So I pull back. And he has to let go, stand in the light fantastic on his own. Deep down, I know he wants it that way too.
I stay with him, supporting him from behind the scenes. I make it clear: no photographs, no mentions. Instead, I tell him he’s magnificent after he tapes his second Ed Sullivan Show appearance. I sit quietly as he films a new ending for The Reno Brothers, now retitled Love Me Tender after the song he sings in it. At night, I kiss him and hold him so he can sleep.
The Colonel begins asking what I think about things, starts treating me like a person. It’s almost as if he’s grown fond of me.
By Tuesday, we’re informed he’s sold more than ten million singles. I’m proud of him for living up to his potential. But it has nothing to do with us, and nothing at all to do with the real world.
I feel myself fading further into the background. That’s alright, I’ve no desire to be up front. Not in that arena. Not in that mess.
The Colonel books a car to take me back to Bryn Mawr. The boy and his growing gang head to Memphis by train. I kiss him goodbye. I feel like a prop.
He cries and says, “You ain’t no prop to me, baby. Don’t ever think that.”
But when he’s back in Memphis, Natalie Wood flies in. He’s taking her all over town.
I walk to the library during the day, when I walk back home at night, I glance up and flip the man in the moon the bird.
I don’t pick up when the boy calls the first week of November. When I regret being childish and finally ring the house, Mrs P tells me he’s gone to Vegas with his cousin Gene.
I don’t see his film when it opens. I’m not in the mood.
Miss Mary calls. Says the studio sent a copy of the film to the house.
“That’s good,” I say.
“You can watch it when you’re home in December,” she says.
“No, thank you,” I reply.
“You don’t want to see it?” Miss Mary doesn’t understand.
“No. You can return it when you’ve watched it.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” she says. “You need perspective.”
“I can’t wait to see you,” I tell her. “I’m excited to spend Christmas with you.”
***
I spend Thanksgiving with Topper’s family in Manhattan.
His mother doesn’t quite know what to make of me, but his father finds me amusing and laughs at everything I say.
It’s obvious why Topper has brought me here: he has honourable intentions, and he needs his parents to understand why.
I’ve seen his father pat him on the back and give him the nod of approval, me just being pretty is enough to convince him we’re a match, but his mother, she’s of a different calibre entirely. She takes nothing lightly, and why should she? She’s his mother, after all, and here to protect her boy.
Mrs Montgomery approves of the way I treat her son, the way I dress, my manners, the college I attend, my chosen subject, my friends. She moves in the same circle as Tilly and Cornelia’s families but knows nothing of my background, and that unsettles her. God forbid I’m here to entrap her son for his wealth.
She doesn’t know that I’m the only grandchild of George Lionel, or who my father is, and I find it all rather amusing. So does Topper, who could help her along by telling her that I’m the sole heir to one of the largest fortunes in America, and that my father is a duke, but he has no intention of doing so. He doesn’t want to make it easy on his mother, and neither do I.
I don’t feel any urge to prove myself to her. Why shouldn’t she be the one to assure me she won’t turn into one of those nightmarish mothers-in-law one hears so much about?
Still, I make a point of being my best self: thoughtful, witty, cultured. I talk with her about art and travel, and little by little she begins to enjoy my company for what it is, regardless of the mystery of my pedigree. By the end of the week, she seems resigned, accepting that I’m good enough for her son after all, and perhaps remembering that he’s never once given her reason to doubt his judgement.
Each morning, Topper and I make a pact: one of us must do something to expand the other’s horizon, a gesture, a surprise, a gift, a small adventure. Sometimes it’s a new lunch spot, a book, a walk in the park, a visit to the Met. The week flies by, and it’s clear to everyone that we’re well suited, that we bring out each other’s best sides. We’re a team, bound by an easy tenderness and genuine care for one another’s well-being.
I wonder why I insist on keeping the boy in my life. Topper seems to understand; we never discuss it, and he never asks. It’s as if he believes it will run its course, and that it has nothing to do with us. I let the guilt simmer quietly beneath the surface. It’s mine to manage and work out, not his.
When I leave, Mrs Montgomery embraces me with unexpected warmth and thanks me for “looking after her son so well.” I return her affection, and, once back in Memphis, write a thank-you note on my bespoke Smythson stationery, embossed with my personal details, leaving Mrs Montgomery room to do the research about me for herself.
I know she’ll sleep soundly at last. The thought makes me laugh aloud. Poor Mrs Montgomery, what we dared put her through, simply to prove a youthful idealist point.
When I look back on that Thanksgiving, it feels picture-perfect: Topper and I racing around New York, laughing, linking arms in the park, alive in the crisp air.
***
Miss Mary steps out onto the gravel drive.
“I missed you endlessly,” I say, stepping from the car to embrace her.
“I’ve brought you a trunk full of presents, from Saks.”
“The boy’s been ’round,” Miss Mary says. “He left you a note in the library.”
I tell her I don’t immediately care.
“Miss Birdie, you two go way back. I don’t want drama between you,” she says. “You need each other.”
The driver carries the luggage and presents into the hall. It gives me a break from discussing the boy any further, at least for now.
I read the note he’s scrawled on my notepad and left on my desk. It has an oily stain, which I take to mean Miss Mary must’ve fed him something greasy in the kitchen.
It’s a cheery note, no mention of Natalie Wood, no mention of Vegas girls, no mention of me not returning his calls for a month. Just a breezy update: personal appearances, meeting Liberace in Vegas, the premiere of Love Me Tender, and showing Memphis to his new Hollywood pal, Nick, the one who used to run with James Dean, which I assume is the appeal.
He’s been to Louisville for an appearance and to see his grandfather, Jesse. Says it felt strange after so long, but he’ll tell me all about it when we see each other face to face. Says he can’t wait.
“He can wait,” I tell Miss Mary.
Then I ring up Mabel, and we agree to meet downtown for a cherry pop and Christmas shopping.
***
Mabel is on top form.
“I’m engaged!” she announces, smiling broadly as I grab her hand and inspect the diamond on her ring finger.
“I can see that! Congratulations!” I hug her and do all the things one is supposed to when a girl gets engaged.
“Who’s the lucky man?” I ask.
“Bingham, of course, you silly woman,” she says, as if I should’ve known all along.
“I’m so sorry,” I sigh. “My head’s in the clouds, obviously.”
She tells me everything, how they’ve grown into what she calls a mature love, how sweet he is behind that awful façade, their plans, their hopes, their domestic dreams.
We shop for Christmas presents and try on wedding dresses, her seriously, me for fun. We build up an appetite and head to lunch.
Outside the café, I bump into Sam, who’s just popped out of the studio to get provisions for his artists. He says he’s happy to see me and tells me to swing by later, I can listen in on Carl Perkins’ recording session. I tell him I will.
After lunch, I drop off Mabel for her hair appointment. I kiss her goodbye and drive to Union Avenue.
My World of Interiors 