We are wasting away the day, lying on the sofas in the TV room at Tilly’s family’s country place.
“What a party,” Tilly mutters, placing a bag of ice on her forehead.
I laugh. “Good though.”
“Happy New Year,” I say.
“Happy New Year, Birds.” She groans. “Can you get up and change the channel, please?”
“Let’s just stay here and do nothing all afternoon,” she says.
“I’m with you on that one,” I chortle.
“We’re gonna end up in Alcoholics Anonymous if we’re not careful,” she observes.
“No we won’t,” I say. “It was New Year’s Eve. We’re allowed to drink and be merry.”
Last night was spent at the neighbour’s manor house. The world feels small; all our school friends were there. Cornelia didn’t bring Artie. When I asked why, she shrugged: “Not a WASP, therefore not invited,” and floated off toward the dancefloor.
Topper and I sang along to I Could Have Danced All Night and drank far too much champagne.
Tilly and Buddy spent most of the night in deep conversation.
It was a dream. I loved every minute of it, at least every minute I remember.
And I haven’t thought much about the boy, even though he’s called almost every day for the past two weeks.
I haven’t taken any of his calls.
A quiet, heavy sadness surfaces when I think of it, and I push it down.
“Please get up and do something,” Tilly’s mother pleads as she pass the TV room on their way out for afternoon drinks. “Why don’t you go for a ride? Or to the club?”
Tilly shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
“I don’t want two idle women on my couches,” her mother says firmly. “It’s not a good look.”
Tilly just stares at her.
“Thanks for your concern, but we’re fine,” she replies coolly.
“Don’t you sass me, Matilda.”
And with that, we promise we’ll put a brush to our hair at some point and make our way outside.
As we’re heading out, the housekeeper finds us and tells me the boy is on the phone.
“Go take it,” Tilly says. “You have to speak to him eventually.”
I shrug and go to the telephone.
“Hey.” I’m dismissive. It’s hard for me to compartmentalise like he does. Hard to live like this, two great loves running at the same time, and one of them a superstar playing the field. I can’t always behave as I ought to. I don’t feel good about it, and I haven’t worked out why it’s like this.
“Birdie, is that you?” His voice cracks.
“Yes,” I say, flat.
“I, I, I…” he stutters, and I feel for him so badly that I fall into our usual tone. I can’t act around him.
“How are you?” I soften, sitting down in the chair beside the phone.
“I miss you,” he says. “I want to ask if you, if you have the time…”
“Yes?”
“If you would like to join me in New York on the 6th of January for the Ed Sullivan Show, please. I’d be so happy if you could.”
I smirk.
“I, I, I…” he stutters again. “I’d stay for a few days and spend time with you, if you want.”
He’s waiting. My silence makes him nervous.
“Please,” he says. “I miss you. I can’t really do this without you.”
“Make up your mind,” I tell him. “You fly in other girls, you say you need to live your life, and then you expect me to drop everything and come to your rescue every time you’re feeling low?”
He ums and ahs.
“Do you think that’s treating me fairly?” I ask. My tone isn’t harsh, more like a kindergarten teacher trying to reason with a child.
“Please,” he says again, with tears I can’t tell are real or fake. For all I know, he could be gaming me.
“Can you please just come? I promise we can talk about it when I get there.”
I don’t answer immediately.
“Birdie, I don’t know why I am like this with you,” he says, catching his breath. “I don’t know which box to put you in. It’s too hard, with everything that’s happening, to be there for everyone all the time.”
And once again he’s the victim.
But I also see his point. Everything has changed so fast, from fun, touring with the boys, to global and aggressive stardom.
I feel bad.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Thank you,” he breathes.
I hang up before the conversation goes any further. “I really need to go,” I tell him. “We’re on our way out.”
***
He’s invited both Tilly and me to the taping. I meet him when he arrives in the city. Tilly has errands, so we agree she’ll meet me at the Maxine Elliott Theater.
“Hey, baby. You came!” He lifts me up and laughs joyfully.
“You told me to, my little dictator,” I say as he puts me down.
He looks embarrassed. “Can you tell I’ve gained weight?”
I hadn’t noticed, but now that he mentions it, I can.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I ate so much between Christmas and New Year. I couldn’t control it. I was sad, stressed… I might get drafted. It just wasn’t a good Christmas.”
He looks downcast.
“I like you a bit fat,” I say, squeezing his cheeks. “My little fat baby.” I chortle.
“Oh, stop it,” he says, taking my hand. “I haven’t slept properly for two weeks.”
I ask about Miss Harmony. He says he didn’t sleep with her. I don’t believe him. He retaliates by asking about Topper, and when I tell him the truth, his jaw clenches.
Then he starts on our spiritual bond. I know it’s a pacifier. He’s strategic, cunning. I’ve seen him use this charm before. He talks about jealousy, says he’s trying not to go crazy over me and Topper. He conveniently forgets that he pushed me away first. Then he plays his ace: that I left for school when he was devoted, when it was supposed to be forever.
I raise an eyebrow. He laughs.
“Come here, you,” he says. “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
I agree.
I still love him. But he is immature in some ways, advanced in others. A confusing man to live with.
I tell him I’ll go home for a few weeks after the taping to work on my senior thesis. He says I should come back to Memphis on the sleeper train with him tonight. It makes sense. He asks the Colonel to get me a ticket. I ring Tilly’s parents, explain my sudden departure, and have their housekeeper pack my things; I’ll pick them up on the way to the station.
***
He asks where Tilly is when we get to the theater. She was supposed to be here. He has to go backstage.
When Tilly finally arrives, she seems drunk.
“Where have you been?” I ask. “You reek of alcohol.”
She grins. “Lunch, darling. With Truman, darling.”
She fixes her makeup. “Let’s go watch your hillbilly boy do his thing.”
We check our coats and find our seats. The boy comes out to greet us. Tilly hugs him.
“What happened to you?” he asks her. “You’re usually not very nice to me.”
She just stares ahead, grinning. Very unlike her.
I wish him good luck. He shows me the set list. It’s strong: Hound Dog, Love Me Tender, Heartbreak Hotel, Don’t Be Cruel, and Peace in the Valley for Mrs P.
“This is really good,” I say. “You’ll be great.”
“Break a leg, Li’l Abner!” Tilly shouts.
He grins and gives me a puzzled look.
“Truman got me high,” she whispers.
“Excuse me? High?”
She giggles. “Migraine pills. I should’ve known. Too late now.”
“That is so disrespectful.” I reprimand.
“I know,” she says, half-apologetic.
The show starts.
When the boy appears on stage, Tilly gasps. “Oh my God, he is so handsome.”
She puts her hand over her mouth, and promptly falls off her chair.
I have to juggle keeping her quiet, getting her up, and not ruining the taping.
During a break, I drag her out and put her in a taxi.
“Go sleep it off,” I say.
“Toodles, Daisy Mae!” she waves.
***
I meet the boy at the station afterward. He leads me into our cabin.
“What was wrong with Tilly?”
“Never mind,” I say, but then I tell him about Truman. He frowns.
“Truman’s a cruel little man,” he says.
“Maybe,” I reply. “But Tilly knows better.”
“Come sit,” he says. “Did you see I was wearing the horseshoe ring?”
“Yes. I saw everything. You were brilliant.”
“That ring reminds me of you. That I have you close. That you bring me luck.”
I smile and take his hands.
“What do you want to do the next twenty-four hours?”
He scratches his chin. “Gee, what can we do?”
He tickles me.
Then, serious again: “I want to talk about spirituality. About God.”
I’m surprised. I don’t want to talk about God. So instead, I ask if he’s tired.
“Never tired after a show.”
He wants to read The Prophet to me. Then he asks why he was chosen for this life.
I tell him I don’t know. He asks what he’s supposed to do with it. I shake my head again. “Be a good role model?” I try.
“I’ll be twenty-two the day after tomorrow,” he says, watching America rush past the window. “I feel like my life is already over.” He sighs and looks at me, pleading for answers to everything.
He’s in one of his melancholy moods. I stroke his hair. I know I can comfort him, but I also know I’ll lose myself if I keep doing this.
I want to live my own life. Be with Topper. It’s lighter with Topper. He doesn’t drain me.
The boy talks about his new film. His co-star looks like me.
“Hal cast her after meeting you,” he says.
I don’t know what to say. I’m too tired.
We talk about why so many songs are about women spending men’s money, even some of his. I say I don’t understand why it’s even a subject, how it makes women look terrible and not at all like any I know.
“Because you’re rich,” he says.
“I would never want that,” I say.
“Men like taking care of their women. Makes us feel masculine.”
“I’m glad I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not,” he says. “It’d be easier to keep you under control if you couldn’t.”
He isn’t joking. There’s steely irritation in his voice.
“You don’t need me,” he says.
I hold his face. “Of course I do. I love you.”
He removes my hand.
“It would be easier if you needed me to protect you.”
I frown.
“You don’t get it,” he says.
“Did you spend a lot on Dottie this Christmas?”
“Of course I did. Not because she asked, because I liked to.”
He changes the subject.
“I’m so glad you came. I’m so glad you’re here.”
He puts his head on the pillow and falls asleep. I watch over him as he snores, looking like a child.
Outside, the moving landscape of America settles into the night.
We are on our way home.
***
Since New York, I’ve been building up resentment like a pressure cooker. It’s getting harder and harder to be at his beck and call, and I’m starting to notice how much he takes me for granted, and I think he’s starting to notice too.
I buy him books and records for his birthday. No grand gestures, no car in the drive. He pretends to be happy, but I can tell he senses something is off. He doesn’t care about expensive presents, I know this, but he does care about knowing where he stands with me. He watches me constantly for signs that I’m still as devoted as I’ve always been, and for once I don’t give him anything to reassure him.
The boy receives news that he will most likely be drafted, and it dampens the mood further.
After the celebrations, he drives me home. I tell him we should probably talk. I don’t know where to start. Everything built up inside me spills out in a rush of anxious melodrama and tears.
“If you want to be the man, if you want to protect me, look after me,” I hear myself say, “maybe don’t lean on me for all your maternal and babyish needs.”
It escalates quickly. “I feel used up by you, spit out and put back together for your pleasure. And what do I get back? Just moaning and complaining and all your grief dumped on me.”
He sits there, stunned. “Where did this come from?” he finally asks.
I get out of the car and slam the door. Miss Mary isn’t home, and I’ve forgotten my key, so I run through the garden to find the spare under the stone in the flowerbed. Once I’m out of view, I collapse onto the grass and start sobbing uncontrollably.
I’m so glad he’s not here to see me, I think, just as I feel a familiar arm wrap around my shoulders.
It’s him. He sits down beside me.
“A bit overwhelmed today, are we?” he says gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Didn’t know I’d brought you to your wit’s end.”
“Come on, you. Let’s get you inside.”
He helps me up and finds the key himself, sliding it into his pocket once we’re in.
“Let’s go upstairs and talk,” he says.
I’m frozen, not from the weather, because it’s a remarkably lovely winter day in Memphis, but because I’d expected him to fly into a tantrum, to drive off and blame me for everything.
Instead, he helps me undress and runs me a bath.
Once I’m in the soapy water, he sits on the floor beside the tub.
“Happy to be here today,” he says. “I believe I’m booked for a private concert.”
He strums his guitar. “How’s my audience of one feeling?” he asks, splashing me lightly.
He starts with Playing for Keeps, slips into First in Line, then Love Me, Anyplace Is Paradise, a whole medley from his new LP.
It’s sweet and steadying, and we’re edging back toward each other again.
But I still know we need to talk. He’ll forget this moment the second he’s on a plane to California on Thursday.
I watch him perform from the bathroom floor until my fingers prune.
During So Glad You’re Mine, I tell him I need to get out and go to bed.
He looks surprised and disappointed, as if I’m not appreciating him enough, then snaps out of it.
“Sure thing, baby,” he says, wraps me in a fluffy towel, and carries me to bed. He climbs in beside me.
“I need to be better,” he says.
“Me too,” I mumble. “I could’ve handled myself more cleverly today.”
He looks down and grins. “Are you kidding?”
He strokes my hair and pulls me in. “You showed me a whole new side of yourself today.”
Another grin. “I’m into it. There was passion, and borderline hysteria.”
“I deserved it,” he adds. “But don’t ever tell anyone I said that.”
He kisses my hand.
“And just so you know, it’s good to know you’re not in this for anything but me.”
“I don’t usually cross the same road twice,” he says quietly. “But with you, I keep crisscrossing it again and again. And that’s only because I know exactly who you are. What you’re here for.” He swallows. “And most importantly, why I love you.”
He’s embarrassed. I smile and touch his face gently.
“As much as I love you, and as much as I don’t see myself letting go of you…” I trail off.
I cough.
“Honey,” I say. “I don’t always know what I’m here for.”
He smirks. “I’m going to be completely worn out if I stay with you.”
“In this way. It’s hard to need someone this much,” I say.
“I know. Sometimes I almost can’t breathe.” He says.
He waits for confirmation.
“We could try and shift it?” I offer.
He goes pale. “What do you mean?”
“Like… not see each other?”
His body tenses.
“No, not really,” I say. “Just… maybe try being friends. Demand less from each other.”
He says nothing for a long time.
“It’s been more than eight years of this,” he says finally, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can. We can try, but I don’t know.”
He gets out of bed. For a moment I think he’s going to leave.
But instead, he undresses, climbs back in, and wraps himself around me.
“I don’t know if I want to change anything,” he says.
“No, maybe you don’t,” I whisper. “But maybe I need to.”
He pulls me closer.
“I claim the right to change the script any time it goes somewhere I don’t like,” he says. “But if you need to step back, I respect that. I don’t want to lose you. I’ll do whatever you say.”
I sigh. Three weeks ago it was him wanting a breather, and now he doesn’t want one at all.
“It would’ve been so much easier,” I say, “if we’d just done what your mother told us, and opened that furniture store.”
He chortles, then quiets.
“I kinda wish we had.”
Then softly, he sings:
I’ll be sad and blue, crying over you…
***
“Did you hear Ruth Moore is considering selling that big old house of her father’s?” I ask Mrs P. “I think it would be a great place for you to relocate to, if you’re so sick of the fans in the yard here.” I offer to take her and Mr P for a drive to see it.
The boy thinks it’s a swell idea, and we all pile into my Cadillac. I ferry us over to the house, which sits just off Highway 51.
“My, there’s a lot of land,” Mr P says as I turn off the road and up the drive. The house is set back from the highway.
We get out, and Ms Moore greets us at the door. I know her vaguely, I once attended one of her musical evenings with Mabel and Bingham.
“Thank you so much for taking the time to show us around,” I say, kissing her cheek and introducing her to the boy’s family.
“Shall we take a tour of the house first?” she asks, and we do, then walk the grounds, the stables, the barn, the outhouses. The boy stays beside his mother, holding her hand, watching her face to see if she likes it.
She does. And just like that, it’s decided.
Ms Moore laughs. “That was quick,” she says, turning to me.
I shake her hand and tell her we’ll have my lawyer get in touch about the paperwork.
“Did you really like it, Mamma?” the boy asks Mrs P.
“Yes.” She kisses him on the cheek. “I can have chickens there,” she says looking almost happy.
***
After dropping off Mr and Mrs P, we swing by to see how Dixie is settling into married life. She’s become a proper little homemaker, which makes us both smile, and makes Dixie blush. We have coffee and pie in her kitchen with her new husband, who doesn’t quite know how to handle having us there.
On the way back to my house, the boy asks, “Do you think I’d look good with my hair dyed black?”
I say no.
“Why not?”
“Because I like you the way you are.”
“They’re telling me I need a nose job,” he says, “and to have my teeth fixed.”
He glances at me.
“Maybe those dirty old gnashers, yes,” I tease. “But the rest? I don’t think so.”
I push him onto the bed. “I like imperfect beauty. I don’t think I could handle it if you were suddenly all fixed up and ready to go.”
***
We watch films in the screening room all afternoon and evening: Giant, Moby Dick, and High Society.
When I get up to put on High Society, he turns to me and says, “You need to get married soon.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because otherwise you’ll be a spinster. Or a social pariah.”
He’s serious.
I ignore him and start walking down to the projection room.
“Listen here, little girl!” he shouts in my direction. “Don’t just walk away from me, I’m thinking about your reputation here. Not myself.”
I make light of it, throw myself onto the floor, and pound my fists. “I don’t wanna get married! I don’t wanna get married!” I wail.
He chortles and comes over, sitting beside me. “I could marry you,” he offers. “I will,” he adds, suddenly solemn. “I’ll do anything to save you from ruin.”
I look up. “Honestly, I think we’d be terrible at marriage. We’re good at this,” I sit up and point between us,“but marriage? I don’t know. I don’t think so. And you can’t keep little E in line, so it’ll be no good for me.”
“I suppose,” he says. “But I’m serious.”
“Then you should marry that awful Topper,” he says. His voice breaks. “Hasn’t Tilly talked to you about this? You can’t go around being so European over here. I’m looking out for you. If you won’t have me, then marry that other guy, with all his money and class and connections.”
He’s getting agitated.
“I don’t want to marry anyone,” I say. “And I love you the most,” I tell him.
I don’t know if that’s true anymore, but it is this primal, first-love kind of love I have for him, not the mature love I have for Topper. I don’t tell him that. I just say I’ll think about it, and it seems to quiet him.
“You’re right about one thing,” he says. “I’d be a terrible husband to you. Even if I love you more than anything in the entire world. I can’t help myself.”
We both grin.
“I know you can’t,” I say. “And I wouldn’t be a very good Southern wife either.” I lean against his shoulder just as High Society begins, Louis Armstrong singing on the bus on the way to the wedding.
The boy snorts with laughter. “I know,” he says. “But I’d be willing to put up with that, just to be with you.”
He squeezes my shoulder and pulls me closer.
“You’re too fancy for me, though,” he says. “I’d never really be able to control you. And I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
***
He wants me to come out West with him, but I have to write my thesis.
“But do you have to?” he pleads.
“You don’t need that college education anyway,” he tells me, which annoys me.
“Yes, I do. Just as much as you need that film career.” I put him in his place.
He sulks.
I wave him off at the station as he boards with cousin Gene and the others instead of me.
“Go spread your wings!” I shout as the train pulls away. “Go conquer!”
He hangs out the window, waving at me until the train is just a dot on the horizon.
Then I go home, pack my things, and head back East.
My World of Interiors 