During a seemingly ordinary lunch at the River Tavern in Chester, Connecticut, an extraordinary story about Truman Capote surfaced, a tale that adds another layer to the already fascinating life of the celebrated author. As conversations swirled around Capote’s enduring relevance, sparked by recent cultural moments like Philip Seymour Hoffman’s Oscar-winning portrayal and the nostalgic recreation of Capote’s legendary Black and White Ball, my luncheon companion unveiled a little-known anecdote involving Capote and his complex relationship with John O’Shea.
This intriguing narrative began in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the summer of 1976. Capote, accompanied by his then-companion, John O’Shea, rented a house there. O’Shea, a married man whose presence was often met with disapproval from Capote’s inner circle, had taken on a managerial role in the writer’s life. However, their time in Santa Fe was cut short by a disagreement. Capote abruptly left the house, abandoning months remaining on a lease he had already fully paid.
Decades later, the house was inherited by a friend of my luncheon companion, who, wishing to remain unnamed, traveled from Boston to Santa Fe to prepare the property for rental. It was during this process of cleaning and organizing that she stumbled upon a hidden cache of items left behind by Capote. Tucked away on a high shelf in a guest room closet, completely concealed from view, were papers and artifacts untouched for thirty years. It’s highly unlikely her parents, the previous owners, ever knew of their existence.
Among the discovered items was a poignant, inexpensive plastic frame holding a magazine cutout of Babe Paley. Paley, once Capote’s closest confidante, had severed ties with him after the scandalous “La Côte Basque” chapter from his unfinished novel, Answered Prayers, was published in Esquire. The chapter detailed a thinly veiled, unflattering story about Paley’s husband, Bill Paley, the powerful head of CBS, leading to a permanent rift in their friendship.
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Another item was a note from Ben Bradlee, the esteemed editor of The Washington Post, addressed to Capote and copied to Kay Graham, the newspaper’s publisher. The note expressed Bradlee’s enthusiasm for their upcoming collaboration, hinting at a project that never fully materialized.
A dime-store scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings detailed the grim trial of Elmer Wayne Henley in Houston. Henley, a teenager, had confessed to shooting Dean Corll, a local candy store owner, who, with Henley and another teenager’s assistance, had preyed upon and murdered numerous young boys. The horrifying case involved the discovery of 27 bodies of boys Corll had kidnapped, tortured, sexually abused, and murdered. Capote had intended to cover Henley’s trial for The Washington Post, and within the cache were indications of this journalistic endeavor.
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These indications included two handwritten manuscripts and six pages of notes scribbled on a yellow legal pad, collectively titled “The Houston Diary.” These fragments offered a glimpse into Capote’s planned, but ultimately abandoned, project.
Further illuminating this period were numerous notes in the handwriting of John O’Shea. These notes, predating O’Shea’s departure from Capote’s life for another woman, meticulously detailed Truman’s salary and expenses during his intended Houston assignment. O’Shea’s notes also mentioned Lynn and Oscar Wyatt, with whom Truman stayed while in Houston.
Gerald Clarke’s comprehensive biography, Capote, delves into this tumultuous chapter of the writer’s life, elaborating on the complex and often stormy dynamics between Truman and John O’Shea. Clarke recounts how Capote’s plan to write for The Washington Post about the Henley trial ultimately faltered. According to Clarke, the stark reality of daily reporting to an editor in Washington filled Capote with a “terror,” a sentiment seemingly stemming from the emotional weight and grim nature of the subject matter, and perhaps the pressure of real-time journalistic demands. Clarke notes that upon seeing Henley in the courtroom, Capote reportedly muttered, “I’ve been here before,” suggesting a deep, perhaps unsettling, resonance with the dark themes of the case.
The Henley trial took place in 1974, placing the abandonment of this cache in 1976 into a clearer timeline. It suggests that Capote may have initially intended to revisit or expand upon “The Houston Diary” but ultimately relinquished the project, leaving these fragments behind in the Santa Fe rental house.
When the inheritor of the house, unsure of what to do with these historical remnants, reached out, the serendipitous discovery landed in my hands in Black Point, Connecticut. Examining the collection of papers, the significance of this forgotten cache became immediately apparent. “What shall I do with all this?” she asked. My response was straightforward: “Why don’t you let me write about it in my diary in Vanity Fair and see what happens.” And so, the story of Truman Capote’s lost Santa Fe papers, intertwined with the enigmatic figure of John O’Shea, begins to resurface, offering new insights into a pivotal period in the life of a literary legend.
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The discovery of this cache is not just a footnote in literary history; it’s a tangible link to a complex period in Truman Capote’s life, a time marked by personal and professional turbulence, and deeply intertwined with his relationship with John O’Shea. The papers left behind offer a poignant glimpse into Capote’s creative process, his abandoned projects, and the personal relationships that shaped his world. As these fragments come to light, they invite us to reconsider and further explore the intricate tapestry of Truman Capote’s life and legacy.
