Tell-All

  Handing the pistol to Miss Kathie, Hellman says, “Now, you try it.…”

  The pistol misfires, killing Jack Elam. Another shot ricochets off of the USS New Jersey and wounds Cyd Charisse.

  In my lap, I scribble into a notebook. My head bowed over my work. Tucked beneath the notebook I conceal the latest revision to Love Slave, a fourth draft of the final chapter. A scenario beyond the omnibus crash, the grizzly bear pit, the bubble-bath electrocution.

  Onstage, Lilly Hellman performs a series of jetés while leveling a flamethrower on the Flying Escalantes.

  Across an aisle from Terry, I sit writing, the notebook pages open across my lap in the dim light. The nib of my fountain pen scratching, looping, dotting lines and sentences across each page, I say that no memory is anything more than a personal choice. A very deliberate choice. When we recall someone—a parent, a spouse, a friend—as better than they perhaps were, we do so to create an ideal, something to which we, ourselves, can aspire. But when we remember someone as a drunk, a liar, a bully, we’re only creating an excuse for our own poor behavior.

  Still writing, I say how the same can be said for the people who read such books. The best people look for lofty role models such as the Katherine Kenton I’ve given my life to create. Other readers will seek out the tawdry strumpet depicted in Webster Carlton Westward III’s book, for comfort and license in their own tawdry, disordered lives.

  All human beings search for either reasons to be good, or excuses to be bad.

  Call me an elitist, but I’m no patch on Mary Pickford.

  Onstage, Lilly claps her hands together twice and says, “Okay, let’s take it from the point where shards of bomb casing shred Captain Mervyn Bennion.”

  In silence, everyone present, from Ricardo Cortez to Hope Lange, says fervent prayers to live beyond Miss Hellman, and thus to avoid being posthumously absorbed into her hideous self-mythology. Her name-dropping Tourette’s syndrome, set to music by Otto Harbach. In the presence of Miss Hellman, there are no atheists.

  Lilly Hellman screams, “Katherine!”

  Miss Kathie screams, “Hazie!”

  Hiss, bray, bark … Jesus Christ.

  We all have some proper noun to blame.

  The truth about Miss Kathie’s poor performance is that she’s always looking for the stray mortar shell or rifle round intended to end her life. She can’t concentrate for fear she’s missed reading any new draft of Love Slave and might be killed at any moment. An exploding battleship. A stage light plummeting from the flies. Any prop collapsible stage knife might be replaced with an actual dagger, wielded by some unknowing Japanese soldier or Allan Dwan. As we sit here, Webster Carlton Westward III could be planting a bomb or pumping poison gas into Miss Kathie’s backstage dressing room. Under such circumstances, of course she can’t manage an adequate pas de deux.

  Terry says, “Why do you stay with her?” He asks me, “Why have you stayed with her for all these years?”

  Because, I say, the life of Katherine Kenton is my work-in-progress. Mrs. Lord Byron, Mrs. Pope Innocent VI and Mrs. Kaiser von Hindenburg might be Miss Kathie’s best work, but she is mine. Still writing, still scribbling away, I say that Miss Katie is my unfinished masterpiece, and an artist does not abandon the work when it becomes difficult. Or when the artwork chooses to become involved with inappropriate men. My job title is not that of nanny or guardian angel, but I perform duties of both. My full-time profession is what Walter Winchell calls a “star sitter.” A “celebrity curator,” according to Elsa Maxwell.

  I retrieve the most recent draft of Webster’s torrid tell-all and offer it across the aisle to Terry.

  From his seat, Terry asks, “How come she’s not electrocuted?”

  Miss Kathie hasn’t taken a bath in days, I tell him. She reeks of what Louella Parsons would call “aroma d’amore.”

  Terry reaches across, taking the pages from my outstretched hand. Scanning the top sheet, he reads, “ ‘No one could’ve anticipated that by the end of this day my most beloved Katherine would shatter every single, solitary bone in her alluring body, and her glamorous Hollywood blood would be spattered over half of Midtown Manhattan …’ ”

  ACT II, SCENE EIGHT

  The voice of Terrence Terry continues as an audio bridge from the previous scene, reading, “ ‘… my most beloved Katherine would shatter every single, solitary bone in her alluring body, and her glamorous Hollywood blood would be spattered over half of Midtown Manhattan …’ ” as we dissolve once more into a fantasy sequence. Here, the lithe, idealized Webster and Miss Kathie cavort about the open-air observation deck on the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building.

  In voice-over Terry reads, “ ‘In celebration of the six-month anniversary of our first introduction, I’d rented the loftiest aerie on the fabled isle of Manahatta.’ ” He reads aloud, “ ‘There, I’d staged a romantic dinner for two catered from three thousand miles away by Perino’s.’ ”

  The mise-en-scène includes a table set for two, draped with a white cloth, and crowded with crystal stemware, silver and china. Julian Eltinge tinkles the ivories of a grand piano which has been winched up for the evening. Judy Holliday sings a program of Marc Blitzstein and Marc Connelly songs, backed by the Royal Ballet Sinfonia and Myrna Loy. In every direction, the spires of New York City blaze with lights.

  The voice of Terrence Terry reads, “ ‘Only the crème de la crème of waiters and entertainers were present, all of them snugly blindfolded as in the Erich von Stroheim masterpiece The Wedding March, so Katherine and I would not feel self-conscious as we indulged our carnal assaults upon each other.’ ”

  To highlight the fact that this constitutes their umpteenth sex scene, the willowy, soft-focus Miss Kathie and Webster copulate perfunctorily, as if robots, not looking at one another. With their eyes rolled back within their heads, their tongues hanging out the corners of their mouths, panting like beasts, the pair change position without speaking, the wet slap of their colliding genitals threatening to drown out the live music.

  “ ‘We made love beneath a billion stars and above a sea of ten million electric lights. There, between heaven and earth, blindfolded waiters tipped bottles of Moët champagne directly into our greedy, guzzling mouths, splashing bubbly upon Katherine’s savory bosoms, even as I continued to pleasure her insatiable loins and oblivious waiters slid a succession of chilled, raw oysters down the slippery chute of her regal throat.…’ ”

  The fornicating pair continue to couple. Jimmy Durante steps up to the microphone, blindfolded, and sings “Sentimental Journey.”

  “ ‘In keeping with my planned tribute,’ ” reads the voice-over of Terrence Terry, “ ‘at the instant of Katherine’s bucking, clenching petite mort, various steaming rivulets of her feminine juices cascading down each of her sculpted thighs, upon that crescendo of passion, the assortment of floodlights which bathe the apex of the tower were activated by an unseen hand. The searing light which broke upon us, rather than being the usual white hue, shone tonight in the exact same shade as Katherine’s insanely violet eyes.…’ ”

  The pair step apart and begin absently wiping at their sopping groins, using dinner napkins they then wad and drop. Similarly soiled linen napkins litter the rooftop as the pair continue mopping themselves with the hanging hem of the white tablecloth.

  “ ‘Within moments,’ ” reads Terry, “ ‘we’d severed our fleshy bond and sat dressed impeccably in evening finery, enjoying an elegant flavorful repast of roasted squab served on Limoges china alongside cooked carrots and garlic, double-stuffed baked potatoes or the option of a small dinner salad with ranch dressing or rice pilaf.

  “ ‘ “Webster,” said Katherine, “you stupendously virile male animal, this majestic tower is your only phallic rival in the world.” Adding with a lascivious grin, “And I’d gladly climb a million steps to sit atop both.…” ’ ”

  In contrast with the ripe voice-over, the dreamy, idealized Miss Kathie and Webster merely devour t
he food quickly, swilling wine, their cutlery clattering against their plates, swallowing so quickly their belches threaten to overwhelm the singing. With greasy fingers they gnaw the tiny squab carcasses, spitting the chewed bones from their mouths toward the street far below. The blindfolded waiters stagger about.

  Despite such louche behavior, the voice of Terrence Terry continues reading, oblivious, “ ‘Even now as Katherine and I stood and strode to the tower’s lofty parapet, preparing to raise our glasses in a champagne toast to this, the world’s most glamorous city, countless lesser mortals dwelt at our feet, unaware of the bliss which existed so far above their heads. Somewhere below wandered Elia Kazan, Arthur Treacher and Anne Baxter, each in their own limited existence. Down there drifted William Koenig, Rudy Vallee, and Gracie Allen, no doubt imagining they lived lives of rich fulfillment. But no, if Mary Miles Minter, Leslie Howard and Billy Bitzer were indeed so wise and aware then they would’ve been us.’ ”

  The idealized man and woman shove themselves away from the dinner table, grab their drinks and lurch to the building’s edge.

  “ ‘In hindsight,’ ” says the voice-over, “ ‘perhaps we too were blinded by our supreme happiness. “Oh, Katherine,” I distinctly recall saying, “I do so love, love, love you!” Communicating this sentiment not merely with my probing love pipe, but also my mouth. If I dare say it—with my very life’s breath, every word comingled with the lingering aftertaste of her saucy nethers.…’ ”

  The star-filtered, stylized version of Miss Kathie tosses back the last of her champagne and hands the empty glass to the idealized Webster. Even as the blindfolded musicians continue to saw away on their violins, the Webster substitute checks his wristwatch and yawns, patting his open mouth with the palm of one hand.

  “ ‘During that blazing violet moment of our splendorous adoration,’ ” reads the voice-over, “ ‘Katherine’s elegantly shod foot skidded against a leftover layer of our spent passion. In that infamous moment, mankind’s most dazzling star fell, a flashing, shrieking Halley’s Comet hurtling to the bustling sidewalks of West Thirty-fourth Street.’ ”

  The Katherine stand-in shrugs her perfect shoulders in resignation. She kicks off both her high-heeled shoes, climbs the guardrail and swan-dives into the abyss. The idealized Webster stand-in watches her plunge; then he stoops to collect her discarded high heels and flings them after her.

  Terry’s voice reads, “ ‘The end.’ ”

  ACT II, SCENE NINE

  Forgive me, please, but I must violate the fourth wall once more. Even as Miss Kathie dodges and parries the attempts on her life, a curious reversal appears to be taking place. The constant threat of violent death sculpts Katherine Kenton down to tensed muscle. The perennial threat of poisoning deadens her appetite, and the need to be continually vigilant deters her from indulging in pills and alcohol. Under such strain, her spine has stiffened with resolve. Her carriage stands erect, her stomach is hollowed, and she carries herself with the bravado of a soldier advancing onto a field of battle. The presence of death, always haunting, always at hand, has awakened a sense of vibrant life within her. Roses bloom in the cheeks of my Miss Kathie. Her violet eyes sparkle, alert for sudden danger.

  More than all the plastic surgeries and all the cosmetics in existence, the terror of her imminent destruction has brought Miss Kathie back to glowing, youthful life.

  In contrast, Webster Carlton Westward III, once so young and ideal, now appears haggard, wounded, battle-scarred, his handsome face strafed with wrinkles … scratches … stitches. The Webb specimen’s dense hair sheds itself in daily strands and clumps. Thwarted at each turn, he adopts the whipped demeanor of a cowering dog.

  Still he perseveres, whatever his motives, to endear himself with my Miss Kathie. Always there’s the chance of an assassination plot we haven’t previewed, and Miss Kathie must forever be on guard. Once, in her heightened wariness, she pushed young Webster down a flight of stairs near the Bethesda Fountain, and he still staggers with a limp, a steel pin surgically embedded to heal his shattered ankle. On another occasion, at the Russian Tea Room when she misjudged a quick movement of his as possibly malevolent, she lanced his arm with a steak knife in preemptive self-defense. Another time, she pushed him from a subway platform. His all-American face looks livid and swollen from the burns caused when Miss Kathie assaulted him with a flaming bananas Foster. His bright brown eyes are dull and bloodshot from a prophylactic blast of Miss Kathie’s mace.

  Thus the reversal: as Miss Kathie becomes more vital and vibrant, the Webster specimen falls into increasing decrepitude. A stranger, meeting the pair for the first time, would be hard-pressed to name the younger and the older. With her haughty expression, it’s difficult to decide which Miss Kathie finds more disgusting: Webster’s apparent plots to murder her, or his declining physical virility.

  And with every scar and burn and scratch, this defaced Webster specimen looks more like the monster I warned Miss Kathie against.

  In a hard transition, we cut back to final dress rehearsal for the new Broadway show, at the moment the music is peaking with the voices of the entire cast singing, while Miss Kathie raises the American flag on Iwo Jima, assisted by Jack Webb and Akim Tamiroff. A Florenz Ziegfeld chorus line of Mack Sennett beauties gotten up as imperial Japanese airmen in low-cut, peekaboo costumes by Edith Head link arms and execute precision high kicks which expose their fascist buttocks. The spectacle fills a medium shot, busy with motion, color and music, until the shot pulls back to reveal the audience seats are—once more—almost all vacant.

  Luise Rainer sings slightly off-key during the Rape of Nanking, and Conrad Veidt flubbed a couple dance steps during the Corregidor Death March, but otherwise the first act seems to work. A constant plume, really a mushroom cloud of white cigarette smoke rises from Lilly Hellman’s seat in the center of the fifth row, flanked there by Michael Curtiz and Sinclair Lewis. On West Forty-seventh Street already the marquee carries the title Unconditional Surrender starring Katherine Kenton and George Zucco. Music and lyrics by Jerome Kern and Woody Guthrie. At the stage door, a truck from the printer unloads stacks of glossy programs. Backstage, Eli Wallach in the role of Howard Hughes practices some business, seated within the cockpit of a full-size balsa-wood mock-up of the Spruce Goose.

  The first act curtain falls as the chorus girls rush to change into their sequined shark costumes for the sinking of the USS Indianapolis at the opening of the second act. Ray Bolger prepares to die of congestive heart failure as Franklin Delano Roosevelt. John Mack Brown preps to assume office as Harry Truman opposite a small cameo appearance by Ann Southern as Margaret Truman.

  Amid the sea of empty seats, Terrence Terry and I sit in the twentieth row center, buttressed by our parcels and Bloomingdale’s bags and various thermos bottles.

  Alone in row twelve, stage right, sits Webster Carlton Westward III, his bright brown eyes never leaving the form of Miss Kathie. His broad shoulders leaning forward, both his elbows planted on his knees, he thrusts his American face toward her light.

  From any closer than row fifteen, Miss Kathie’s dyed hair looks stiff as wire. Her gestures, jittery and tense, her body whittled down by fear and anxiety to what Louella Parsons would call a “lipsticked stick figure.” Despite the constant threat of murder, she refuses to involve the police out of fear she’ll be humiliated by W. H. Mooring in Film Weekly or Hale Horton in Photoplay, depicted as a dotty has-been infatuated by a scheming gigolo. It’s a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea: whether to be killed and humiliated in book form by the Webb, or to remain alive and be humiliated by Donovan Pedelty or Miriam Gibson in Screen Book magazine.

  Even as the stagehands change the plaster rocks of Iwo Jima for the canvas hull of the doomed Indianapolis, I’m scribbling notes. My fountain pen scratching my handwriting along line after line, I scheme and conspire to save my Miss Kathie.

  Eyeing the Webster specimen, the matinee idol outline of Webb’s American profile, Terry asks if
we’ve discovered any new murder plan.

  Midsentence, still writing, I retrieve the latest pages of Love Slave and toss them into Terry’s lap. I tell him that I found this newest revision in Webster’s suitcase this morning.

  Terry asks if I’ve arranged an escort for the show’s opening next week. If not, he can stop by the town house to collect me. His eyes skimming back and forth across the typed pages, Terry asks if Miss Kathie has seen this version of her demise.

  Flipping to a new page of my notebook, still writing, I tell him, Yes. That accounts for her vibrato.

  Peering over the top of the Love Slave pages, squinting at my notes, he asks what I’m writing.

  Tax returns, I tell him. I shrug and say that I’m answering Miss Kathie’s fan mail. Reviewing her contracts and investments. Nothing special. Nothing too important.

  And reading aloud from the new finale of Miss Kathie’s life story, Terry says, “ ‘Katherine Kenton never knew it, but the Japanese Yakuza are deservedly world-renowned as ruthless, bloodthirsty assassins.…’ ”

  ACT II, SCENE TEN

  “ ‘A Yakuza assassin,’ ” reads the voice of Terrence Terry, “ ‘can perform an execution in as little as three seconds.…’ ” We dissolve to a misty street scene. The fantasy stand-ins for Miss Kathie and Webster stroll, window-shopping along a deserted city sidewalk, gilded by a rind of magic-hour sunlight. Whether this is dawn or dusk, one can’t tell for certain. The lithesome pair linger at display windows, Miss Kathie perusing dazzling necklaces and bracelets proffered there, dense and heavily set with glittering clusters of diamonds and rubies, even as Webster never takes his eyes off her face, as bewitched by her beauty as she is by the resplendent wealth of lavish, sparkling stones.

  The voice-over continues reading, “ ‘A common assassination technique is to approach the target from behind.…’ ”