Tell All

ACT I, SCENE ELEVEN

If you’ll permit me to break character andindulge in another aside, I’d like to comment on the nature ofequilibrium. Of balance, if you’d prefer. Modern medical sciencerecognizes that human beings appear to be subject to predetermined,balanced ratios of height and weight, masculinity and femininity, and totinker with those formulas brings disaster. For example, when RKO Radio and Monogram andRepublic Pictures began prescribinginjections of male hormones in order to coarsen some of their moreeffete male contract players, the inadvertent result was to give thosehe- men breasts larger than those of Claudette Colbertand Nancy Kelly. It would seem the humanbody, when given additional testosterone, increases its own productionof estrogen, always seeking to return to its original balance of maleand female hormones.

Likewise, the actress who starves herself tofar, far below her natural body weight will soon balloon to far aboveit.

Based on decades of observation, I proposethat sudden high levels of external praise always trigger an equalamount of inner self-loathing. Most moviegoers are familiar with thetheatrically unbalanced mental health of a FrancesFarmer, the libidinal excesses of a CharlesChaplin or an Errol Flynn, and thechemical indulgences of a Judy Garland. Suchperformances are always so ridiculously broad, played to the topmostbalcony. My supposition is that, in each case, the celebrity in questionwas simply making adjustments—instinctually seeking a naturalequilibrium—to counterbalance enormous positive public attention.

My vocation is not that of a nurse or jailer,nanny or au pair, but during her periods of highest public acclaim, myduties have always included protecting Miss Kathie from herself. Oh, theoverdoses I’ve foiled … the bogus land investment schemes I’ve stoppedher from financing … the highly inappropriate men I’ve turned away fromher door … all because the moment the world declares a person to beimmortal, at that moment the person will strive to prove the worldwrong. In the face of glowing press releases and reviews the mostheralded women starve themselves or cut themselves or poison themselves.Or they find a man who’s happy to do that for them.

For this next scene we open with a beat ofcomplete darkness. A black screen. For the audio bridge, once more wehear the ring of the doorbell. As the lights come up, we see the insideof the front door, and from within the foyer, we see the shadow of afigure fall on the window beside the door, the shape of someone standingon the stoop. In the bright crack of sunlight under the door we see thetwin shadows of two feet shifting. The bell rings again, and I enterthe shot, wearing the black dress, the maid’s bib-front apron and lacywhite cap. The bell rings a third time, and I open the door.

The foyer stinks of paint. The entire housestinks of paint.

A figure stands in the open doorway, backlitand overexposed in the glare of daylight. Shot from a low angle, thesilhouette of this looming, luminous visitor suggests an angel withwings folded along its sides and a halo flaring around the top of itshead. In the next beat, the figure steps forward into the key light.Framed in the open doorway stands a woman wearing a white dress, a shortwhite cape wrapped around her shoulders, white orthopedic shoes.Balanced on her head sits a starched white cap printed with a large redcross. In her arms, the woman cradles an infant swaddled in a whiteblanket.

This beaming woman in white, holding a pinkbaby, appears the mirror opposite of me: a woman dressed in blackholding a bronze trophy wrapped in a soiled dust rag. A beat of ironicparallelism.

A few steps down the porch stands a secondwoman, a nun shrouded in a black habit and wimple, her arms cradling ababe as blond as a miniature Ingrid Bergman.Its skin as clear as a tiny Dorothy McGuire.What Walter Winchell calls a “little bundle ofgoy.”

On the sidewalk stands a third woman, wearinga tweed suit, her gloved fingers gripping the handle of a perambulator.Sleeping inside the pram, two more infants.

The nurse asks, “Is KatherineKenton at home?” Behind her, the nun says, “I’m from St.Elizabeth’s.”

From the sidewalk, the woman wearing tweedsays, “I’m from the placement agency.” At the curb, a second uniformed nurse stepsout of a taxicab carrying a baby. From the corner, another nurseapproaches with a baby in her arms. In deep focus, we see a second nunadvancing on the town house, bearing yet another pink bundle.

From offscreen we hear the voice of MissKathie say, “You’ve arrived.…” And in the reverse angle we see herdescending the stairs from the second floor, a housepainter’s brush inone hand, dripping long, slow drops of pink paint from the bristles.Miss Kathie’s rolled back the cuffs of her shirt, a man’s white dressshirt, the breast pocket embroidered with O.D.,the monogram for her fourth “was-band,” Oliver “Red”Drake, Esq., all of the shirt spotted with pink paint. Abandanna tied to cover her hair, and pink paint smudged on the peak ofone movie-star cheekbone.

The town house stinks of lacquer, choking andacrid as a gigantic manicure compared to the smell of talcum powder andsunlight on the doorstep.

Miss Kathie’s feet descend the last steps,trailed by drops of pink. Her blue denim dungarees, rolled halfway up toher knees, reveal white bobby socks sagging into scuffed penny loafers.She faces the nurse, her violet eyes twitching between the gurgling,pink orphan and the paintbrush in her own hand. “Here,” she says, “wouldyou mind …?” And my Miss Kathie thrusts the brush, slopping with pinkpaint, into the nurse’s face.

The two women lean together, close, as ifthey were kissing each other’s cheeks, trading the swaddled bundle forthe brush. The white uniform of the nurse, spotted with pink fromtouching Miss Kathie. The nurse left holding the gummy pink brush.

Her arms folded to hold the foundling, MissKathie steps back and turns to face the full- length mirror in the foyer.Her reflection that of Susan Hayward or Jennifer Jones in Saint Joanor The Song of Bernadette, a beaming Madonna and child as painted by Caravaggioor Rubens. With one hand, my Miss Kathiereaches to the nape of her own neck, looping a finger through the knotof the bandanna and pulling it free from her head. As the bandanna fallsto the foyer floor, Miss Kathie shakes her hair, twisting her head fromside to side until her auburn hair spreads, soft and wide as a veil,framing her shoulders, the white shirt stretched over her breasts,framing the tiny newborn.

“Such a pièce de résistance,” Miss Kathiesays, rubbing noses with the little orphan. She says, “That’s theItalian word for … gemütlichkeit.”

Miss Kathie’s violet eyes spread, wide-open,bug-eyed as Ruby Keeler playing a virginopposite Dick Powell under the direction of Busby Berkeley. Her long movie-star hands, hercheeks marred only by the pastel stigmata of pink paint. Her eyesclutching at the image in the foyer mirror, Miss Kathie turnsthree-quarters to the left, then the right, each time closing hereyelids halfway and nodding her head in a bow. She bows once more,facing the mirror full-on, her smile stretching her face free ofwrinkles, her eyes glowing with tears. This, the exact same performanceMiss Kathie gave last month when she accepted the lifetime tribute awardfrom the Denver Independent Film Circle.These identical gestures and expressions.

A beat later, she unloads the infant,returning the bundle to the nurse, Miss Kathie shaking her head,wrinkling her movie-star nose and saying, “Let me think about it.…”

As the nun mounts the porch steps, MissKathie thrusts two fingers into her own dungarees pocket and fishes out acard of white paper.… She holds the sample shade of HoneyedSunset to the cherub’s pink cheek, studying the card and theinfant together. Shaking her head with a flat smile, she says,“Clashes.” Sighing, Miss Kathie says, “We’ve already painted the trim.Three coats.” She shrugs her movie-star shoulders and tells the nun,“You understand.…”

The next newborn, Miss Kathie leans close toits drowsing face and sniffs. Using an atomizer, she spritzes the tenderlips and skin with L’air du Temps and thetiny innocent begins to squall. Recoiling, Miss Kathie shakes her head,No.

Another gurgling newborn, Miss Kathie leanstoo close and the dangling hot ash drops off the tip of her cigarette,resulting in a flurry of tiny screams and flailing. The smell of urineand scorched cotton. As if a pressing iron had been left too long on apillowcase soaked in ammonia.

Another foundling arrives barely a shade toopale for the new nursery drapes. Holding a fabric swatch beside thesquirming bundle, Miss Kathie says, “It’s almost PerfectPersimmon but not quite Cherry Bomb.…”

The doorbell rings all afternoon. All the dayexhausted with “offspring shopping,” as Hedda Hoppercalls it. “Bébé browsing,” in the semanticsof Louella Parsons. A steady parade ofsecondhand urchins and unwanted kinder. Aconstant stream of arriving baby nurses, nuns and adoption agents, eachone blushing and pop-eyed upon shaking the pink, paint-sticky hand ofMiss Kathie. Each one babbling: Tweet, cluck, hoot …Raymond Massey. A quick-cut montage.

Bray, bark, buzz …James Mason.

Another nurse retreats, escaping down thestreet when Miss Kathie asks how difficult it might be to dye the hairand diet some pounds off of a particularly rotund cherub.

Another social worker flags a taxicab afterMiss Kathie smears a tiny foundling with Max Factorbase pigment, ladies’ foundation number six.

Pursing her lips, she hovers over the face ofone wee infant, saying, “Wunderbar …”Exhaling cigarette smoke to add, “That’s the Latin equivalent for que bueno.”

Miss Kathie brandishes each child in thefoyer mirror, hefting it and cuddling its pinched little face, studyingthe effect as if each orphan were a new purse or a stage prop.

Meow, squawk, squeak… Janis Paige.

Another tiny urchin, she leaves smudged withlipstick.

Another, Miss Kathie leans too close, tooquickly, splashing a newborn with the icy-cold Boodlesgin of her martini.

Another, she frowns down upon while her long,glossy fingernails pick at a mole or flaw on its smooth, pink forehead.“As the Spanish would say …” she says, “qué seráserá.”

This “kinderkattle kall,” as Cholly Knickerbocker wouldcall it, continues all afternoon. This audition. Prams and strollersform a line which runs halfway to the corner. This buffet of abandonedbabies, the products of unplanned pregnancies, the progeny ofheartbreak—these pink and chubby souvenirs of rape, promiscuity, incest.Impulse. Bottle-fed leftovers of divorce, spousal abuse and fataldisease. Even as the paintbrush, the pink bristles grow stiff in myhand, the babies arrive as proof of poor choices. The sleeping orgiggling flotsam and jetsam, a residue of what seemed at one time to betrue love.

Each innocent, Miss Kathie holds, modeling itfor the foyer mirror. Doing take after take of this same scene. Givingher right profile, her left. Smiling full-face, then fluttering hereyelashes, ducking her movie-star chin, emoting in reaction shots,telling the mirror, “Yes, she is lovely. I’dlike you to meet my daughter: Katherine Jr.”

Telling the mirror, “I’d like to introduce myson, Webster Carlton Westward the Fourth.”She repeats this same line of dialogue with each child before handing itback to the nurse, the nun, the waiting social worker. Comparing paintchips and fabric samples. Picking over each child for scars or defects.And for every infant Miss Kathie sends away, two more arrive to stand inline for a test.

Into the late afternoon, she’s reciting: Bark, cluck, bray … KatherineKenton, Jr.

Oink, quack, moo …Webster Carlton Westward IV.

She performs take after take, hours of thatsame screen test, until the streetlights flicker and blink, flare andshine bright. From the avenue, the sound of traffic fades. Across thestreet, in the windows of town houses, the curtains slide closed.Eventually Miss Kathie’s front steps descend to the sidewalk, empty oforphans.

In the foyer, I stoop to retrieve thebandanna dropped on the floor. The fallen drops of pink paint, smearedand dry, form a fading pink path, a stream of pink spots tracked downthe steps, down the street. A trail of the rejected.

A taxicab pulls to a stop at the curb. Thedriver opens his door, steps out and unlocks the trunk. He removes twosuitcases and places them on the sidewalk, then opens the back door ofthe cab. A foot emerges, a man’s shoe, the cuff of a trouser leg. Aman’s hand grips the door of the cab, a signet ring glinting gold aroundthe little finger. A head of hair emerges from the backseat of the cab,eyes bright brown as root beer. A smile flashes, bright as July Fourthfireworks.

A specimen boasting the wide shoulders of Dan O’Herlihy, the narrow waist of Marlon Brando, the long legs of StephenBoyd, the dashing smile of Joseph Schildkrautplaying Robin Hood.

In the reverse angle, my Miss Kathie rushesto the front door, calling, “Oh, my darling …” Her outstretched arms andthrusting bosom at once a suggestion of Julie Newmarplaying Penelope greeting Odysseus.Jane Russell in the role of Guineverereunited with Lancelot. Carole Lombard rushingto embrace Gordon MacRae.

Webster Carlton WestwardIII calls up the steps, noble as WilliamFrawley as Romeo Montague, “Kath, mydearest …” Calling, “Do you have three dollars to pay the cabdriver?”

The driver, standing beside the suitcases,stoic as Lewis Stone, gristled as Fess Parker. The cab itself, yellow.

Her auburn hair streaming behind her, MissKathie shouts, “Hazie!” She calls, “Hazie, take Mr. Westward’s luggageto my room!” The two brazen lovers embrace, their lips meeting, whilethe camera circles and circles them in an arch shot, dissolving to afuneral.