Tell All

ACT II, SCENE NINE

Forgive me, please, but I must violate thefourth wall once more. Even as Miss Kathie dodges and parries theattempts on her life, a curious reversal appears to be taking place. Theconstant threat of violent death sculpts KatherineKenton down to tensed muscle. The perennial threat of poisoningdeadens her appetite, and the need to be continually vigilant deters herfrom indulging in pills and alcohol. Under such strain, her spine hasstiffened with resolve. Her carriage stands erect, her stomach ishollowed, and she carries herself with the bravado of a soldieradvancing onto a field of battle. The presence of death, alwayshaunting, always at hand, has awakened a sense of vibrant life withinher. Roses bloom in the cheeks of my Miss Kathie. Her violet eyessparkle, alert for sudden danger.

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

In contrast, WebsterCarlton Westward III, once so young and ideal, now appearshaggard, wounded, battle-scarred, his handsome face strafed withwrinkles … scratches … stitches. The Webb specimen’s dense hair shedsitself in daily strands and clumps. Thwarted at each turn, he adopts thewhipped demeanor of a cowering dog.

Still he perseveres, whatever his motives, toendear himself with my Miss Kathie. Always there’s the chance of anassassination plot we haven’t previewed, and Miss Kathie must forever beon guard. Once, in her heightened wariness, she pushed young Websterdown a flight of stairs near the Bethesda Fountain,and he still staggers with a limp, a steel pin surgically embedded toheal his shattered ankle. On another occasion, at theRussian Tea Room when she misjudged a quick movement of his aspossibly malevolent, she lanced his arm with a steak knife in preemptiveself- defense. Another time, she pushed him from a subway platform. Hisall-American face looks livid and swollen from the burns caused whenMiss Kathie assaulted him with a flaming bananasFoster. His bright brown eyes are dull and bloodshot from aprophylactic blast of Miss Kathie’s mace.

Thus the reversal: as Miss Kathie becomesmore vital and vibrant, the Webster specimen falls into increasingdecrepitude. A stranger, meeting the pair for the first time, would behard-pressed to name the younger and the older. With her haughtyexpression, it’s difficult to decide which Miss Kathie finds moredisgusting: Webster’s apparent plots to murder her, or his decliningphysical virility.

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

In a hard transition, we cut back to finaldress rehearsal for the new Broadway show, atthe moment the music is peaking with the voices of the entire castsinging, while Miss Kathie raises the American flag on Iwo Jima, assisted by Jack Webband Akim Tamiroff. A FlorenzZiegfeld chorus line of Mack Sennettbeauties gotten up as imperial Japanese airmen in low-cut, peekaboocostumes by Edith Head link arms and executeprecision high kicks which expose their fascist buttocks. The spectaclefills a medium shot, busy with motion, color and music, until the shotpulls back to reveal the audience seats are—once more—almost all vacant.

Luise Rainer singsslightly off-key during the Rape of Nanking,and Conrad Veidt flubbed a couple dance stepsduring the Corregidor Death March, butotherwise the first act seems to work. A constant plume, really amushroom cloud of white cigarette smoke rises from Lilly Hellman’s seatin the center of the fifth row, flanked there by MichaelCurtiz and Sinclair Lewis. On West Forty-seventh Street already the marqueecarries the title Unconditional Surrenderstarring Katherine Kenton and George Zucco. Music and lyrics by JeromeKern and Woody Guthrie. At the stagedoor, a truck from the printer unloads stacks of glossy programs.Backstage, Eli Wallach in the role of Howard Hughes practices some business, seated withinthe cockpit of a full-size balsa- wood mock-up of the Spruce Goose.

The first act curtain falls as the chorusgirls rush to change into their sequined shark costumes for the sinkingof the USSIndianapolis atthe opening of the second act. Ray Bolgerprepares to die of congestive heart failure as FranklinDelano 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 rowcenter, buttressed by our parcels and Bloomingdale’sbags and various thermos bottles.

Alone in row twelve, stage right, sits Webster Carlton Westward III, his bright brown eyesnever leaving the form of Miss Kathie. His broad shoulders leaningforward, both his elbows planted on his knees, he thrusts his Americanface toward her light.

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

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

Eyeing the Webster specimen, the matinee idoloutline of Webb’s American profile, Terry asks if we’ve discovered anynew murder plan.

Midsentence, still writing, I retrieve thelatest pages of Love Slaveand toss them into Terry’s lap. I tell him that I found this newestrevision in Webster’s suitcase this morning.

Terry asks if I’ve arranged an escort for theshow’s opening next week. If not, he can stop by the town house tocollect 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, stillwriting, 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 thatI’m answering Miss Kathie’s fan mail. Reviewing her contracts andinvestments. Nothing special. Nothing too important.

And reading aloud from the new finale of MissKathie’s life story, Terry says, “ ‘Katherine Kentonnever knew it, but the Japanese Yakuza are deservedly world-renowned asruthless, bloodthirsty assassins.…’ ”