Tell All

ACT III, SCENE ONE

For this next scene, we open with a booming,thundering chord from a pipe organ. The chord continues, joining themelody of Felix Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.As the scene takes shape, we see my Miss Kathie garbed in a weddinggown, standing in a small room dominated by a large stained-glasswindow. Beyond an open doorway, we can make out the arched, cavernousinterior of a cathedral where row upon row of people line the pews.

A small constellation of stylists orbit MissKathie. Sydney Guilaroff and M. La Barbe tuck away stray hairs, patting andsmoothing the sides of Miss Kathie’s pristine updo. MaxFactor dabs the finishing touches on her makeup. My position isnot that of a bridesmaid or flower girl. I am not a formal member of thewedding party, but I shake out Miss Kathie’s train and spread its fulllength. At the back of the church I tell her to smile, and slip myfinger between her lips to scratch a smear of lipstick off one upperincisor. I toss the veil over her head and ask if she’s certain shewants to do this.

Her violet eyes gleaming behind the haze ofBelgian lace, vivid as flowers under a layer of hoarfrost, Miss Kathiesays, “C’est la vie.”

She says, “That’s Russian talk for ‘I do.’ ”

In an impulsive gesture I lift her veil andlean forward, putting my lips to her powdered cheek. There, the taste ofMitsouko perfume and the dust of talc meet mymouth. Ducking my head and twisting my face away, I sneeze.

My darling Miss Kathie says, “Ich liebe dich.” Adding, “That’s how the Frenchsay, ‘Gesundheit.’ ”

Standing near us, donning a dove gray morningcoat, Lillian Hellman snaps her fingers— onesnap, two snaps, three snaps—and jerks her head toward the pews filledwith guests. Lilly offers her arm and links it through Miss Kathie’s,guiding her to the head of the church’s center aisle. My Miss Kathie’sarms, garbed in white, elbow-length gloves, her gloved hands clasp abouquet of white roses, freesia and snowdrops. TheVienna Boys Choir sings “Some EnchantedEvening.” Marian Anderson sings “I’m Just aGirl Who Can’t Say No.” The Sammy KayeOrchestra plays “Green-sleeves” as theshining satin and white lace of Miss Kathie drifts a step, drifts astep, drifts another step away, leaving me. Arm in arm with Lilly, shestalks closer to the altar, where Fanny Bricestands as the matron of honor. Louis B. Mayerwaits to officiate. A bower arches above them, twining with countlesspink Nancy Reagan roses and yellow lilies.Among the flowers loom a thicket of newsreel cameras and boommicrophones.

Miss Kathie walks what WalterWinchell calls “the bridal mile” wearing what SheilahGraham calls “very off-white” posing what HeddaHopper calls a “veiled threat.”

“Something old, something new, somethingborrowed,” Louella Parsons would write in hercolumn, “and something extremely fishy.”

Miss Kathie seems too ready to be placedunder what Elsa Maxwell calls “spouse arrest.” At the altar LonMcCallister cools his heels as best man, standing next to a brownpair of eyes. This year’s groom, the harried, haggard, battle-scarred Webster Carlton Westward III. Crowding the bride’s side of the church, theguests include Kay Francis and Donald O’Connor, Deanna Durbin and Mildred Coles, George Bancroft and Bonita Granville and AlfredHitchcock, Franchot Tone and Greta Garbo,all the people who failed to attend the funeral for little Loverboy.

As Metro-Goldwyn-Mayerwould say, “More stars than there are in heaven …”

On her trip to the altar, my Miss Kathiethrows looks and kisses to Cary Grant and Theda Bara. She waves a white-gloved hand at Arthur Miller and Deborah Kerrand Danny Kaye. From behind her veil shesmiles at Johnny Walker, Laurence Olivier, RandolphScott and Freddie Bartholomew, Buddy Pepper,Billy Halop, Jackie Cooper and a tiny SandraDee.

Her gaze wafting to a familiar mustache, MissKathie sighs, “Groucho!”

It’s through a veil that my darling MissKathie most looks like her true self. Like someone who throws you a lookfrom the window of a train, or from the opposite side of a busy street,blurred behind speeding traffic, a face whom you could wed in thatmoment and imagine yourself happy to live with forever. Her face,balanced and composed, so full of potential and possibility, she lookslike the answer to everything wrong. Just to meet her violet eyes feelslike a blessing.

In the basement of this same building, withinthe crypt that holds her former “was-band”

Oliver“Red” Drake, Esq., alongside the ashes of Lotharioand Romeo and Loverboy,amid the dead soldiers of empty champagne bottles, down there waits themirror which contains her every secret. That defaced mirror of Dorian Gray, it forms a death mask even as the worldkills her a little more each year. That scratched web of scars etchedby myself wielding the same Harry Winstondiamond that the Webster specimen now slips on her finger.

But wrapped in the lace of a wedding veil myMiss Kathie always becomes a promising new future. The camera lightsflare amidst the flowers, the heat wilting and scorching the roses andlilies. The smell of sweet smoke.

This wedding scene reveals Webb as abrilliant actor, taking Miss Kathie in his arms he bends her backward,helpless, as his lips push her even further off balance. His brightbrown eyes sparkle. His gleaming smile simply moons and beams.

Miss Kathie hurtles her bouquet at a crowdthat includes Lucille Ball, Janet Gaynor, CoraWitherspoon and Marjorie Main and Marie Dressler. A mad scramble ensues between June Allyson, Joan Fontaine and MargaretO’Brien. Out of the fray Ann Rutherfordemerges clutching the flowers. We all throw rice supplied by Ciro’s.

Zasu Pitts cuts thewedding cake. Mae Murray minds the guestbook.

In a quiet moment during which Miss Kathiehas exited to change out of her wedding gown, I sidle up beside thegroom. As my wedding gift to Webb, I slip him a few sheets of printedpaper.

Those dulled brown eyes look at the pages,reading the words Love Slavetyped across the top margin, and he says, “What’s this?”

Brushing rice from the shoulders of his coat,I say, “Don’t play coy.…”

Those pages already belong to him, stolenfrom his suitcase, I’m merely returning them to their rightful owner.Saying this, I straighten his boutonniere, smoothing his lapels.

Lifting the first page, scanning it, the Webbreads, “ ‘No one will ever know why Katherine Kentoncommitted suicide on what seemed like such a joyous occasion.…’ ” Hisbright brown eyes look at me, then back to the page, and he continues toread.