Tell All

ACT III, SCENE FIVE

We slowly dissolve back to the present. Themise-en-scène: the daytime interior of a basement kitchen in the townhouse of Katherine Kenton; arranged along theupstage wall: an electric stove, an icebox, a door to the alleyway, adusty window in said door. A narrow stairway leads up to the secondfloor. Still carved in the window glass, we see the heart from Loverboy’s arrival as a puppy, oh, scenes and scenesago.

In the foreground, I sit on a white-paintedkitchen chair with my feet propped on a similar white-painted table, mylegs crossed at the ankle; my hands turn the pages of yet anotherscreenplay. Open across my lap is a screenplay about LillianHellman starring Lillian Hellmanwritten by Lillian Hellman.

Upstage, Miss Kathie’s feet appear on thesteps which descend from the second floor. Her pink slippers. The hem ofher pink dressing gown. The gown flutters, revealing a flash of smooththigh. Her hands appear, one clutching a ream of paper, her other handclutching a wad of black fabric. Even before her face appears in thedoorway, her voice calls, “Hazie …” Almost a shout, her voice says,“Someone telephoned me, just now, from the animal hospital.”

On the page, Lilly Hellman runs faster than aspeeding bullet. She’s more powerful than a locomotive and able to leaptall buildings in a single bound.

Standing in the doorway, Miss Kathie holdsthe black fabric, the ream of papers. She says, “Loverboydid not die from eating chocolates …” and she throws the black fabriconto the kitchen table. There the fabric lies, creating a face of twoempty eyes and an open mouth. It’s a ski mask, identical to the onedescribed in Love Slave,worn by the Yakuza assassin wielding the ice pick.

Miss Kathie says, “The very nice veterinarianexplained to me that Loverboy was poisonedwith cyanide.…”

Like so many others around here …

On the scripted page, Lilly Hellman parts theRed Sea and raises Lazarusfrom the dead. “After that,” she says, “I telephoned Groucho Marx and he says you never invited him tothe funeral.…” Her violet eyes flashing, she says, “Neither did youinvite Joan Fontaine, Sterling Hayden or Frank Borzage.” Her dulcet voice rising, MissKathie says, “The only person you did invitewas Webster Carlton Westward III.”

She swings the ream of paper she holds rolledin her fist, swatting the pages against the black ski mask, making thekitchen table jump. Miss Kathie screams, “I found this mask, tucked away—in your room.”

Such an accusation. My Miss Kathie says that Ipoisoned the Pekingese, then invited only the bright-eyed Webster tojoin us in the crypt so he could arrive bearing flowers at her moment ofgreatest emotional need. Throughout the past few months, while I’veseemed to be warning her against the Webster, she insists that I’veactually been aiding and abetting him. She claims I’ve been telling himwhen to arrive and how best to court her. After that, the Webster andmyself, the two of us poisoned Terry by accident. She says the Websterand myself are plotting to kill her.

Bark, honk, cluck… conspiracy. Oink, bray, tweet… treachery.

Moo, meow, whinny… collusion most foul.

On the screenplay page, Lilly Hellman turnswater to wine. She heals the lepers. She spins filthy straw into thepurest gold.

When my Miss Kathie pauses to take a breath, Itell her not to be ridiculous. Clearly, she’s mistaken. I am notscheming with the Webster to murder her.

“Then how do you explain this?” she says,offering the pages in her hand. Printed along the top margin of each, atitle. Typed there, it says, Paragon: AnAutobiography. Authored by Katherine Kenton.As told to Hazie Coogan. Shaking her head,she says, “I did not write this. In fact, I found it tucked under yourmattress.…”

The story of her life. Written in her name.By someone else.

Flipping past the title page, she looks atme, her violet eyes twitching between me and the manuscript she holds.Her pink dressing gown trembles. From the kitchen table, the empty skimask stares up at the ceiling. “ ‘Chapter one,’ ” my Miss Kathie reads, “‘My life began in the truest and fullest sense the glorious day I firstmet my dearest friend, Hazie Coogan.…’ ”