Tell All

ACT III, SCENE SEVEN

My life’s work is complete.

For one final time we open in the crypt belowthe cathedral, where the veiled figure of a lone woman enters carryingyet another metal urn. She sets the urn alongside the urns of Terrence Terry, Oliver “Red” Drake, Esq., and Loverboy, then lifts her black veil to reveal herface.

This woman dressed in widow’s weeds ismyself, Hazie Coogan. Unescorted. Miss Kathie was mine. I invented her, timeand time again. I rescued her.

After lighting a candle, I pop the cork on abottle of champagne, one magnum still frothing, overflowing and alive inthe company of so many dead soldiers. Into a dusty glass, milky withcobwebs, I pour a bubbling toast.

This is love. This is what love is. I’verescued her, who she was in the past and who she will be to the future. KatherineKenton will never be a demented old woman,consigned to the charity ward in some teaching hospital. No tabloidnewspaper or movie magazine will ever snap the kind of ludicrous,decrepit photographs that humiliated Joan Crawfordand Bette Davis. She will never sink into theraving insanity of Vivien Leigh or Gene Tierney or Rita Hayworthor Frances Farmer. Here would be asympathetic ending, not a slow fade into drugs, a chaotic Judy Garland spiral into the arms of younger men,finally to be found dead sitting astride a rented toilet.

Hers would not be a slow, grinding death or asad fading away. No, the legend of Katherine Kentonrequired an epic, romantic grand finale. Something drenched in gloryand pathos. Now she would never be forgotten. I’ve given her that.

A dramatic exit—after a suitable third act.

I raise my glass and say, “Gesundheit.” Idrink a toast and pour another.

Please let me remove all doubt that Webster Carlton Westward III adored her. It wasobvious the first time their eyes met down the length of that long-agodinner party. He never wrote a word of Love Slave, despite how each draft was foundin his luggage. No, all of those chapters were my doing, typed andtucked beneath his shirts, where I felt certain Miss Kathie woulddiscover them. A woman torn between love and fear, it would be only amatter of time before she delivered a sealed copy to her lawyer oragent, where it would later implicate the Webster.

Forgive me for boasting, but mine was aperfect frame-up.

We intercut here with a tableau which thepolice discovered: Miss Kathie shot to death by a gun still gripped inthe Webster’s hand. It would appear that the pair slaughtered each otheramid the candles and flowers of her boudoir. The result of a failedrobbery attempt. Near her lies the corpse of Mr. Bright Brown Eyeswearing a black ski mask and shot by Miss Kathie’s old gun, the rustedgun she’d retrieved from the crypt. Clutched in his hand, a pillowcasespills out pilfered praise, gold- plated, silver-plated trophies andawards. The symbolic keys to Midwestern cities. Honorary college degreesawarded to her for learning nothing.

If it is the case that love does survivedeath, then you may consider this to be a happy ending. Boy meets girl.Boy gets girl. Happily ever after or not.

In a Samuel Goldwyntouch, ham-handed as that final shot in his WutheringHeights, we might include a quick flashback here. Just a quickreveal to show me shooting both the lovebirds in their bedroom, thenstaging the scene to suggest the burglary described in Love Slave. The surpriseending: that my role is not so much best friend or maid as villain. Hazie Coogan played the role of murderess. Perhapsin that last instant, Miss Kathie’s violet eyes will register the fullrealization that she’s been duped all along.

Slowly, we dissolve back to the Kentoncrypt.… With the mirror propped in its customary place, positioned justso, I step to the lipstick X marked on the stone floor and superimposemy own face over the true face of my Miss Kathie. The lifetime of herscars and wrinkles, every distortion and defect she ever suffered, it’smy own burden for the moment. The mirror itself sags with its collectionof so many scratched insults. Every single one of Miss Kathie’s faultsand secrets.

The fur coat I’m wearing, it’s her fur coat.My black veil, her veil. I reach into the slit of one pocket andretrieve the Harry Winston diamond ring.Kissing the ring, where it sits in the palm of my hand, I blow on it theway you would a kiss, and tumbling, thrown and flashing a low arcacross the crypt, the diamond shatters the flawed reflection. What wasan actual life story collapses into countless sparkling, glitteringfragments. That single perfect image exploded into so many contradictingperspectives. The priceless diamond itself lost in this heap of so manyworthless, dazzling glass shards.

Katherine Kentonwill live for all time, preserved in the public mind, as permanent andlasting as silver-screen legends Earl Oxfordand House Peters. Immortal as Trixie Friganza. Her face will be as familiar tofuture generations as the luminous, landmark face of TullyMarshall. Miss Kathie will continue to be worshiped, the wayapplauding audiences will forever worship Roy D’Arcy,Brooks Benedict and Eulalie Jensen.

From the shattered mirror, any true record ofmy Miss Kathie reduced to glittering slivers, from this the cameraswings to focus on the newest urn. Coming closer and closer, we read thename engraved into the metal: KatherineEllen Kenton.

To this I raise my glass.