Tell All

ACT I, SCENE SIX

The next sequence depicts a montage offlowers arriving at the town house. Deliverymen wearing jaunty, brimmedcaps and polished shoes arrive to ring the front doorbell. Each mancarries a long box of roses tied with a floppy velvet ribbon, tuckedunder one arm. Or a cellophane spill brimming full of roses cradled theway one would carry an infant. Each deliveryman’s opposite hand extends,ready to offer a clipboard and a pen, a receipt needing a signature.Billowing masses of white lilac. Delivery after delivery arrives. Thedoorbell ringing to announce yellow gladiolas and scarletbirds-of-paradise. Trembling pink branches of dogwood in full bloom. Thechilled flesh of hothouse orchids. Camellias. Each new florist alwaysstretches his neck to see past me, craning his head to see into thefoyer for a glimpse of the famous Katherine Kenton.

One frame too late, Miss Kathie’s voice callsfrom offscreen, “Who is it?” The moment after the deliveryman is gone.

Me, always shouting in response, It’s theFuller Brush man. A Jehovah’s Witness. A Girl Scout, selling cookies.The same ding-dong of the doorbell cueingthe cut to another bouquet of honeysuckle or towering pink spears offlowering ginger.

Me, shouting up the stairs to Miss Kathie,asking if she expects a gentleman caller.

In response, Miss Kathie shouting, “No.”Shouting, less loudly, “No one in particular.”

In the foyer and dining room and kitchen, theair swims with the scent of phantom flowers, shimmering with sweet,heavy mock orange. An invisible garden. The creamy perfume of absentgardenias. Hanging in the air is the tang of eucalyptus I carry directlyto the back door. The trash cans in the alley overflow with crimsonbougainvillea and sprays of sweet-smelling daphne.

Every card signed, Webster Carlton Westward III.

From an insert shot of one gift card, we cutto a close-up of another card, and another. A series of card after giftcard. Then a close-up of yet another paper envelope with To Miss Katherine handwritten on one side. Theshot pulls back to reveal me holding this last sealed envelope in thesteam jetting from a kettle boiling atop the stove. The kitchen settingappears much the same as it did a dog’s lifetime ago, when my MissKathie scratched her heart into the window. One new detail, a portabletelevision, sits atop the icebox, flashing the room with scenes from ahospital, the operating room in a surgical suite where an actor’srubber-gloved hand grasps a surgical mask and pulls it from his ownface, revealing the previous “was-band,” PacoEsposito. The seventh and most recent Mr. KatherineKenton. His hair now grows gray at his temples. His upper lipfringed with a pepper-and- salt mustache.

The teakettle hisses on the stove, centeredabove the blue spider of a gas flame. Steam rises from the spout,curling the corners of the white envelope I hold. The paper darkens withdamp until the glued flap peels along one edge. Picking with athumbnail, I lift the flap. Pinching with two fingers, I slide out theletter.

On television, Paco leans over the operatingtable, dragging a scalpel through the inert body of a patient played by Stephen Boyd. Hope Lange plays the assistingphysician. Suzy Parker the anesthesiologist.Fixing his gaze on the attending nurse, Natalie Wood,Paco says, “I’ve never seen anything this bad. This brain has got tocome out!”

The next channel over, a battalion of dancersdash around a soundstage, fighting the Battle ofAntietam in some Frank Powellproduction directed by D. W. Griffith of amusical version of the Civil War. The lead forthe Confederate Army, leaping andpirouetting, is featured dancer Terrence Terry.A heartbreakingly young Joan Leslie plays Tallulah Bankhead. H. B. Warner plays Jefferson Davis. Music scored by MaxSteiner.

From the alley outside the kitchen door, aman’s voice says, “Knock, knock.” The windows, fogged with the steam.The kitchen air feels humid and warm as the sauna of the Garden of Allah apartments. My hair hangs lank andplastered to my wet forehead, flat as a Louise Brooksspit curl.

The shadow of a head falls against theoutside of the window, the pane where my Miss Kathie cut the shape ofher heart. From behind the fogged glass, the voice says, “Katherine?”His knuckles knocking the glass, a man says, “This is an emergency.”

Unfolded, the letter reads: My Most Dear Katherine, True love is NOT out of yourreach. I flatten the letter to the damp window glass, where itsticks, held secure as wallpaper, pasted there by the condensed steam.The sunlight streaming in from the alleyway, the light leaves the papertranslucent, glowing white with the handwritten words hung framed by theheart etched in the glass. The letter still pasted to the window, Iflip the dead bolt, slip the chain, turn the knob and open the door.

In the alleyway, a man stands holding a papertablet fluttering with pages. Each page scribbled with names andarrows, what looks like the diagram for plays in a football game. Amongthe names one can read Eve Arden … Marlene Dietrich… Sidney Blackmer … In his opposite hand, theman holds a white paper sack. Next to him, the trash cans spill theirroses and gardenias onto the paving stones. The gladiolas and orchidstumble out to lie in the fetid puddles of mud and rainwater which rundown the center of the alley. The reek of honeysuckle and spoiled meat.Pale mock orange mingles with pink camellias and bloodred peonies.

“Hurry, quick, where’s Lady Katherine?” theman says, holding the tablet, shaking it so the pages flap. On some, thenames radiate in every direction from a large rectangle which fills thecenter of the page. The names alternating gender: LenaHorne then William Wellman then Esther Williams. The man says, “I’m expectingtwenty-four guests for dinner, and I have a placement emergency.…”

The diagrams are seating charts. Therectangles are the dinner table. The names the guest list. “As addedincentive,” the man says, “tell Her Majesty that I’ve brought herfavorite candy … Jordan almonds.”

Her Majesty won’t eat a bite, I tell him.

This man, this same face smiles out from thefrontline skirmishes on television, amid the Battleof Gettysburg—this is Terrence Terry,formerly Mr. Katherine Kenton, former dancer under contract at Lasky Studios, former paramour to MontgomeryClift, former catamite to James Whaleand Don Ameche, former cosodomite to William Haines, former sexual invert, the fifth“was-band,” in crisis about whom to seat next to CelesteHolm at a dinner he’s hosting tonight.

“This is an entertainment emergency,” theTerrence specimen says, “I need Katherine to tell me: Does Jack Buchanan hate Dame MayWhitty?”

I say that he should’ve gone to prison forwedding Miss Kathie. That it’s illegal for homosexuals to get married.

“Only to each other,” he says, stepping intothe kitchen.

I close the alley door, lock the knob, slipthe chain, flip the dead bolt.

Whatever the case, I say, a marriage isn’tsomething one undertakes simply to pad one’s résumé. Saying this, I’mretrieving a sheet of blank stationery from the kitchen table, thenpositioning this sheet on the damp window so that it aligns with thelove letter already pasted to the glass.

“Her Majesty doesn’t have to come dine withus,” this Terrence Terry says. “Just tell mewho to stick next to Jane Wyman.”

Using a pen, blue ink, I begin to trace thewriting of the original letter as it glows through this new, blanksheet.

“Lady Katherine can tell me if John Agar is right- or left-handed,” says thisTerrence specimen. “She knows if Rin Tin Tinis male or female.”

Lecturing, still tracing the old letter ontothe new paper, I suggest he begin with a fresh page. An empty dinnertable. Seat Desi Arnaz to the left of Hazel Court. Put Rosemary Clooneyacross from Lex Barker. Fatty Arbuckle alwaysspits as he speaks, so place him opposite BillieDove, who’s too blind to notice. Using my own pen, I elbow intoTerry’s work, drawing arrows from Jean Harlowto Lon Chaney Sr. to DouglasFairbanks Jr. Like Knute Rocknesketching football plays, I circle Gilda Grayand Hattie McDaniel, and I cross out June Haver.

“If she’s starving herself,” says Terrence Terry, watching me work, “she must befalling in love again.” Standing there, he unrolls the top of the whitepaper bag. Reaching into it, Terry lifts out a handful of almonds,pastel shades of pink and green and blue. He slips one into his mouth,chews.

Not only starving, I say, but she’sexercising as well. Loosely put, the physical trainers attach electricwires to whatever muscles they can find on her body and jolt her withshocks that simulate running a steeplechase while being repeatedlystruck by bolts of lightning. I say, It’s very good for herbody—terrible for her hair.

After that ordeal, my Miss Kathie is havingher legs shaved, her teeth whitened, her cuticles pushed back.

Chewing, swallowing, TerrenceTerry says, “Who’s the new romance? Do I know him?” The telephone mounted on the kitchen wallbeside the stove, it rings. I lift the receiver, saying, Hello? Andwait.

The front doorbell rings.

Over the telephone, a man’s voice says, “IsMiss Katherine Kenton at home?” Who, I ask, may I say is calling?

The front doorbell rings.

“Is this Hazie, the housekeeper?” the man onthe telephone says. “My name is Webb Westward. We met a few days ago, atthe mausoleum.”

I’m sorry, I say, but I’m afraid he has thewrong number. This, I say, is the State Residence for CriminallyReckless Females. I ask him to please not telephone again. And I hang upthe receiver.

“I see you’re still,” the Terrence specimensays, “protecting Her Majesty.”

My pen follows the handwritten lines of theoriginal letter, tracing every loop and dot of the words that bleedthrough, copying them onto this new sheet of stationery, the sentence: My Most Dear Katherine, True love is NOT out of yourreach.

I trace the words, I’llarrive to collect you for drinks at eight on Saturday. Tracing the line, Wearsomething smashing.

My pen traces the signature, Webster Carlton Westward III.

We all, more or less, live in her shadow. Nomatter what else we do with our lives, our obituaries will lead with theclause “lifelong paid companion to movie star KatherineKenton” or “fifth husband to film legend KatherineKenton …”

I copy the original letter perfectly, onlyinstead of Saturday I mimic the handwriting,that same slant and angle, to write Friday.Folding this new letter in half, tucking it back into the originalenvelope with Miss Katherine written on theback, licking the glue strip, my tongue tastes the mouth of this Websterspecimen. The lingering flavor of Maxwell Housecoffee. The scent of thin Tiparillocigars and bay rum cologne. The chemistry ofWebb Westward’s saliva. The recipe for his kisses.

Terrence Terry setsthe bag of candied almonds on the kitchen table. Still eating one, hewatches the television. He asks, “Where’s that awful little mutt shepicked up … what? Eight years ago?”

He’s an actor now, I say, nodding at thetelevision set. And it was ten years ago. “No,” says the Terrence specimen, “I meantthe Pekingese.”

I shrug, flip the dead bolt, slip the chainand open the door. I tell him the dog’s still around. Probably upstairsnapping. I say to leave the almonds, and I’ll be certain that MissKathie gets them. Standing with the door open, I say good-bye.

On the television, Paco pretends to kiss Vilma Bánky. The senator on the evening news kissesbabies and shakes hands. On another channel, TerrenceTerry catches a bullet fired from a Union musket and dies at theSiege of Atlanta. We’re all merely ghosts whocontinue to linger in Miss Kathie’s world. Phantoms like the scent ofhoneysuckle or almonds. Like vanishing steam. The front doorbell ringsagain.

Taking the candy, I slip the forged loveletter into the paper bag, where Miss Kathie will find it when shearrives home this afternoon, thoroughly shocked and shaved and ravenous.