Tell All

ACT I, SCENE NINE

“The most cunning compliments,” playwright William Inge once wrote, “seem to flatter theperson who bestows them even more than they do the person who receivesthem.”

Once more we dissolve into flashback. Beginwith a swish pan, fast enough to blur everything, then gradually slow toa long crane shot, swooping above round tables, each dinner tablecircled with seated guests. The gleam of every eye turns toward adistant stage; the sparkle of diamond necklaces and beaming,boiled-white tuxedo shirts reflect that far-off spotlight. We movethrough this vast field of white tablecloths and silverware as the shotadvances toward the stage. Every shoulder turns, twisted to watch a manstanding at a podium. As the shot comes into deep focus, we see thespeaker, Senator Phelps Russell Warner,standing behind the microphone.

A screen fills the upstage wall, flashingwith gray images of a motion picture. For a few words, the figure of Katherine Kenton appears on-screen, wearing acorseted silk ball gown as Mrs. Ludwig van Beethoven.As her husband, Spencer Tracy, snores in thebackground, she hunches over a roll of parchment, quill pen squeezedbetween her blue fingers, finishing the score to his MoonlightSonata. Her enormous face glowing, blindingly bright, from thesilver-nitrate film stock. Her eyes flashing. Her teeth blazing white.

In the audience, every face is cast inchiaroscuro, half lost in the darkness, half lost in the glare of thatdistant light. Forgetting themselves outside of this moment, theaudience sits aware only of the man onstage and his voice. Over all, wehear the rolling thunder of the senator’s voice boosted throughmicrophones, amplifiers, loudspeakers; this booming voice says, “Sheserves as our brilliant light, forever guiding forward the rest of usmortals.…”

Across the surface of the screen, we see myMiss Kathie in the role of Mrs. Alexander Graham Bell,elbowing her husband, James Stewart, aside soshe can listen covertly to Mickey Rooney ontheir party line, wasp-waisted in a high-collar dress. Her Gibson-girlhair crowned with a picture hat of drooping egret plumes.

This, the year when every other song on theradio was Doris Day singing “HappinessIs Just a Thing Called Joe” backed by the BunnyBerigan Orchestra. In the audience, no single face draws ourfocus. Despite their pearls and bow ties, everyone looks plain as oldcharacter players, dress extras, happy to shoot a scene sitting down.

At the microphone, the senator continues,“Her sense of noble purpose and steadfast course of action sets thepattern for our highest aspirations.…” His voice sounds deep and steadyas a Harry Houdini or a FranzAnton Mesmer.

This prattle, further example of what Walter Winchell means by the term“toast- masturbating.” Or “laud mouthing,” according to Hedda Hopper. According to LouellaParsons, “implying gilt.”

Turning his head to one side, the senatorlooks off stage right, saying, “She visits our drab world like an angelfrom some future age, where fear and stupidity have been vanquished.…”

The camera follows his eye line to revealMiss Kathie and myself standing in the wings, her violet eyes fixed onthe senator’s spotlighted figure. Him in his black tuxedo. Her in awhite gown, one elbow bent to crush a pale hand to her heart. Cue thelighting change, bring down the key light, boost the fill light toisolate Miss Kathie in the wings. Block the scene with the senator as agroom, standing before a congregation, taking his vows prior to givingher some tin trophy painted gold in lieu of a wedding ring.

It’s no wonder such bright lights seeminvariably surrounded by the dried husks of so many suicidal insects.

“As a woman, she radiates charm andcompassion,” says the senator, his voice echoing about the hall. “As aperson, she proves an eternal marvel.” With each word, he climbs to herstatus, fusing himself to her name recognition and laying claim to theenormous dowry of her fame in his upcoming bid for reelection.

Upstage, the vast luminous face of my MissKathie hovers on-screen in the role of Mrs. ClaudeMonet, painting his famous water lilies. Her perfect complexioncare of Lilly Daché. Her lips, Pierre Phillipe.

“She is the mother we wish we’d had. The wifewe dream of finding. The woman whom all others measure themselvesagainst,” the senator says, shining and polishing Miss Kathie’s imagebefore the moment of her appearance. Before he presents her to thisaudience of the faithful. This stranger she’s never met, coaxing herfans to a low-key frenzy of anticipation before she joins him in thespotlight.

More “projectile praise” and “force fawning”or “compliment vomit,” in the eyes of ChollyKnickerbocker.

Everything sounds so much better when itcomes out of a man’s mouth.

Clasped in my hands, a screenplay rolledtight, here is the only prospect for work my Miss Kathie has beenoffered in months. A horror flick about an aged voodoo priestesscreating an army of zombies to take over the world. At the finale, thefemale lead is dismembered, screaming, and eaten by wild monkeys. Lynn Fontanne and Irene Dunnehave already passed on this project.

That trophy held by the senator, it willnever shine as bright as it shines at this moment before it’s received,while this object is still beyond Miss Kathie’s grasp. From thisdistance apart, the senator and she both look so perfect, as if eachoffers the other some complete bliss. Senator PhelpsRussell Warner, he’s the stranger who would become her sixth“was-band.” Himself a prize that seems worth the effort to dust andpolish over the remainder of her lifetime.

Every coronation contains elements of farce.You must be a toothless, aged lion, indeed, before this many people willrisk petting you. All of these tin-plate copies of KennethTynan, trying to insist their opinions count for anything.Ridiculous clockwork copies of George Bernard Shawand Alexander Woollcott. These failed actorsand writers, a mob that’s never created worthwhile art, they’re nowoffering to carry the train of Miss Kathie’s gown, hoping to hitch aride with her to immortality.

Using a strong eye light, go to a mediumclose-up shot of Miss Kathie’s face, her reaction, as the senator’soff-camera voice says, “This woman offered the best of an era. Sheblazed paths where none had braved to venture. To her alone belong suchmemorable roles as Mrs. Count Dracula and Mrs. President Andrew Jackson.…”

Behind him play scenes from TheGene KrupaStory and The Legend ofGenghis Khan. MissKatie, filmed in black and white, kisses Bing Crosbyon a penthouse terrace overlooking a beautiful panoramic matte paintingof the Manhattan skyline.

In the spotlight, the senator’s florid, nakedforehead shines as bright as the award. He stands tall, with wideshoulders tapering to his patent-leather shoes. A pink-flesh facsimileof the Academy Award. Above and behind hisears, the remainder of his hair retreats as if hiding from the crowd’sattention. It’s pathetic how easily a strong spotlight can wipe away anytrace of a person’s age or character.

It’s this pink mannequin saying, “Hers is abeauty which will linger in the collective mind until the end ofhumanity; hers is a courage and intelligence which showcase the best ofwhat human beings can accomplish.…”

By praising the frailty of this woman, thesenator looks stronger, more noble, generous, loving, even taller andmore grateful. This oversize man achieves a humility, fawning over thistiny woman. Such beautiful, false compliments—the male equivalent of awoman’s screaming fake orgasm. The first designed to get a woman intobed. The second to more quickly complete sexual intercourse and get aman out of bed. As the senator says these words which every woman cravesto hear, he evolves. His broad shoulders and thick neck of a cavemanbecome those of a loving father, an ideal husband. A humble servant.This savage Neanderthal shape shifts. His teeth becoming a smile morethan a snarl. His hairy hands tools instead of weapons.

“Tonight, we humbly beseech her to accept ouradmiration,” says the senator, cradling the trophy in the crook of onearm. “But she is the prize which all men wish to win. She is thecrowning jewel of our American theatrical tradition. So that we mightgive her our appreciation, ladies and gentlemen, may I give you … Katherine Kenton.”

Earning applause, not for any performance,but for simply not dying. This occasion, both her introduction to thesenator and her wedding night.

I suppose it’s a comfort, perhaps a sense ofself-control, doing worse damage to yourself than the world will everdare inflict.

Tonight, yet another foray into the greatwasteland which is middle age.

Upon that cue, my Miss Kathie takes thespotlight, entering stage right to thunderous applause. More starved forapplause than for any chicken dinner the occasion might offer. Thescene shattered by the flash of hundreds of cameras. Smiling with herarms flung wide, she enters the senator’s embrace and accepts that gaudypiece of gilded trash.

Coming out of the flashback, we slowlydissolve to a tight shot which reveals this same trophy, engraved, From the Greater Inland Drama Maniacs of WesternSchuyler County. Over a decade later it sits on a shelf, the goldclouded with tarnish, the whole of it netted with cobwebs. A beat latera scrap of white cloth wraps the trophy; a hand lifts it from theshelf. With further pullback, the shot reveals me, dusting in thedrawing room of the town house. Polishing. Stray spiderwebs cling to myface, and a halo of dust motes swirl around my head. Outside thewindows, darkness. My gaze fixed on nothing one can actually see.

From offscreen, we hear a key turn in thelock of the front door. A draft of air stirs my hair as we hear theheavy door open and shut. The sound of footsteps ascending the mainstaircase from the foyer to the second floor. We hear a second door openand shut.

Abandoning the trophy, the dust cloth stillin one hand, I follow the sound of footsteps up the stairs to where MissKathie’s boudoir door is closed. A clock strikes two in some farawaypart of the house as I knock at the door, asking if Miss Kathie needshelp with her zipper. If she needs me to set out her pills. To draw herbath and light the candles on her fireplace mantel. The altar.

Through the boudoir door, no answer. When Igrip the knob, it refuses to turn in either direction. Fixed. This doorMiss Kathie has never locked. Pressing one dusty cheek to the wood, Iknock again, listening. Instead of an answer, a faint sigh issues frominside. The sigh repeats, louder, then more loud, becoming the squeak ofbedsprings. The only answer is that squeak of bedsprings, repeating, asqueak as high-pitched and regular as laughter.