Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

Behind him play scenes from The Gene KrupaStory and The Legend of Genghis Khan . MissKatie, filmed in black and white, kisses Bing Crosbyon a penthouse terrace overlooking a beautiful panoramic matte paintingof the Manhattanskyline.

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.

The scene opens with LillianHellmangrappling in barehanded combat with LeeHarvey Oswald, the two of them wrestling and punching each othernear an open window on the sixth floor of the TexasSchool Book Depository, surrounded by prominent stacks ofHellman’s The Little Foxes and The Children’s Hour and TheAutumn Garden . Outside the window, a motorcade glides past,moving through Dealey Plaza, hands waving andflags fluttering. Hellman and Oswald gripping a rifle between them, theyyank the weapon back and forth, neither gaining complete control. With aviolent head butt, slamming her blond forehead into Oswald’s, leavinghis eyes glazed and stunned for a beat, Hellman shouts, “Think, youcommie bastard!” She screams, “Do you really want LBJas your president?”

A shot rings out, and Hellman staggers back,clutching her shoulder where blood spouts in pulsing jets between herfingers. In the distance, the pink Halstonpillbox hat of Jacqueline Kennedymoves out offiring range as we hear a second rifle shot. A third rifle shot. Afourth …

More rifle shots ring out as we dissolve toreveal the kitchen of Katherine Kenton, where Isit at the table, reading a screenplay titled TwentiethCentury Savior authored by Lilly. Sunlight slants in through thealley windows, at a steep angle suggesting late morning or noontime. Inthe background, we see the servants’ stairs, which descend from thesecond floor to the kitchen. The rifle shots continue, an audio bridge,now revealed to be the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, thesound of the fantasy sequence bleeding into this reality.

As I sit reading, a pair of feet appear atthe top of the servants’ stairs, wearing pink mules with thick, heavyheels, clop-clopping lower down the stairsteps to reveal the hem of a filmy pink dressing gown trimmed influttering pink egret feathers. First one bare leg emerges from thesplit in front, pink and polished from the ankle to the thigh; then thesecond leg emerges from the dressing gown, as the figure descends eachstep. The robe flapping around thin ankles. The steps continue, loud asgunshots, until my Miss Kathie fully emerges and stops in the doorway,slumped against one side of the door frame, her violet eyes half closed,her lips swollen, the lipstick smeared around her mouth from cheek tocheek, the red smeared from nose to chin, her face swooning in a cloudof pink feathers. Posed there, Miss Kathie waits for me to look up fromthe Hellman script, and only then does she waft her gaze in my directionand say, “I’m so happy not to be alone any longer.”

Arrayed on the kitchen table are varioustrophies and awards, tarnished gold and silver, displaying differentdegrees of dust and neglect. An open can of silver polish and a soiledbuffing rag sit among them.

Clasping something in both hands, concealedbehind her back, my Miss Kathie says, “I

bought you a present …” and shesteps aside to reveal a box wrapped in silver-foil paper, bound with awide, red-velvet ribbon knotted to create a bow as big as a cabbage. Thebow as deep red as a huge rose.

Miss Kathie’s gaze wafts to the trophies, andshe says, “Throw that junk out—please.” She says, “Just pack them upand put them away in storage. I no longer need the love of everystranger. I have found the love of one perfect man.…”