Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

Bray, bark, buzz … James Mason.

Another nurse retreats, escaping down thestreet when Miss Kathie asks how difficult it might be to dye the hairand diet some pounds off of a particularly rotund cherub.

Another social worker flags a taxicab afterMiss Kathie smears a tiny foundling with Max Factorbase pigment, ladies’ foundation number six.

Pursing her lips, she hovers over the face ofone wee infant, saying, “ Wunderbar …”Exhaling cigarette smoke to add, “That’s the Latin equivalent for que bueno.”

Miss Kathie brandishes each child in thefoyer mirror, hefting it and cuddling its pinched little face, studyingthe effect as if each orphan were a new purse or a stage prop.

Meow, squawk, squeak … Janis Paige.

Another tiny urchin, she leaves smudged withlipstick.

Another, Miss Kathie leans too close, tooquickly, splashing a newborn with the icy-cold Boodlesgin of her martini.

Another, she frowns down upon while her long,glossy fingernails pick at a mole or flaw on its smooth, pink forehead.“As the Spanish would say …” she says, “ qué seráserá.”

This “ kinder kattle kall,” as Cholly Knickerbockerwouldcall it, continues all afternoon. This audition. Prams and strollersform a line which runs halfway to the corner. This buffet of abandonedbabies, the products of unplanned pregnancies, the progeny ofheartbreak—these pink and chubby souvenirs of rape, promiscuity, incest.Impulse. Bottle-fed leftovers of divorce, spousal abuse and fataldisease. Even as the paintbrush, the pink bristles grow stiff in myhand, the babies arrive as proof of poor choices. The sleeping orgiggling flotsam and jetsam, a residue of what seemed at one time to betrue love.

Each innocent, Miss Kathie holds, modeling itfor the foyer mirror. Doing take after take of this same scene. Givingher right profile, her left. Smiling full-face, then fluttering hereyelashes, ducking her movie-star chin, emoting in reaction shots,telling the mirror, “Yes, she is lovely. I’dlike you to meet my daughter: Katherine Jr.”

Telling the mirror, “I’d like to introduce myson, Webster Carlton Westward the Fourth.”She repeats this same line of dialogue with each child before handing itback to the nurse, the nun, the waiting social worker. Comparing paintchips and fabric samples. Picking over each child for scars or defects.And for every infant Miss Kathie sends away, two more arrive to stand inline for a test.

Into the late afternoon, she’s reciting: Bark, cluck, bray … KatherineKenton, Jr.

Oink, quack, moo … Webster Carlton Westward IV.

She performs take after take, hours of thatsame screen test, until the streetlights flicker and blink, flare andshine bright. From the avenue, the sound of traffic fades. Across thestreet, in the windows of town houses, the curtains slide closed.Eventually Miss Kathie’s front steps descend to the sidewalk, empty oforphans.

In the foyer, I stoop to retrieve thebandanna dropped on the floor. The fallen drops of pink paint, smearedand dry, form a fading pink path, a stream of pink spots tracked downthe steps, down the street. A trail of the rejected.

A taxicab pulls to a stop at the curb. Thedriver opens his door, steps out and unlocks the trunk. He removes twosuitcases and places them on the sidewalk, then opens the back door ofthe cab. A foot emerges, a man’s shoe, the cuff of a trouser leg. Aman’s hand grips the door of the cab, a signet ring glinting gold aroundthe little finger. A head of hair emerges from the backseat of the cab,eyes bright brown as root beer. A smile flashes, bright as July Fourthfireworks.

A specimen boasting the wide shoulders of Dan O’Herlihy, the narrow waist of Marlon Brando, the long legs of StephenBoyd, the dashing smile of Joseph Schildkrautplaying Robin Hood.

In the reverse angle, my Miss Kathie rushesto the front door, calling, “Oh, my darling …” Her outstretched arms andthrusting bosom at once a suggestion of Julie Newmarplaying Penelopegreeting Odysseus.Jane Russellin the role of Guineverereunited with Lancelot. Carole Lombardrushingto embrace Gordon MacRae.

Webster Carlton WestwardIIIcalls up the steps, noble as WilliamFrawleyas Romeo Montague, “Kath, mydearest …” Calling, “Do you have three dollars to pay the cabdriver?”

The driver, standing beside the suitcases,stoic as Lewis Stone, gristled as Fess Parker. The cab itself, yellow.

Her auburn hair streaming behind her, MissKathie shouts, “Hazie!” She calls, “Hazie, take Mr. Westward’s luggageto my room!” The two brazen lovers embrace, their lips meeting, whilethe camera circles and circles them in an arch shot, dissolving to afuneral.

Act one, scene twelve opens with anotherflashback. Once more, we dissolve to Katherine Kentoncradling a polished cremation urn in her arms. The setting: again, thedimly lit interior of the Kenton crypt, dressed with cobwebs, the ornatebronze door unlocked and swung open to welcome mourners. A stone shelfat the rear of the crypt, in deep shadow, holds various urns craftedfrom bronze, copper, nickel. The urn in her arms, engraved, Oliver “Red” Drake, Esq. ,Miss Kathie’s fifth “was-band.”

This took place the year when every othersong on the radio was Frank Sinatrasingingthe Count Basiearrangement of “ Bit’n the Dust.”

My Miss Katie hugs the urn, lifting it tomeet the black lace of her veiled face. Behind the veil, her lips. Sheplants a puckered lipstick kiss on the engraved name, then places thisnew urn on the dusty shelf among the others. Amidst the bottles ofbrandy and Luminal. The unlit prayer candles.The only other cast members in this three-shot, myself and Terrence Terry, each of us prop Miss Kathie by oneelbow. What Louella Parsonswould call “palbearers.”

The collection of crematory urns stand amongdusty bottles and magnums of champagne. Vessels of the living and thedead, stacked here in the chilled, dry dark. Miss Kathie’s entirecellar, stored together. The urns stand. The bottles lie on their sides,all of them netted and veiled with cobwebs.

Bark, oink, squeal … Dom Pérignon 1925. Bark, meow, bray … Bollinger 1917.

Terrence Terrypeels the gilded lead from the cork of one bottle. He twists the loop,loosening the wire harness which holds the mushroom cork in the mouth ofthe bottle. Holding the bottle high, pointed toward an empty corner ofthe crypt, Terry pries at the cork with both his thumbs until the popechoes, loud inside the stone room, and a froth of foam gushes from thebottle, spattering on the floor.

Roar, cluck, whinny … Perrier-Jouët. Tweet, quack, growl … Veuve Clicquot. That Tourette’s syndromeof brand names.

Terry lifts a champagne glass from the stoneshelf, holding the bowl of the glass near his face and pursing his lipsto blow dust from it. He hands the glass to Miss Kathie and pours itfull of champagne. A ghost of cold vapor rises from and hovers aroundthe open bottle.

With each of us holding a dusty glassful ofchampagne, Terry lifts his arm in a toast. “To Oliver,” he says.