Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

Still, that’s the trouble with only a singleglance at any star on the horizon. As Elsa Maxwellwould say, “One can never tell for certain if that dazzling, shinyobject is rising or setting.”

Lillian inhales the silence through herburning cigarette. Taps the gray ash onto her bread plate. In a blast ofsmoke, she says, “Did you hear?” She says, “It’s a fact, but Eleanor Rooseveltchewed every hair off my bush.…”

Through all of this—the cigarette smoke andlies and the Second World War—the specimen’sbright brown eyes, they’re looking straight down the table, up thesocial ladder, gazing back, deep, into the famous, fluttering violeteyes of my employer.

If you’ll permit me to break the fourth wall,my name is Hazie Coogan.

My vocation is not that of a paid companion,nor am I a professional housekeeper. It is my role as an old woman toscrub the same pots and pans I scrubbed as a young one—I’ve made mypeace with that fact—and while she has never once touched them, thosepots and pans have always belonged to the majestic, the glorious filmactress Miss Katherine Kenton.

It is my task to soft-boil her daily egg. Iwax her linoleum kitchen floor. The endless job of dusting and polishingthe not insignificant number of bibelots and gold-plated gimcracksawarded to Miss Katie, that job is mine as well. But am I Miss Katherine Kenton’s maid? No more so than the butcherplays handmaiden to the tender lamb.

My purpose is to impose order on MissKathie’s chaos … to instill discipline in her legendary artisticcaprice. I am the person Lolly Parsonsoncereferred to as a “surrogate spine.”

While I may vacuum the carpets of MissKathie’s household and place the orders with the grocer, my true jobtitle is not majordomo so much as mastermind. It might appear that MissKathie is my employer in the sense that she seems to provide me funds inexchange for my time and labor, and that she relaxes and blooms while Itoil; but using that same logic, it could be argued that the farmer isemployed by the pullet hen and the rutabaga.

The elegant KatherineKentonis no more my master than the piano is master to Ignace Jan Paderewski… to paraphrase Joseph L. Mankiewicz, who paraphrased me, who firstsaid and did most of the dazzling, clever things which, later, helpedmake others famous. In that sense you already know me. If you’ve seen Linda Darnellas a truck-stop waitress, sticking apencil behind one ear in Fallen Angel ,you’ve seen me. Darnell stole that bit from me. As does Barbara Lawrencewhen she brays her donkey laugh in Oklahoma . So many great actresses have filched mymost effective mannerisms, and my spot-on delivery, that you’ve seenbits of me in performances by Alice Fayeand Margaret Dumontand Rise Stevens.You’d recognize fragments of me—a raised eyebrow, a nervous handtwirling the cord of a telephone receiver—from countless old pictures.

The irony does not escape me that while Eleanor Powelllays claim to my fashion signatureof wearing numerous small bows, I now boast the red knees of a charwomanand the swollen hands of a scullery maid. No less of an illustrious wagthan Darryl Zanuckonce dismissed me aslooking like Clifton Webbin a glen plaidskirt. Mervyn LeRoyspread the rumor that I amthe secret love child of Wally Beeryand hisfrequent costar Marie Dressler.

Currently, the regular duties of my positioninclude defrosting Miss Kathie’s electric icebox and ironing her bedlinens, yet my position is not that of a laundress. My career is not as acook. Nor is domestic servant my vocation. My life is far less steeredby Katherine Kentonthan her life is by me.Miss Kathie’s daily demands and needs may determine my actions but onlyso much as the limits of a racing automobile will dictate those of thedriver.

I am not merely a woman who works in afactory producing the ever-ravishing Katherine Kenton.I am the factory itself. With the words I write here I am not simply acamera operator or cinematographer; I am the lens itself—flattering,accentuating, distorting—recording how the world will recall mycoquettish Miss Kathie.

Yet I am not just a sorceress. I am thesource.

Miss Kathie exerts only a very small effortto be herself. The bulk of that manual labor is supplied by me in tandemwith a phalanx of wig makers, plastic surgeons and dietitians. Sinceher earliest days under a studio contract it has been my livelihood tocomb and dress her often blond, sometimes brunette, occasionally redhair. I coach the dulcet tones of her voice so as to make everyutterance suggest a line of dialogue scripted for her by Thornton Wilder. Nothing of Miss Kathie is innateexcept for the almost supernatural violet coloring of her eyes. Hers isthe throne, seated in the same icy pantheon as GretaGarboand Grace Kellyand Lana Turner, but mine is the heavy lifting whichkeeps her on high.

And while the goal of every well-trainedhousehold servant is to seem invisible, that is also the goal of anyaccomplished puppeteer. Under my control, Miss Kathie’s household seemsto smoothly run itself, and she appears to run her own life.

My position is not that of a nurse, or amaid, or a secretary. Nor do I serve as a professional therapist or achauffeur or bodyguard. While my job title is none of the preceding, Ido perform all of those functions. Every evening, I pull the drapes.Walk the dog. Lock the doors. I disconnect the telephone, to keep theoutside world in its correct place. However, more and more my job is toprotect Miss Kathie from herself.

Cut direct to an interior, nighttime. We seethe lavish boudoir belonging to Katherine Kenton,immediately following tonight’s dinner party, with my Miss Kathielocked behind her en suite bathroom door. From offscreen, we hear thehiss and splash of a shower bath at full blast.

Despite popular speculation, Miss Katherine Kentonand I do not enjoy what Walter Winchellwould call a “fingers-deepfriendship.” Nor do we indulge in behavior Confidential would cite to brand us as “baritone babes,” or HeddaHopperdescribes as “pink pucker sucking.” The duties of myposition include placing one Nembutaland one Luminalin the cloisonné saucer atop Miss Kathie’sbedside table. In addition, filling an old-fashioned glass tooverflowing with ice cubes and drop-by-drop pouring one shot of whiskeyover the ice. Repeat with a second shot. Then fill the remainder of theglass with soda water.

The bedside table consists of nothing morethan a stack of screenplays. A teetering pile sent by RuthGordonand Garson Kanin, asking myMiss Kathie to make a comeback. Begging, in fact. Here were speculativeBroadway musicals based on actors dressed as dinosaurs or Emma Goldman. Feature-length animated versions of Macbeth by William Shakespearedepicted with baby animals. Voice-over work. The pitch: Bertolt Brechtmeets Lerner andLoewecrossed with Eugene O’Neill. Thepages turn yellow and curl, stained with Scotch whiskey and cigarettesmoke. The paper branded with the brown rings left by every cup of MissKathie’s black coffee.

We repeat this ritual every evening,following whatever dinner party or opening my Miss Kathie has attended.On returning to her town house, I unfasten the eye hook at the top ofher gown and release the zipper. Turn on the television. Change thechannel. Change the television channel once more. Dump the contents ofher evening bag onto the satin coverlet of her bed, Miss Kathie’s Helena Rubinsteinlipstick, keys, charge cards,replacing each item into her daytime bag. I place the shoe trees withinher shoes. Pin her auburn wig to its Styrofoamhead. Next, I light the vanilla- scented candles lined up along themantel of her bedroom fireplace.