Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

In the park, I weave between the tablesshared by chess players. On the table between most pairs sits a clockdisplaying two faces. As each player moves a piece, he slaps a buttonatop the clock, making the second hand on one clock face stop clickingand making the other second hand begin. At one table, an old-man versionof Lex Barkertells another old Peter Ustinov, “Check.” He slaps the two-facedclock.

Seated at the edge of the crowd, my MissKathie sits alone at a table, the top inlaid with the white and blacksquares of a chessboard. Instead of pawns, knights and rooks, the tableholds only a thick ream of white paper. Both her hands clutch the stackof paper, as thick as the script for a Cecil B.DeMilleepic. The lenses of dark sunglasses hide her violet eyes.A silk Hermèsscarf, tied under her chin,hides her movie-star profile. Reflected in her glasses, we see two of meapproach. Twin Thelma Ritters.

Sitting opposite her at the table, I say,“Who’s trying to kill you?” Another ancient SlimSummervillemoves a pawn and says, “Checkmate.”

From the offscreen distance, we hear thefiltered ambient noise of horse carriages clip- clopping along theSixty-fifth Street Traverse. Taxicabs honk on Fifth Avenue.

Miss Kathie shoves the ream of paper, slidingit across the chessboard toward me. She says, “You can’t tell anyone.It’s so humiliating.”

Bark, oink, screech … Screen Star Stalked by Gigolo.

Moo, meow, buzz … Lonely, Aging Film Legend Seduced by Killer.

The stack of papers, she says she discoveredthem while unpacking one of Webb’s suitcases. He’s written a biographyabout their romantic time together. Miss Kathie pushes the stack at me,saying, “Just read what he says.…” Then immediately pulling the pagesback, hunching her shoulders over them and glancing to both sides, shewhispers, “Except the parts about me permitting Mr. Westward to engageme in anal intercourse are a complete and utter fabrication.”

An aged version of AnthonyQuinnslaps a clock, stopping one timer and starting another. Miss Kathie slides the pages within my reach,then pulls them back, whispering, “And just so you know, the scenewhere I perform oral sex on Mr. Westward’s person in the toilet of Sardi’sis also a total bold-faced lie.…”

She looks around again, whispering, “Read itfor yourself,” pushing the stack of pages across the chessboard in mydirection. Then, yanking the pages back, she says, “But don’t youbelieve the part where he writes about me under the table at Twenty-onedoing that unspeakable act with theumbrella.…”

Terrence Terrypredicted this: a handsome young man who would enter Miss Kathie’s lifeand linger long enough to rewrite her legend for his own gain. No matterhow innocent their relationship, he’d merely wait until her death so hecould publish his lurid, sordid tale. No doubt a publisher had alreadygiven him a contract, paid him a sizable advance of monies against theroyalties of that future tell-all best seller. Most of this dreadfulbook was in all probability already typeset. Its cover already designedand printed. Once Miss Kathie was dead, someday, the tawdry lies of thischarming parasite would replace anything valuable she’d accomplishedwith her life. The same way Christina Crawfordhas forever sullied the legend of Joan Crawford.The way B. D. Merrillhas wrecked thereputation of her mother, Bette Davis, and Gary Crosbyhas dirtied the life story of hisfather, Bing Crosby—Miss Kathie would beruined in the eyes of a billion fans.

The type of tome HeddaHopperalways calls a “lie-ography.”

Around the chess pavilion, a breeze movesthrough the maple trees, making a billion leaves applaud. A witheredversion of Will Rogersreaches his old Phil Silvershand to nudge a white king forward onesquare. Near us, an aged Jack Willistouches ablack knight and says, “ J’adoube.”

“That’s French,” Miss Kathie says, “for tout de suite.”

Shaking her head over the manuscript, shesays, “I wasn’t snooping. I was only looking for some cigarettes.” MyMiss Kathie shrugs and says, “What can we do?”

It’s not libel until the book is published,and Webb has no intention of doing that until she’s dead. After that, itwill be his word against hers—but by then, my Miss Kathie will bepacked away, burned to ash and interred with Loverboyand Oliver “Red” Drake, Esq., and all theempty champagne bottles, the dead soldiers, within her crypt.

The solution is simple, I tell her. All MissKathie needs to do is live a long, long life. The answer is … to simplynot die.

And pushing the manuscript pages across thechessboard, shoving them at me, Miss Kathie says, “Oh, Hazie, I wish itwere that simple.”

Printed, centered across the title page, itsays: Love Slave: A Very Intimate Memoir of My Life with Kate Kenton

Copyright and author, Webster Carlton Westward III

This is no partial story, says Miss Kathie.This draft already includes a final chapter. Pulling the ream of paperback to her side of the table, she flips over the stack of pages andturns the last few faceup. Near the ending, her voice lowered to a faintwhisper, only then does she begin to read aloud, saying, “ ‘On thefinal day of Katherine Kenton’s life, she dressed with particularcare.…’ ”

As old men slap clocks to make them stop.

My Miss Kathie whispers to me the detailsabout how, soon, she would die.

Katherine Kentoncontinues reading as voice-over. At first we continue to hear the soundsof the park, the clip-clopping ofhorse-drawn carriages and the calliope music of the carousel, but thesesounds gradually fade. At the same time we dissolve to show Miss Kathieand Webster Carlton Westward IIIlounging inher bed. In voice-over we still hear Miss Kathie’s voice reading, anaudio bridge from the preceding scene: “ ‘… On the final day of Katherine Kenton’s life, she dressed with particularcare.’ ”

Reading from the “lie-ography” written byWebb, the voice-over continues, “ ‘Our lovemaking felt more poignant.Seemingly for no special reason the muscles of her lovely, seasonedvagina clung to the meaty shaft of my love, milking the last passionatejuices. A vacuum, like some haunting metaphor, had already formedbetween our wet, exhausted surfaces, our mouths, our skin and privates,requiring an extra force of effort for us to tear ourselves asunder.’ ”

Continuing to read from the final chapter of Love Slave , MissKathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘Even our arms and legs were reluctant tounknot themselves, to untangle from the snarl of moistened bedclothes.We lay glued together by the adhesive qualities of our spent fluids. Ourshared being pasted into becoming a single living organism. The copioussecretions held us as a second skin while we embraced in the lingeringebb of our sensuous copulations.’ ”

Through heavy star filters, the boudoir sceneappears hazy. Almost as if dense fog or mist fills the bedroom. Bothlovers move in dreamy slow motion. After a beat, we see that the bedroomis Miss Kathie’s but the man and woman are younger, idealized versionsof Webster and Katherine. Like dancers, they rise and groom—the womanbrushing her hair and rolling stockings up her legs, the man popping hiscuffs, inserting cuff links, and brushing lint from his shoulders—withthe exaggerated, stylized gestures of Agnes de Milleor Martha Graham.