Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

Miss Kathie’s voice, reading, says, “ ‘Onlythe beckoning prospect of dinner reservations at the CubRoom, a shared repast of lobster thermidorand steak Dianein the scintillating company of Omar Sharif, Alla Nazimova, Paul Robeson, LillianHellmanand Noah Beerycoaxed us torise and dress for the exciting evening ahead.’ ”

As the voice-over continues, the loversdress. They seem to orbit each other, continuing to fall into eachother’s embrace, then straying apart.

“ ‘Donning a BrooksBrothersdouble-breasted tuxedo,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘Icould envision an infinite number of such evenings stretching into ourshared future of love. Leaning close to tie my white bow tie, Katherinesaid, “You have the largest, most gifted penis of any man alive.” Irecall the moment distinctly.’ ”

The voice-over continues, “ ‘Inserting awhite orchid in my buttonhole, Katherine said, “I would die without youplumbing my salty depths.”

“ ‘In retrospect, I think,’ ” Miss Kathie’svoice-over says, “ ‘ “If only that were true.” ’ ” As the idealized Katherine and Webster caresseach other, the voice-over says, “ ‘I fastened the back of her enticing Valentinofrock, offering my arm to guide herfrom the bedchamber, down the steps of her elegant residence to thebusy street, where I might engage a passing conveyance.’ ”

The idealized lovers seem to float from theboudoir down the town house stairs, hand in hand, floating through thefoyer and down the porch steps to the sidewalk. In contrast to theirlanguid movements, the street traffic rushes past with ominous roars,motortrucks and taxicabs, blurred with speed.

“ ‘As the stream of vehicles whizzed pastus,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘almost invisible in their high velocity,I sank to one knee on the curb.’ ”

The idealized Webb kneels before theidealized Miss Kathie.

“ ‘Taking her limpid hand, I ask if she—themost glorious queen of theatrical culture—would consider wedding me, amere presumptuous mortal.…’ ”

In soft-focus slow motion, the idealized Webblifts the hand of the idealized Katherine until the long, smoothfingers meet his pursed lips. He plants a kiss on the fingers, the backof the hand, the palm.

The voice-over continues, “ ‘At that momentof our tremendous happiness, my beloved Katherine—the only great idealof the twentieth century—stumbled from the treacherous curbstone …’ ”

In real time, we see the flash of a chromebumper and radiator grille. We hear brakes screech and tires squeal. Ascream rings out.

“ ‘… falling,’ ” the voice-over reads, “‘directly into the deadly path of a speeding omnibus.’ ”

Still reading from Love Slave , Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “‘The end.’ ”

Bark, moo, meow … Final curtain. Growl, roar, oink … Fade to black.

Webb planned to kill her on this night.Tonight they had dinner reservations at the Cub Roomwith Alla Nazimova, Omar Sharif, Paul Robesonand … Lillian Hellman. Their plans had beento spend the afternoon together, dress late and catch a taxicab to therestaurant. Miss Kathie hands me the manuscript, telling me to sneak itback to its hiding place in Webb’s suitcase, under his shirts, but ontop of his shoes, tucked tight into one corner.

This scene begins with a very long shot ofthe chess pavilion atop the Kinderbergrocks.From this distance my Miss Kathie and I appear as two minute figureswandering down a path from the pavilion, dwarfed by the background ofskyscrapers, lost in the huge landscape, but our voices soundingdistinct and clear. Around us, a hush has fallen over the din and sirensof the city.

Walking in the distance, the pair of us aredistinct as the only two figures that remain together. Always in thecenter of this very, very long shot. Around us, single, distant figuresjog, skate, stroll, but Miss Kathie and I move across the visual fieldat the same even pace, two dots traveling in a straight line as if wewere a single entity, walking in identical slow strides. In tandem. Oursteps the same length.

As our twin pinprick figures cross the wideshot, Miss Kathie’s voice says, “We can’t go to the police.”

In response, my voice asks, Why not?

“And we mustn’t mention this to anyone in thepress, either,” says Miss Kathie. Her voice continues, “I will not behumiliated by a scandal.”

It’s not a crime to write a story aboutsomeone’s demise, she says, especially not a movie star, a publicfigure. Of course, Miss Kathie could file a restraining order allegingWebb had abused her or made threats, but that would make this sordidepisode a matter of public record. An aging film queen suckered intodyeing her hair, dieting and nightclub hopping, she’d look like thedoddering fool from the Thomas Mannnovella.

Even if Webb didn’t, the tabloids would slayher.

She and I, almost invisible in the distance,continue to move through the width of this long, long shot. Around usthe park drops into twilight. Still, the paired specks of us move at thesame steady speed, no more fast or more slow. As we walk, the cameratracks, always keeping us at the very center of the shot.

A clock chimes seven times. The clock towerin the park zoo. The dinner reservations are for eighto’clock.

“Webb has written the whole dreadful book,”says the voice of Miss Kathie. “Even if I confront him, even if I avoidtonight’s conspiracy, his plot might not end here.”

Among the ambient background sounds, we hear apassing bus, a roaring reminder of my Miss Kathie being crushed tobloody sequins. Possibly only an hour or two from now. Her movie- starauburn hair and perfect teeth, white and gleaming as the dentures of Clark Gable, would be lodged in a grinning chromeradiator grille. Her violet eyes would burst from their painted socketsand stare up from the gutter at a mob of her appalled fans.

The evening grows darker as our tiny figuresmove toward the edge of the park, nearing Fifth Avenue. At one instant,all the streetlights blink on, bright.

In that same instant, one tiny figure stopswalking while the second figure takes a few more steps, moving ahead.

The voice of Miss Kathie says, “Wait.” Shesays, “We have to see where this is going. We’ll have to read the seconddraft and the third and the fourth drafts, to see how far Webb will goto complete his awful book.”

I must sneak this draft back into hissuitcase, and every day, as Miss Kathie foils each subsequent murderattempt, we need to look for the next draft so we can anticipate thenext plot. Until we can think of a solution.

As the traffic light changes, we cross Fifth.

Cut to the pair of us approaching MissKathie’s town house, a medium shot as we ascend the front steps to thedoor. From the street, in the second-floor window of her boudoir, we seethat a hairy hand holds the curtains open a crack and bright brown eyeswatch us arrive. From within the house, we hear footsteps thunder downthe stairs. The front door swings open, and Mr. Westward stands in thelight of the foyer. He wears the double-breasted BrooksBrotherstuxedo cited in the last chapter of Love Slave . An orchidin his lapel buttonhole. The two ends of a white bow tie hang, loopedand loose around his collar, and Webster CarltonWestward IIIsays, “We’ll need to hurry to stay on schedule.”Looking down on us, he holds each end of his tie and leans forward,saying, “Would it kill you to help me with this?”