Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

As my Miss Kathie conducts herself behind theen suite bathroom door, amid the rush and steam of her shower bath, hervoice through the door drones: bark, moo, meow … William Randolph Hearst. Snarl, squeal, tweet … AnitaLoos.

In the center of the satin bed sprawls herPekingese, Loverboy, amid a field of wrinkledpaper wrappers, the two cardboard halves of a heart-shaped candy box,the pleated pink brocade-and-silk roses stapled to the box cover, theruched folds of lace frilling the box edges. The bed’s billowing redsatin coverlet, spread with this mess, the cupped candy papers, thesprawling Pekingese dog.

From out of Miss Kathie’s evening bag spillsher cigarette lighter, a pack of Pall Mallcigarettes, her tiny pill box paved with rubies and tourmalines andrattling with Tuinaland Dexamyl. Bark, cluck, squeak … Nembutal. Roar, whinny, oink … Seconal. Meow, tweet, moo … Demerol.

Then, fluttering down, falls a white card.Settling on the bed, an engraved place card from this evening’s dinner.Against the white card stock, in bold, black letters, the name Webster Carlton Westward III.

What Hedda Hopperwould call this moment—a “Hollywood lifetime”—expires.

A freeze-frame. An insert-shot of the small,white card lying on the satin bed beside the inert dog.

On television, my Miss Kathie acts the partof Spain’s Queen Isabella I, escaped from herroyal duties in the Alhambrafor a quickievacation in Miami Beach, pretending to be asimple circus dancer in order to win the heart of ChristopherColumbus, played by Ramon Novarro. Thepicture cuts to a cameo by Lucille Ball, onloan out from Warner Bros. and cast as MissKathie’s rival, Queen Elizabeth I.

Here is all of Western history, rendered thebitch of William Wyler.

Behind the bathroom door, in the gush of hotwater, my Miss Kathie says: bark, bray, oink … J. Edgar Hoover. My ears straining to hear herprattle.

Fringe dangles off the edge of the red satincoverlet, the bed canopy, the window valance. Everything upholstered inred velvet, cut velvet. Flocked wallpaper. The scarlet walls, padded andbutton tufted, crowded with Louis XIVmirrors. The lamps, dripping with faceted crystals, busy with sparklingthingamabobs. The fireplace, carved from pink onyx and rose quartz. Theentire effect, insular and silent as sleeping tucked deep inside Mae West’s vagina.

The four-poster bed, its trim and moldingslacquered red, polished until the wood looks wet. Lying there, the candywrappers, the dog, the place card.

Webster Carlton WestwardIII, the American specimen with bright brown eyes. Root- beereyes. The young man seated so far down the table at tonight’s dinner. Atelephone number, handwritten, a prefix in MurrayHill.

On the television, JoanCrawfordenters the gates of Madrid,wearing some gauzy harem getup, both her hands carrying a wicker basketin front of her, the basket spilling over with potatoes and Cubancigars, her bare limbs and face painted black to suggest she’s acaptured Mayan slave. The subtext being either Crawford’s carryingsyphilis or she’s supposed to be a secret cannibal. Tainted spoils ofthe New World. A concubine. Perhaps she’s an Aztec.

That slight lift of one naked shoulder,Crawford’s shrug of disdain, here is another signature gesture stolenfrom me.

Above the mantel hangs a portrait of MissKatherine painted by Salvador Dalí;it risesfrom a thicket of engraved invitations and the silver-framed photographsof men whom Walter Winchellwould call“was-bands.” Former husbands. The painting of my Miss Kathie, hereyebrows arch in surprise, but her heavy eyelashes droop, the eyelidsalmost closed with boredom. Her hands spread on either side of her face,her fingers fanning from her famous cheekbones to disappear into hermovie star updo of auburn hair. Her mouth something between a laugh and ayawn. Valiumand Dexedrine.Between Lillian Gishand TallulahBankhead. The portrait rises from the invitations andphotographs, future parties and past marriages, the flickering candlesand half-dead cigarettes stubbed out in crystal ashtrays threading whitesmoke upward in looping incense trails. This altar to my Katherine Kenton.

Me, forever guarding this shrine. Not so mucha servant as a high priestess.

In what Winchell would call a “New Yorkminute” I carry the place card to the fireplace. Dangle it within acandle flame until it catches fire. With one hand, I reach into thefireplace, deep into the open cavity of carved pink onyx and rosequartz, grasping in the dark until my fingers find the damper and wrenchit open. Holding the white card, Webster CarltonWestward III, twisting him in the chimney draft, I watch a flameeat the name and telephone number. The scent of vanilla. The ash fallsto the cold hearth.

On the television, PrestonSturgesand Harpo Marxenter as Tycho Braheand Copernicus.The first arguing that the earth goes around the sun, the latterinsisting the world actually orbits Rita Hayworth.The picture is called Armada of Love , and David O. Selznickshot it on the Universalback lot the year when every other song on the radio was Helen O’Connellsinging “ Bewitched,Bothered and Bewildered,”backed by the JimmyDorseyband.

The bathroom door swings open, Miss Kathie’svoice saying: bark, yip, cluck-cluck … Maxwell Anderson. Her KatherineKentonhair turbaned in a white bath towel. Her face layered witha mask of pulped avocado and royal jelly. Pulling the belt of her robetight around her waist, my Miss Kathie looks at the lipstick dumped onher bed. The scattered cigarette lighter and keys and charge cards. Theempty evening bag. Her gaze wafts to me standing before the fireplace,the tongues of candle flame licking below her portrait, her lineup of“was-bands,” the invitations, all those future obligations to enjoyherself, and—of course—the flowers.

Perched on the mantel, that altar, alwaysenough flowers for a honeymoon suite or a funeral. Tonight features atall arrangement of white spider chrysanthemums, white lilies and spraysof yellow orchids, bright and frilly as a cloud of butterflies.

With one hand, Miss Kathie sweeps aside thelipstick and keys, the cigarette pack, and she settles herself on thesatin bed, amid the candy wrappers, saying, “Did you burn something justnow?”

Katherine Kentonremains among the generation of women who feel that the most sincereform of flattery is the male erection. Nowadays, I tell her thaterections are less likely a compliment than they are the result of somemedical breakthrough. Transplanted monkey glands, or one of those newmiracle pills.

As if human beings—men in particular—need yetanother way to lie. I ask, Did she misplace something?

Her violet eyes waft to my hands. Petting herPekingese, Loverboy, dragging one handthrough the dog’s long fur, Miss Kathie says, “I do get so tired ofbuying my own flowers.…”

My hands, smeared black and filthy from thehandle of the fireplace damper. Smudged with soot from the burned placecard. I wipe them in the folds of my tweed skirt. I tell her I wasmerely disposing of some trash. Only incinerating a random piece ofworthless trash.