Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

A small constellation of stylists orbit MissKathie. Sydney Guilaroffand M. La Barbetuck away stray hairs, patting andsmoothing the sides of Miss Kathie’s pristine updo. MaxFactordabs the finishing touches on her makeup. My position isnot that of a bridesmaid or flower girl. I am not a formal member of thewedding party, but I shake out Miss Kathie’s train and spread its fulllength. At the back of the church I tell her to smile, and slip myfinger between her lips to scratch a smear of lipstick off one upperincisor. I toss the veil over her head and ask if she’s certain shewants to do this.

Her violet eyes gleaming behind the haze ofBelgian lace, vivid as flowers under a layer of hoarfrost, Miss Kathiesays, “ C’est la vie.”

She says, “That’s Russian talk for ‘I do.’ ”

In an impulsive gesture I lift her veil andlean forward, putting my lips to her powdered cheek. There, the taste of Mitsoukoperfume and the dust of talc meet mymouth. Ducking my head and twisting my face away, I sneeze.

My darling Miss Kathie says, “ Ich liebe dich.” Adding, “That’s how the Frenchsay, ‘Gesundheit.’ ”

Standing near us, donning a dove gray morningcoat, Lillian Hellmansnaps her fingers— onesnap, two snaps, three snaps—and jerks her head toward the pews filledwith guests. Lilly offers her arm and links it through Miss Kathie’s,guiding her to the head of the church’s center aisle. My Miss Kathie’sarms, garbed in white, elbow-length gloves, her gloved hands clasp abouquet of white roses, freesia and snowdrops. TheVienna Boys Choirsings “ Some EnchantedEvening.” Marian Andersonsings “ I’m Just aGirl Who Can’t Say No.”The Sammy KayeOrchestraplays “ Green-sleeves”as theshining satin and white lace of Miss Kathie drifts a step, drifts astep, drifts another step away, leaving me. Arm in arm with Lilly, shestalks closer to the altar, where Fanny Bricestands as the matron of honor. Louis B. Mayerwaits to officiate. A bower arches above them, twining with countlesspink Nancy Reaganroses and yellow lilies.Among the flowers loom a thicket of newsreel cameras and boommicrophones.

Miss Kathie walks what WalterWinchellcalls “the bridal mile” wearing what SheilahGrahamcalls “very off-white” posing what HeddaHoppercalls a “veiled threat.”

“Something old, something new, somethingborrowed,” Louella Parsonswould write in hercolumn, “and something extremely fishy.”

Miss Kathie seems too ready to be placedunder what Elsa Maxwellcalls “spouse arrest.” At the altar LonMcCallistercools his heels as best man, standing next to a brownpair of eyes. This year’s groom, the harried, haggard, battle-scarred Webster Carlton Westward III. Crowding the bride’s side of the church, theguests include Kay Francisand Donald O’Connor, Deanna Durbinand Mildred Coles, George Bancroftand Bonita Granvilleand AlfredHitchcock, Franchot Toneand Greta Garbo,all the people who failed to attend the funeral for little Loverboy.

As Metro-Goldwyn-Mayerwould say, “More stars than there are in heaven …”

On her trip to the altar, my Miss Kathiethrows looks and kisses to Cary Grantand Theda Bara. She waves a white-gloved hand at Arthur Millerand Deborah Kerrand Danny Kaye. From behind her veil shesmiles at Johnny Walker, Laurence Olivier, RandolphScottand Freddie Bartholomew, Buddy Pepper,Billy Halop, Jackie Cooperand a tiny SandraDee.

Her gaze wafting to a familiar mustache, MissKathie sighs, “ Groucho!”

It’s through a veil that my darling MissKathie most looks like her true self. Like someone who throws you a lookfrom the window of a train, or from the opposite side of a busy street,blurred behind speeding traffic, a face whom you could wed in thatmoment and imagine yourself happy to live with forever. Her face,balanced and composed, so full of potential and possibility, she lookslike the answer to everything wrong. Just to meet her violet eyes feelslike a blessing.

In the basement of this same building, withinthe crypt that holds her former “was-band”

Oliver“Red” Drake, Esq., alongside the ashes of Lotharioand Romeoand Loverboy,amid the dead soldiers of empty champagne bottles, down there waits themirror which contains her every secret. That defaced mirror of Dorian Gray, it forms a death mask even as the worldkills her a little more each year. That scratched web of scars etchedby myself wielding the same Harry Winstondiamond that the Webster specimen now slips on her finger.

But wrapped in the lace of a wedding veil myMiss Kathie always becomes a promising new future. The camera lightsflare amidst the flowers, the heat wilting and scorching the roses andlilies. The smell of sweet smoke.

This wedding scene reveals Webb as abrilliant actor, taking Miss Kathie in his arms he bends her backward,helpless, as his lips push her even further off balance. His brightbrown eyes sparkle. His gleaming smile simply moons and beams.

Miss Kathie hurtles her bouquet at a crowdthat includes Lucille Ball, Janet Gaynor, CoraWitherspoonand Marjorie Mainand Marie Dressler. A mad scramble ensues between June Allyson, Joan Fontaineand MargaretO’Brien. Out of the fray Ann Rutherfordemerges clutching the flowers. We all throw rice supplied by Ciro’s.

Zasu Pittscuts thewedding cake. Mae Murrayminds the guestbook.

In a quiet moment during which Miss Kathiehas exited to change out of her wedding gown, I sidle up beside thegroom. As my wedding gift to Webb, I slip him a few sheets of printedpaper.

Those dulled brown eyes look at the pages,reading the words Love Slave typed across the top margin, and he says, “What’s this?”

Brushing rice from the shoulders of his coat,I say, “Don’t play coy.…”

Those pages already belong to him, stolenfrom his suitcase, I’m merely returning them to their rightful owner.Saying this, I straighten his boutonniere, smoothing his lapels.

Lifting the first page, scanning it, the Webbreads, “ ‘No one will ever know why Katherine Kentoncommitted suicide on what seemed like such a joyous occasion.…’ ” Hisbright brown eyes look at me, then back to the page, and he continues toread.

We continue with the audio bridge of Webster Carlton Westward IIIreading, “ ‘… Katherine Kentoncommitted suicide on what seemedlike such a joyous occasion.’ ”

The mise-en-scène shows my Miss Kathie in herdressing room, backstage, the soft-focus stand-in perfect and lovely asif filmed through a veil. We watch as she sits at her dressing table,leaning into her reflection in the mirror, fixing the final smears ofblood and scars and crusted scabs for her upcoming Guadalcanalbattle scene. From outside the closed dressing room door we hear avoice call, “Two minutes, Miss Kenton.”

The voice-over continues reading, “ ‘It hadlong been rumored that Oliver “Red” Drake, Esq.,had taken his own life, after traces of cyanide were uncoveredfollowing his sudden death. Although no suicide note was ever found, anda subsequent inquest was unable to reach a conclusion, Drake wasreported to be severely despondent, according to Katherine’s maid, Hazie Coogan. …’ ”