Miss Kathie’s movie-star flesh has barelycooled, and already she’s been absorbed into the Hellman mythos. MissLilly’s own name-dropping form of Tourette’s syndrome.
While the footmen pour wine and clear thesorbet dishes, Lillian’s hands swim through the air, her cigarettetrailing smoke, her fingernails clawing at an invisible burglar. In herdinner party story, Lilly continues to spar and struggle with the maskedgunman. In their grappling, they fire a shot, which Hellman dramatizesby slapping her open palm on the table, making the silverware jump andthe stemware ring together.
From my place, seated well below the salt, Imerely listen to Lilly spin more gold into her own self-promoting dross.On my knee I bounce a jolly plump infant, one of the many orphans sentfor Miss Kathie to review. Under my breath, I say a silent prayer that Imight die after Lilly. To my left and right, from the head to the footof the table, Eva LeGallienne, Napier Alington, Blanche Bates, JeanneEagels, we all say the same prayer. GeorgeJean Nathan of Smart Set magazinedraws a fountain pen from his chest pocket and scribbles notes on anapkin. Edwin Schallert of the Los Angeles Times spies him, taking notes aboutNathan’s notes. Bertram Block jots notes aboutSchallert’s notes about Nathan’s notes.
The possibility of dying before Lillian Hellman … dying and becoming merely fodderfor Lilly’s mouth. A person’s entire life and reputation reduced to somegolem, a Frankenstein’s monster Miss Hellman can reanimate andmanipulate to do her bidding. That would be a fate worse than death, tospend eternity in harness, serving as Lilly Hellman’s zombie, broughtback to life at dinner parties. On radio shows and in Hellman’sautobiographies.
It was Walter Winchellwho once said, “After any dinner with Lilly Hellman, you don’t cravedessert and coffee—what you really need is the antidote.”
Even the most illustrious names, once they’redead long enough, are reduced to silly animal sounds. Grunt, bark, bray … Ford MadoxFord … Miriam Hopkins … Randle Ayrton.
Seated to my right, CharlieMcCarthy congratulates me on the success of my book. As of thisweek, Paragon has been at number one on the New York Times best-seller list for twenty- eightweeks.
Seated across the table, MadeleineCarroll inquires in that rich British accent of hers, asking thename of the child in my lap.
In response, I explain how this tinyfoundling had been adopted by Miss Kathie, and now I have become itslegal guardian. I’ve inherited the town house, the rights to Paragon, all of the investments and this child,who sputters and smiles, a perfect blond angel. Its name, I explain, is Norma Jean Baker.
No, none of us seem so very real.
We’re only supporting characters in the livesof each other.
Any real truth, any precious fact will alwaysbe lost in a mountain of shattered make-believe.
I signal, and a footman pours more wine. Inmy mind, I’m already crafting a story wherein LillianHellman thrashes and fusses and plays the boring, egomaniacalfool. Lillian Hellman plays the villain theway Webster plays the villain. In my own story of tonight, this dinnerparty, I’ll be cool and collected and right. I shall say the perfectrejoinder. I will play the hero.
Please promise you did NOThear this from me. Cut. Print it. Roll credits.