Whatever the case, I say, a marriage isn’tsomething one undertakes simply to pad one’s résumé. Saying this, I’mretrieving a sheet of blank stationery from the kitchen table, thenpositioning this sheet on the damp window so that it aligns with thelove letter already pasted to the glass.
“Her Majesty doesn’t have to come dine withus,” this Terrence Terry says. “Just tell mewho to stick next to Jane Wyman.”
Using a pen, blue ink, I begin to trace thewriting of the original letter as it glows through this new, blanksheet.
“Lady Katherine can tell me if John Agar is right- or left-handed,” says thisTerrence specimen. “She knows if Rin Tin Tinis male or female.”
Lecturing, still tracing the old letter ontothe new paper, I suggest he begin with a fresh page. An empty dinnertable. Seat Desi Arnaz to the left of Hazel Court. Put Rosemary Clooneyacross from Lex Barker. Fatty Arbuckle alwaysspits as he speaks, so place him opposite BillieDove, who’s too blind to notice. Using my own pen, I elbow intoTerry’s work, drawing arrows from Jean Harlowto Lon Chaney Sr. to DouglasFairbanks Jr. Like Knute Rocknesketching football plays, I circle Gilda Grayand Hattie McDaniel, and I cross out June Haver.
“If she’s starving herself,” says Terrence Terry, watching me work, “she must befalling in love again.” Standing there, he unrolls the top of the whitepaper bag. Reaching into it, Terry lifts out a handful of almonds,pastel shades of pink and green and blue. He slips one into his mouth,chews.
Not only starving, I say, but she’sexercising as well. Loosely put, the physical trainers attach electricwires to whatever muscles they can find on her body and jolt her withshocks that simulate running a steeplechase while being repeatedlystruck by bolts of lightning. I say, It’s very good for herbody—terrible for her hair.
After that ordeal, my Miss Kathie is havingher legs shaved, her teeth whitened, her cuticles pushed back.
Chewing, swallowing, TerrenceTerry says, “Who’s the new romance? Do I know him?” The telephone mounted on the kitchen wallbeside the stove, it rings. I lift the receiver, saying, Hello? Andwait.
The front doorbell rings.
Over the telephone, a man’s voice says, “IsMiss Katherine Kenton at home?” Who, I ask, may I say is calling?
The front doorbell rings.
“Is this Hazie, the housekeeper?” the man onthe telephone says. “My name is Webb Westward. We met a few days ago, atthe mausoleum.”
I’m sorry, I say, but I’m afraid he has thewrong number. This, I say, is the State Residence for CriminallyReckless Females. I ask him to please not telephone again. And I hang upthe receiver.
“I see you’re still,” the Terrence specimensays, “protecting Her Majesty.”
My pen follows the handwritten lines of theoriginal letter, tracing every loop and dot of the words that bleedthrough, copying them onto this new sheet of stationery, the sentence: My Most Dear Katherine, True love is NOT out of yourreach.
I trace the words, I’llarrive to collect you for drinks at eight on Saturday. Tracing the line, Wearsomething smashing.
My pen traces the signature, Webster Carlton Westward III.
We all, more or less, live in her shadow. Nomatter what else we do with our lives, our obituaries will lead with theclause “lifelong paid companion to movie star KatherineKenton” or “fifth husband to film legend KatherineKenton …”
I copy the original letter perfectly, onlyinstead of Saturday I mimic the handwriting,that same slant and angle, to write Friday.Folding this new letter in half, tucking it back into the originalenvelope with Miss Katherine written on theback, licking the glue strip, my tongue tastes the mouth of this Websterspecimen. The lingering flavor of Maxwell Housecoffee. The scent of thin Tiparillocigars and bay rum cologne. The chemistry ofWebb Westward’s saliva. The recipe for his kisses.
Terrence Terry setsthe bag of candied almonds on the kitchen table. Still eating one, hewatches the television. He asks, “Where’s that awful little mutt shepicked up … what? Eight years ago?”
He’s an actor now, I say, nodding at thetelevision set. And it was ten years ago. “No,” says the Terrence specimen, “I meantthe Pekingese.”
I shrug, flip the dead bolt, slip the chainand open the door. I tell him the dog’s still around. Probably upstairsnapping. I say to leave the almonds, and I’ll be certain that MissKathie gets them. Standing with the door open, I say good-bye.
On the television, Paco pretends to kiss Vilma Bánky. The senator on the evening news kissesbabies and shakes hands. On another channel, TerrenceTerry catches a bullet fired from a Union musket and dies at theSiege of Atlanta. We’re all merely ghosts whocontinue to linger in Miss Kathie’s world. Phantoms like the scent ofhoneysuckle or almonds. Like vanishing steam. The front doorbell ringsagain.
Taking the candy, I slip the forged loveletter into the paper bag, where Miss Kathie will find it when shearrives home this afternoon, thoroughly shocked and shaved and ravenous.
ACT I, SCENE SEVEN
In the establishing shot, a taxicab stops inthe street outside Miss Kathie’s town house. Sunshine filters throughthe leaves of trees. Birds sing. The shot moves in, closer and closer,to frame an upstairs window, Miss Kathie’s boudoir, where the drapes aredrawn tight against the afternoon glare.
Inside the bedroom, we cut to a close-up shotof an alarm clock. Pull back to reveal the clock is balanced atop thestack of screenplays beside Miss Kathie’s bed. On the clock, the largerhand sits at twelve, the smaller at three. Miss Kathie’s eyes flutteropen to the reflection of herself staring down, those same violet eyes,from the mirrors within her bed canopy. One languid movie star handflaps and flops, stretching until her fingers find the water glassbalanced beside the clock. Her fingers find the Nembutaland bring the capsule back to her lips. Miss Kathie’s eyelashes flutterclosed. Once more, the hand hangs limp off the side of her bed.
The forged version of the love letter, thecopy I traced, sits in the middle of her mantelpiece, featured centerstage among the lesser invitations and wedding photos. Among thepolished awards and trophies. The original date, Saturday, revised toFriday, tonight. Here’s the setup for a romantic evening that won’thappen. No, Webster Carlton Westward III willnot arrive at eight this evening, and KatherineKenton will sit alone and fully dressed, coiffed, as abandoned asMiss Havisham in the novel by Charles Dickens.
Cut to a shot of the same taxicab as it pullsto the curb in front of a dry cleaner’s. The back car door swingsopens, and my foot steps out. I ask the cabdriver to double-park while Icollect Miss Kathie’s white sable from the refrigerated storage vault.The white fur folded over my arm, it feels impossibly soft but heavy,the pelts slippery and shifting within the thin layer of dry cleanerplastic. The sable glows with cold, swollen with cold in contrast to thewarm daylight and the blistering, cracked-vinyl seat of the cab.
At our next stop, the dressmaker’s, the cabstops for me to pick up the gown my Miss Kathie had altered. After that,we stop at the florist’s to buy the corsage of orchids that MissKathie’s nervous hands will fondle and finger tonight, as eight o’clockcomes and goes and her brown-eyed young beau doesn’t ring the doorbell.Before the clock strikes eight-thirty, Miss Kathie will ask me to pourher a drink. By the stroke of nine, she’ll swallow a Valium.By ten o’clock, these orchids will be shredded. By then, my Miss Kathiewill be drunken, despondent, but safe.