Tell-All

incentive,”the man says, “tell Her Majesty that I’ve brought her favorite candy … Jordan almonds.”
    Her Majesty won’t eat a bite, I tell him.
    This man, this same face smiles out from the frontline skirmishes on television, amid the Battle of Gettysburg— this is Terrence Terry , formerly Mr. Katherine Kenton, former dancer under contract at Lasky Studios , former paramour to Montgomery Clift , former catamite to James Whale and Don Ameche , former cosodomite to William Haines , former sexual invert, the fifth “was-band,” in crisis about whom to seat next to Celeste Holm at a dinner he’s hosting tonight.
    “This is an entertainment emergency,” the Terrence specimen says, “I need Katherine to tell me: Does Jack Buchanan hate Dame May Whitty?”
    I say that he should’ve gone to prison for wedding Miss Kathie. That it’s illegal for homosexuals to get married.
    “Only to each other,” he says, stepping into the kitchen.
    I close the alley door, lock the knob, slip the chain, flip the dead bolt.
    Whatever the case, I say, a marriage isn’t something one undertakes simply to pad one’s résumé. Saying this, I’m retrieving a sheet of blank stationery from the kitchen table, then positioning this sheet on the damp window so that it aligns with the love letter already pasted to the glass.
    “Her Majesty doesn’t have to come dine with us,” this Terrence Terry says. “Just tell me who to stick next to Jane Wyman.”
    Using a pen, blue ink, I begin to trace the writing of the original letter as it glows through this new, blank sheet.
    “Lady Katherine can tell me if John Agar is right- or left-handed,” says this Terrence specimen. “She knows if Rin Tin Tin is male or female.”
    Lecturing, still tracing the old letter onto the new paper, I suggest he begin with a fresh page. An empty dinner table. Seat Desi Arnaz to the left of Hazel Court . Put Rosemary Clooney across from Lex Barker. Fatty Arbuckle always spits as he speaks, so place him opposite Billie Dove , who’s too blind to notice. Using my own pen, I elbow into Terry’s work, drawing arrows from Jean Harlow to Lon Chaney Sr . to Douglas Fairbanks Jr . Like Knute Rockne sketching football plays, I circle Gilda Gray and Hattie McDaniel , and I cross out June Haver .
    “If she’s starving herself,” says Terrence Terry , watching me work, “she must be falling in love again.” Standing there, he unrolls the top of the white paper 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’s exercising as well. Loosely put, the physical trainers attach electric wires to whatever muscles they can find on her body and jolt her with shocks that simulate running a steeplechase while being repeatedly struck by bolts of lightning. I say, It’s very good for her body—terrible for her hair.
    After that ordeal, my Miss Kathie is having her legs shaved, her teeth whitened, her cuticles pushed back.
    Chewing, swallowing, Terrence Terry says, “Who’s the new romance? Do I know him?”
    The telephone mounted on the kitchen wall beside the stove, it rings. I lift the receiver, saying, Hello? And wait.
    The front doorbell rings.
    Over the telephone, a man’s voice says, “Is Miss Katherine Kenton at home?”
    Who, I ask, may I say is calling?
    The front doorbell rings.
    “Is this Hazie, the housekeeper?” the man on the telephone says. “My name is Webb Westward. We met a few days ago, at the mausoleum.”
    I’m sorry, I say, but I’m afraid he has the wrong number. This, I say, is the State Residence for Criminally Reckless Females. I ask him to please not telephone again. And I hang up the receiver.
    “I see you’re still,” the Terrence specimen says, “protecting Her Majesty.”
    My pen follows the handwritten lines of the original letter, tracing every loop and dot of the words that bleed through, copying them onto this new sheet of stationery, the sentence:
My Most Dear Katherine, True love is NOT out of your reach
.
    I trace the words,
I’ll arrive to collect you for drinks at eight on Saturday
.
    Tracing the line,
Wear something smashing
.
    My pen traces the signature, Webster Carlton Westward III .
    We all, more or less, live in her shadow. No matter what else we do with our lives, our obituaries will lead with the clause “lifelong paid companion to movie star Katherine Kenton” or “fifth