Tell-All

those sourpusses would clamor with praise.
    In my seat, I jot my own notes, making a record of this triumph. Tonight, not only Miss Kathie’s triumph and Lilly Hellman’s, but my own personal victory; the sensation feels as if I’ve seen my own crippled child begin to walk.
    At my elbow, Terry whispers that producer Dick Castle telephoned, already angling for the film rights. Looking pointedly at my feet tapping along to the music, he smiles and whispers, “Who died and made you Eleanor Powell?” His own tense hands carry a constant stream of colorful Jordan almonds from a small paper sack to his mouth.
    Onstage, my Miss Kathie belts out another surefire gold-record hit, wrapping herself in the smoldering, snapping flag of the USS Arizona . Throwing herself from stage left to stage right she displays the panicked, manic struggle of an animal caught in a trap. Or a butterfly snared in a spider’s web. Spangles flashing, vivid eye shadow, her hair colored and sculpted beyond the lurid dreams of any peacock, the smile she displays is nothing more than a jaws-open, teeth-snarling rictus spasming in outrage against the dying light. Bug-eyed in her forced enthusiasm, Miss Kathie thrashes through each production number, a frenzied, vicious, frenetic denial of impending death.
    Her every gesture wards away an unseen attacker, keeping the invisible at bay. Her every freeze, drop, drag and slide constitutes a fight, sidestep, evasion of her imminent doom. Pounding the boards, my Miss Kathie spins as a flapping, squawking, frantic dervish begging for another hour of life. So upbeat, so animated and alive in this moment because death looms so close.
    Backstage, desperate for an encore he knows the audiencewill demand, Dore Schary already plans to A-bomb Nagasaki . For a second and third encore, he’s chosen Tokyo and Yokohama .
    According to Walter Winchell , the entire Second World War was just an encore to the first.
    Onstage, Miss Kathie executes a violent, furious Buffalo step, transitioning to a Suzy Q even as Manchuria falls. Hong Kong and Malaysia topple. Mickey Rooney as Ho Chi Minh leads the Viet Minh into battle. The Doolittle Raid rains fire on Nora Bayes .
    And in the seat next to me, Terrence Terry clutches at his throat with both hands and slides, lifeless, to the floor.

ACT III, SCENE ONE
    For this next scene, we open with a booming, thundering chord from a pipe organ. The chord continues, joining the melody of Felix Mendelssohn ’s Wedding March. As the scene takes shape, we see my Miss Kathie garbed in a wedding gown, standing in a small room dominated by a large stained-glass window. Beyond an open doorway, we can make out the arched, cavernous interior of a cathedral where row upon row of people line the pews.
    A small constellation of stylists orbit Miss Kathie. Sydney Guilaroff and M. La Barbe tuck away stray hairs, patting and smoothing the sides of Miss Kathie’s pristine updo. Max Factor dabs the finishing touches on her makeup. My position is not that of a bridesmaid or flower girl. I am not a formal member of the wedding party, but I shake out Miss Kathie’s train and spread its full length. At the back of the church I tell her to smile, and slip my finger between herlips to scratch a smear of lipstick off one upper incisor. I toss the veil over her head and ask if she’s certain she wants to do this.
    Her violet eyes gleaming behind the haze of Belgian lace, vivid as flowers under a layer of hoarfrost, Miss Kathie says,
“C’est la vie.”
    She says, “That’s Russian talk for ‘I do.’ ”
    In an impulsive gesture I lift her veil and lean forward, putting my lips to her powdered cheek. There, the taste of Mitsouko perfume and the dust of talc meet my mouth. Ducking my head and twisting my face away, I sneeze.
    My darling Miss Kathie says,
“Ich liebe dich.”
Adding, “That’s how the French say, ‘Gesundheit.’ ”
    Standing near us, donning a dove gray morning coat, Lillian Hellman snaps her fingers—one snap, two snaps, three snaps—and jerks her head toward the pews filled with 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’s arms, garbed in white, elbow-length gloves, her gloved hands clasp a bouquet of white roses, freesia and snowdrops. The Vienna Boys Choir sings “Some Enchanted Evening.” Marian Anderson sings “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No.” The Sammy Kaye