Free Tell-All by Chuck Palahniuk Page A

herself to far, far below her natural body weight will soon balloon to far above it.
    Based on decades of observation, I propose that sudden high levels of external praise always trigger an equal amount of inner self-loathing. Most moviegoers are familiar with the theatrically unbalanced mental health of a Frances Farmer , the libidinal excesses of a Charles Chaplin or an Errol Flynn , and the chemical indulgences of a Judy Garland . Such performances are always so ridiculously broad, played to the topmost balcony. My supposition is that, in each case, the celebrity in question was simply making adjustments—instinctually seeking a natural equilibrium—to counterbalance enormous positive public attention.
    My vocation is not that of a nurse or jailer, nanny or au pair, but during her periods of highest public acclaim, my duties have always included protecting Miss Kathie from herself. Oh, the overdoses I’ve foiled … the bogus land investment schemes I’ve stopped her from financing … the highly inappropriate men I’ve turned away from her door … all because the moment the world declares a person to be immortal, at that moment the person will strive to prove the world wrong. In the face of glowing press releases and reviews the most heralded women starve themselves or cut themselves or poison themselves. Or they find a man who’s happy to do that for them.
    For this next scene we open with a beat of complete darkness. A black screen. For the audio bridge, once more we hear the ring of the doorbell. As the lights come up, we see the inside of the front door, and from within the foyer, we see the shadow of a figure fall on the window beside the door,the shape of someone standing on the stoop. In the bright crack of sunlight under the door we see the twin shadows of two feet shifting. The bell rings again, and I enter the shot, wearing the black dress, the maid’s bib-front apron and lacy white cap. The bell rings a third time, and I open the door.
    The foyer stinks of paint. The entire house stinks of paint.
    A figure stands in the open doorway, backlit and overexposed in the glare of daylight. Shot from a low angle, the silhouette of this looming, luminous visitor suggests an angel with wings folded along its sides and a halo flaring around the top of its head. In the next beat, the figure steps forward into the key light. Framed in the open doorway stands a woman wearing a white dress, a short white cape wrapped around her shoulders, white orthopedic shoes. Balanced on her head sits a starched white cap printed with a large red cross. In her arms, the woman cradles an infant swaddled in a white blanket.
    This beaming woman in white, holding a pink baby, appears the mirror opposite of me: a woman dressed in black holding a bronze trophy wrapped in a soiled dust rag. A beat of ironic parallelism.
    A few steps down the porch stands a second woman, a nun shrouded in a black habit and wimple, her arms cradling a babe as blond as a miniature Ingrid Bergman . Its skin as clear as a tiny Dorothy McGuire . What Walter Winchell calls a “little bundle of goy.”
    On the sidewalk stands a third woman, wearing a tweed suit, her gloved fingers gripping the handle of a perambulator. Sleeping inside the pram, two more infants.
    The nurse asks, “Is Katherine Kenton at home?”
    Behind her, the nun says, “I’m from St. Elizabeth’s.”
    From the sidewalk, the woman wearing tweed says, “I’m from the placement agency.”
    At the curb, a second uniformed nurse steps out of a taxicab carrying a baby. From the corner, another nurse approaches with a baby in her arms. In deep focus, we see a second nun advancing on the town house, bearing yet another pink bundle.
    From offscreen we hear the voice of Miss Kathie say, “You’ve arrived.…” And in the reverse angle we see her descending the stairs from the second floor, a housepainter’s brush in one hand, dripping long, slow drops of pink paint from the bristles. Miss