Chapter 2: Employment

Chapter 2

Employment

 A week or so later, at ten o’clock at night, there was a loud knock on my door. It was not unexpected. Earlier, Helen had called twice. She had picked up Tennessee in the Escort and driven him to the Pier House for dinner. They had left Robert Carroll at Tennessee’s house. Robert’s condition was, once again, not suitable for dinner in a public place. Three days before and without warning, he had arrived in Key West by Greyhound bus and presented himself at Tennessee’s door. Described by some as a shell-shocked Vietnam veteran, and by others as a common drug addict, Robert, years before, had been Tennessee’s lover.

On the second day of Robert’s visit, I ran into Helen and Tennessee on Duval Street.

“Robert ransacked the bedroom,” Helen said. “He was tearing up the living room—pulling cushions off furniture and throwing books!”

“I told you . . .” Tennessee said, “He was looking for something he misplaced. He’s excitable. He’s also very sensitive . . . a great writer.”

Perplexed, I stared at Tennessee.

“I pay the rent on his cabin,” he said. “Keep him out in the boondocks—South Carolina. No distractions there.”

 Helen called me later to tell a different story. “The address is Charleston—no backwoods retreat!” She dropped her voice. “I found out a few things. . . . The checks he gets monthly are cashed right away. No evidence of writing—not one bit.”

I did not hear from them again until the phone calls the next night. It was the third day in the crescendo of mayhem that had begun with Robert’s arrival. Helen’s first call from the Pier House came at nine o’clock.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Robert’s been calling here. He’s wild! Talks about a plot. Accused me of stealing Tennessee’s car!

“Tennessee won’t take the calls,” she said. “He’s upset—can’t eat his dinner. I’ll just . . . refuse the calls.”

I did not know what to say—not that I had a chance.

“We’ll stay here for now. Have a glass of wine—see if things calm down. We can’t go back to the house—not with Robert. . . . Will you be home?”

“Sure—I’ll be here.”

I had not met Robert, and I did not want to. I had stopped by the house twice since I first met Tennessee, but since Robert’s arrival, no one visited Duncan Street. Helen, desperate to hold onto the beachhead she had established, insisted her usefulness was needed there. But Tennessee had sent her off in the little Ford wagon to stay at Rose’s house, the nearby house he had bought hoping to bring his sister to Key West. Since Robert’s arrival, Tennessee called Helen to pick him up for dinner each night, as by that hour, drink and drugs had made Robert unbearable.

Forty-five minutes later, the phone rang again.

“God! The cops were just here. Robert keeps calling them—insisted I stole Tennessee’s car and kidnapped him! He demanded they track us down.” She was out of breath. “The cops didn’t believe him—but after five calls they had to do something. He’s gone right off the cliff!”

She stopped and took a long breath.

“Sweetie, we might stop over—just to . . . to escape. To think—make some calls. We can’t stay here all night—phone calls. Cops. I’ll talk to Tennessee. We’ll decide—let you know.”

I assured her I would be waiting.

It was not much later that I heard the knock on the door.

Helen, panting, barely said hello, then charged through the doorway, across the living room, and into the dining room. At five-foot-three, she was a two-hundred-pound bundle of urgency. My apartment was on the ground floor of a renovated Conch house with pine flooring. If the weight of each animal species living in the Keys could be totaled, none would top the termites. Islanders battled the insects valiantly, but the termites won many skirmishes—and no one was betting on the war. I had seen bed legs crash through floors at the most inopportune moments, and once witnessed an RCA console TV suddenly topple forward—the front legs eaten away from within. Helen’s stride across the pine in her stiletto heels put me on edge. She came to rest, leaning against one of the dining chairs, gulping air.

Tennessee moved slowly, his weight shifting side to side with each step. He followed Helen into the dining room and plopped into the director’s chair in the corner.

“He has a gun,” Helen said. “Robert has a gun. He pulled it on Roy—the housekeeper—this afternoon. Right after lunch.”

I remembered Roy was the one who had made lunch the day I first visited Tennessee’s house. He was another of Tennessee’s lovers from years gone by who wandered back into Tennessee’s life when the playwright needed help. About sixty years old, he wore thick glasses with translucent butterscotch frames, and had the pallor and personality of a cavefish. He lived in the attic bedroom.

“Roy ran off,” she said. “We don’t know where.”

Tennessee sat with his head in his hands.

Robert was alone in the house—armed. In addition to the prescription drugs he had brought—or stolen from Tennessee—he had scored street drugs since arriving in town. I imagined he would continue with drink and drugs until they ran out—or until he lost consciousness.

“He’s too out of it to use a gun,” I said, “if he remembers where he put the thing.”

Helen shot me a look of disbelief.

“But,” I said, knowing he smoked, “he could burn the house down—not thinking.”

Tennessee jumped to his feet.

“Manuscripts!”

The thought cleared our heads. We quickly made a plan. Helen would lead, driving Tennessee in the Escort, and I would follow in my car. We would split up before we got to the house and park separately at a distance. Then, after regrouping in front of the house next to Tennessee’s, we would decide how to proceed.

I followed them up Catherine Street to White. However, when we turned onto Duncan, I saw the circling blue lights of police cars two blocks ahead. We drove up and parked behind them, got out, and approached.

“Lotte Lenya loved me!” a voice called from the midst of the cops. I saw what must be Robert, handcuffed, standing between two of them. Three more cops huddled a pace away. In the yard across the street, a few neighbors had gathered under a street lamp.

“Lotte Lenya loved me!” Robert struggled, but the cops restrained him. He seemed oblivious.

 “Officer,” Tennessee called as he strode toward them, “has there been a problem?”

“Lotte Lenya. Lotte Lenya loved me!”

A few minutes later, Tennessee walked back to Helen and me.

“We worked out a deal.”

 The police would hold Robert in jail overnight to dry him out, and then return him to Tennessee—on condition that Robert was put on a bus out of town before noon.

Tennessee turned to me.

“Take Helen home in your car, would you? Leave the Escort here. I’ll call Gary—have him drive us to the bus station tomorrow.” Tennessee had not driven in years.

“Pick Helen up tomorrow,” he said, “and both of you come for lunch—about one.” He laughed. “Maybe I can find some food.”

Before going into the house, he handed me some money. “Frascati—couple bottles. We’ll need that regardless.” 

In the fall, Key West skies shed their clouds and open to an infinity of blue. Cool, invigorating air graces the island; gentle breezes stir the trees. And with the tourists gone, the streets are quiet except for the occasional rattle of a passing car or the squawk of a bird. The next day was just like that.

I parked in front of Rose’s house, a New England cottage surrounded by palms—so improbable in Key West, it might have simply dropped from of the sky. Tennessee had bought the house for Rose years before. Growing up, his sister had been excitable, and then in her late teens, her grip on reality loosened. Worse, their mother, Edwina, accused Rose of being sexually precocious. Edwina had Rose committed to a mental hospital, and later, after Rose showed no improvement, a pre-frontal lobotomy was performed on her.

Tennessee still grieved that he had not been home to prevent the operation. When he made his first money, he moved Rose from the state hospital to a private one in upstate New York. He had hoped to bring her and a nurse to live in the Key West house, but his one attempt had failed.

Instead, the house became a convenient place to send the overflow when Tennessee had too many guests—or guests he preferred to keep at a distance. Helen's four-day stay there had been an unbearable exile. Now that Robert was leaving, her cheer bobbed to the surface like a cork released from deep water.

In front of the house, Christmas palms, stationed like soldiers, stood guard behind the picket fence. Their dry, rustling fronds saluted me as I opened the gate.

 “Good morning!” Helen called, and then banged out of the house. She wobbled a moment, nearly dropping her packages, and then turned and locked the door. Waiving two bags in the air, she charged down the stone walk. I gritted my teeth as she clacked across the cracks, but she reached my car losing only her breath.

 “I walked to the grocery.” She grabbed her bosom and inhaled. “Nobody carries it!” She tilted one of the bags toward me, revealing two bottles. “Frascati—they only stock it for Tenn.”

“And look!” she said, pulling two boxes from the other bag. “Just in case. Fettuccine with chicken and . . .” She turned the boxes, trying to read a label. “Um . . . something. Boil-in-Bag, huh?” she said with a boast. “I called this morning. Said he has food. He’s expecting us—and Robert is on the bus. We’re all set.”

I offered the money Tennessee had given me, but she waived it off.

“Keep it for your trouble—gas. It’s the least . . .”

I drove the few blocks as Helen launched into a monologue, recapping the horrors of Robert’s visit. I caught only the highlights, knowing I would have no chance to speak. Her relief was palpable. Robert could have been the wedge that separated her from Tennessee. I saw her obsession to be close to Tennessee, to mother him. I wondered how many others competed for his attention.

 “We’re in now,” she said, as I parked in front of the house. “We’re the ones he wants to see.”

“Helen! Scott! Welcome to Maison Cornelius!” Cornelius was Tennessee’s bulldog. Tennessee led us out to the patio. The dog was nowhere in sight.

“Frascati!” Tennessee said when Helen held out the wine, “The wine of Rome. Anna Magnani introduced us. A perfect day—a café, a fountain. . . . Pour!” He gestured to me to handle the wine. Neither he nor Helen could pull a cork. That explained all the Taylor carafes and screw-cap wines I had seen at the house.

“I believe,” he said, “I know the incident that sent poor Robert over the edge. It was the meatloaf—the meatloaf Roy served at lunch yesterday. It was terrible—dried out. It was burnt—inedible. As Roy went back to the kitchen, Robert stood up and yelled, ‘This meatloaf isn’t fit to throw at the dog!’” He laughed. “But he did.” Tennessee pointed toward the front fence. “Cornelius was right there, taking a . . . noontime constitutional. Ha! Missed him—no damage. Didn’t harm the meatloaf, either.”

He laughed again, and then took a swallow of wine.

“It was the shot across the bow. The warning before the gun appeared. So this afternoon we honor Cornelius, who, like his namesake, my father, has proven he can survive not only a thrown meatloaf, but many the threat of the gun. Now let’s enjoy lunch.”

In the center of the table was a large plate with slices of cheeses and an array of crackers. A wooden bowl full of torn-up lettuce sat next to it, and some smaller, mismatched bowls.

“I have stretched my abilities and produced a salad,” he said. “I found the bottled dressings—will have to do.”

He pulled out a chair and sat.

“I have, you see, prophylactically cut the cheeses so there will be nothing large enough to throw at a dog.” He laughed. “You witness my first day taking care of myself and my house—with no assistance.”

Tennessee did have a maid, Leoncia McGee. She had worked for him for many years, and continued working for him despite her advanced age. She too had been banished for the duration of Robert’s visit, and since Roy ran off, there was no one left at the house to ferry her back and forth to work. She remained at home.

The discussion during lunch was as light as the fare. The Frascati mellowed us and slowed the passing of time. The warmth of the sun filtered through the surrounding palms and played on the edges of the covered patio and the grounds around us. A bee buzzed by, and I could hear a palmetto bug scratching in nearby leaves.

“I’m afraid I must leave you—a nap and then my swim.” Tennessee got up on his feet, but leaned against his chair. “Scott, I was wondering . . .” He paused and then looked at me. “I know this is beneath what you would seek, but you are now unemployed and I need someone to help out—just for a few days. You’ve been a huge help already—and I understand if you refuse.”

He turned toward Cornelius, who was struggling down the steps from the kitchen. “You must wonder what sort of reprobate I am.” He chuckled, and looked back at me. “Do you think you could help me out? Just a few days…a week at the most—until I find someone else. I would pay you well and cover any expenses.”

Helen sat up straight, her mouth agape.

I hesitated.

“OK—sure, I can do that.” I did not want to show my excitement. I had nothing else going on, not really. Spending my savings to buy a has-been beer-and-wine joint made me nervous, and I was unsure about Gary as a partner. I wanted to ask Tennessee how much he would pay, but was afraid that might be insulting. It would be more than nothing—and he did say he would pay well.

“Why don’t you come back at dinner time? The three of us can go out—go over the details.”

Helen leaned forward and gripped the edge of the table. Tennessee turned to her.

“Helen, why don’t you move back into the front bedroom? I feel I need your presence in the house. I trust you will check any guns before entering?”

“Oh, that would be perfect, huh? Sometimes things just work out!”

“Yes, sometimes . . .” he said as he reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ear. “Helen, you have a key. Go ahead; bring your things back over. I’ll see you both this evening.” He started to go but stopped. “Oh!” he said. “The gun. I assure you, it has been disposed of.”

And then he continued toward the house, saying nothing more.

.

Chapter 3: To New York

Chapter 3

To New York

To the right of the door of every modern, Eastern Airlines plane, a single word had been stenciled in soft, windswept lettering—Whisperjet. Boarding always stalled as I stood before the threshold, and I smirked when I read that word. Then, as the line began moving again, I would duck the doorway and join my fellow travelers in the slow-motion conga that ended in hoisting bags and jockeying for seats. When I finally reached the tail, I shoehorned myself into my seat.

After taxiing to the runway, the plane would rumble and roar in a crescendo of speed and power. Mass and vibration pulled to the back and compressed into the tail. As the plane stretched forward and then skyward, the tail dipped lower before shooting upward like a rubber band released, chasing the nose into the clouds.

In the back of the plane, sound and movement were amplified. What was a wobble up front became a bronco ride in the rear, and the sound of the tail rending was only the landing gear being stowed.

I sat there to smoke.

In the smoking section, announcements never had a chance against the methodical droning of the engines—high-thrust sitars strapped to either side of the tail. I would light up as the world receded, and then when the cart finally arrived, cough up the bucks for a cocktail or two. 

Waiting in Miami with Tennessee, I knew air travel would never be the same for me. We had made the hop from Key West on one-class Air Florida and then found our Eastern Airlines gate. We were the first to board the wide-bodied jet, and after a bow at the door, I followed him the few steps to the last row in the first class cabin. “Smoking,” he had said when I was booking the seats. He did not smoke.

I took my place by the window, stretched my legs, and shifted about in the generous seat. Soon I had a glass of cabernet. Tennessee sipped chardonnay. As we waited for the L-1011 to finish boarding, we snacked on cheese and fruit. Wine flowed miraculously. By the time the plane was in position for take-off, my perception had softened. The lumbering craft gained speed and then rose smoothly in a soft whoosh of air until we reached cruising altitude. Tennessee dozed beside me. More wine, Puccini on the headset. I lit a cigarette and gazed out the window watching the mango sunset drain to a faint stain. Then, that too was lost behind high clouds in the black sky.

We were heading to New York.

Just six days before, Tennessee had asked me to work for him. He never said what he expected, but I jumped in, doing whatever needed to be done. I ferried Leoncia to and from work. I shopped for food, Tide, and pine oil, as well as wine and Metamucil. I took care of the “creatures,” a bulldog, a cat, and two parrots. I handled many of the routine phone calls from his agent, lawyers, and accountant, and I was available for lunch and dinner—almost always accompanying him to both.

I had moved into his house on the second day. I was given the bedroom in the attic, a room where I could barely stand straight beneath the peak. A bathroom had been squeezed into the far end of the attic, and in the shower, folded bat-like, I practiced the twin arts of contortion and cleanliness.

I brought two suitcases—clothes, a few books—leaving most of my belongings at my apartment. I tossed the bags onto one of the twin beds and sat on the other. I needed to decide where to stow what, and how to rearrange the furniture to make the room my own.

Something was cold—it was wet. I jumped up and felt the damp of my shorts.

The tropics are not for the squeamish. In Key West, roaches resembling armored cars race the streets night and day. I knew two people whose cars had run aground when insulation-eating ants shorted out their wiring. During a cold snap, rats, which normally nest in coconut clusters, grab their families and flee to the nearest house, there burrowing into upholstered furniture. Once, when temperatures had dipped into the forties, I came home to my apartment and turned on the only heat—the oven and burners. I then flopped onto the sofa. Rats ran out helter-skelter.

There were plenty of human scoundrels in Key West too. They were revered. Of all the possible human devilry, and with all the beer-drinking drunks in town, a peed-on bed might be taken note of, but it was no cause for excitement. At least there was a dry bed in the room. I chose it.

When Tennessee heard about it, he laughed. “Perhaps Cornelius wanted to welcome you.” Cornelius had the right temperament, but could barely drag his short boxer legs up the stairs. More likely, Tommy, Roy’s young boyfriend -- freshly up from Wilmington, North  Carolina -- whose home  was his parents' restaurant: Flip's Bar-B-Que at 1518 Oleander Drive:

And Tommy had left his final comment earlier that morning. Helen had seen Tommy’s tanned, hairless legs flying over the fence early that morning. She assumed he had snuck in to pick up some forgotten item. If he had left his mark in the process, there was really no point in worrying about it—the bed would dry soon enough.

As we continued our flight north, I sipped my cabernet and pondered Tennessee’s sense of time. He worked, slept, ate, swam, and socialized around the clock—a clock of his own making that he seldom bothered to synch with the world—and he never seemed to do any one of these things for more than two or three hours at a time.

A couple of nights before, after returning late from partying at The Monster, I climbed the stairs to my room, and then, undressing, heard the sound of typing. The sound was soothing. I had already become accustomed to hearing it any time of day or night.

I stood by the open window looking out. Beyond the overhanging trees and the covered patio, light spilled from the half-opened door to Tennessee’s studio. After a minute, I abandoned the window, pulled back the covers, and got into bed. I lay in the dark listening to the rhythmic tapping of Tennessee’s typing—soft staccato notes of reassurance. Tennessee’s writing was the river that ran beneath everything else, and just as the orbiting of the earth determined the progression of life beyond our walls, his writing determined the rhythm of his household.

I lay there listening and drifted into sleep.

The next morning, Skye and Gary joined Helen, Tennessee, and me for coffee on the patio. Tennessee went into his studio and returned with pages of dialogue from In Masks Outrageous and Austere, the play he had worked on through the night. Each of us taking a part, we read it for him aloud, and then once again.

“Beef Wellington or chicken kabobs?” The stewardess asked me quietly, but Tennessee awoke as she installed my tray.

Tennessee chose beef, and I followed his lead.

After she left, he turned to me.

“You should call me Tom,” he said. “It’s my given name, you know. Friends call me Tom.”

I had heard him addressed as Tennessee, Tenn, and Tom, and seen no pattern as to who called him what or why. I was glad that was settled—all week I had avoided addressing him by name.

Over dinner, we discussed the plan for arrival: where we would meet the driver, and the business obligations of the next day.

Afterward, I sipped Courvoisier, watching as we crept past luminescent colonies far below. Whispered voices brought my attention back inside. Two stewardesses, fingers covering their mouths, stood in the aisle whispering as they watched Tennessee.

“That’s no disguise—not with those,” one said, as she pointed, suppressing a laugh.

Tennessee was sleeping under a linen napkin he had spread to cover his face. His large trademark glasses secured the cloth and sat slightly askew. Reduced to caricature, he was perfectly recognizable.

I nodded agreement, holding my own laugh. They moved on, and then I stood, stepped carefully past Tennessee, and headed to the forward lavatory.

Passengers stopped me.

“That’s Tennessee Williams, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me, is that Tennessee Williams?”

Of course, I knew that Tennessee was a public figure, but I had only known him in Key West—in his modest home and where he was usually treated as just another islander. We were entering a different world now, a world where he would have a certain stature and be recognized for it. New York was going to be a very different world than I had known before.

             When I returned, I settled back into my seat and looked over at the ghost sitting at attention beside me. A gentle snore filtered through his napkin. I stretched out as far as I could. And then lulled by the gentle whoosh of the air, the warmth of Courvoisier in my veins, and the tinny sound from the headset that drooped off my ears, I slumped low in my seat. Sounds faded to a bare whisper, and soon I too let go as our plane raced the flyway to New York.

.

Chapter 4: A Birthday Party

Chapter 4

A Birthday Party

“Let me tell you—I used to be like . . . this.” The bald little man pointed his index finger straight out. “But now . . .” He tipped his head back to look me in the eye as his finger relaxed into a curve. He laughed. “Seeing you way up there reminds me of those days.”

“Vir-gil!” a woman called from across the room.

He put one hand on my waist, and with an exaggerated lean, peered beyond me and waved back to her.

It was his birthday. We had not yet been introduced.

We were in Milton Goldman’s apartment. Milton, Tennessee’s friend and an agent who represented actors at ICM, International Creative Management, the agency that represented Tennessee, had invited us earlier in the day. “Tennessee, we’re having a little gathering. Virgil Thomson—eighty-five. Drop by for cake and ice cream.”

I knew only a little of Thomson’s music—what he had composed for Gertrude Stein’s opera, Four Saints in Three Acts. I had first heard it in a high school music appreciation class, and like a trumpet from above, it changed my ear.

“Happy Birthday!” I said, and introduced myself. In turn, he introduced me to the man next to him, David Hockney, who, grinning, had walked over during the finger-acrobatics. As I shook his hand firmly, I felt goose bumps appear. I knew Hockney’s painting.

I was in a pool of luminaries—luminaries disguised as regular people. Who else was in this room? What would I say? I had to dampen my excitement. Somehow, I would find something to say. They were, after all, people. I did know what not to do. People fascinated by height had approached me all my life, excited to exclaim about the obvious. Still, my heart raced to think I had just met Virgil Thomson and David Hockney—two guests, a flirt and an amused observer.

Earlier in the day, we visited the offices of Lee and John Eastman, Tennessee’s father-and-son attorneys. As we sat in John’s office, he and Tennessee discussed business while I studied framed photos that included John’s sister Linda and her husband, Paul McCartney. Would I—could I—possibly meet them?

After finishing there, we went to the offices of ICM, where Tennessee met with his agent, Luis Sanjorjo, Milton, and the Broadway producer Zev Buffman. They tried to convince Tennessee that Buffman should get rights to stage a revival of Sweet Bird of Youth. Buffman’s plan was to resurrect the acting career of the recently-back-in-stride Liz Taylor in a role that would mirror her own situation almost exactly. However, Tennessee felt she was simply too old for the part, and he could not be persuaded. I loved the idea, but kept my mouth shut—I was learning.

Less important business followed, and then lunch. After that, we made a trip to Tennessee’s doctor—one of them. Part of my job was to have Tennessee’s “eating pills” always at hand. Tennessee had to take Cotazym, “the desiccated pancreas of a hog,” prescribed for pancreatitis, and Donnatal before each meal. I did not handle his other drugs. He took at least five more regularly, as well as Valium and Seconal on an “as-needed” basis. He also injected himself with a serum that arrived in glass ampoules by mail. These “vitamin B” shots animated him. He mixed all of these with alcohol and each other.

I knew that at least three different doctors prescribed the drugs. I wanted to know how the drugs interacted—if they were safe together—so I had called ahead and made an appointment to meet with the doctor privately.

He greeted me in his posh office after the check-up, while Tennessee waited in an examination room. 

“What’s his condition?” I asked. “How strong is he?”

The doctor looked like a seventy-year-old Christopher Plummer—glazed. Waves of Nirvana emanated from him.

“Oh, he’s strong—has his ailments.” He looked me in the eye. “Don’t worry. He’s fine.”

“What about . . .” I listed the drugs I knew of, not trusting Tennessee to tell the full story—he wanted to replace the Valium that had disappeared with Robert. “Are they safe—together?”

“Don’t worry . . . yes.”

“Interactions. No interactions?”

“They’re fine. He’s fine,” and with a gesture of patronizing benevolence, he dismissed me. “He’s lucky to have someone who cares.”

I saw the trace of a smirk on his lips. I was sure he meant Tennessee was lucky to have someone naïve and dismissible. I was sorry I had not pressed harder. My concern was not only about Tennessee’s taking the drugs, but the way he took them. Some, meant to be taken on a regular schedule, he took on a whim, and he popped Valium and Seconal on top of alcohol—lots of it.

Without a doctor’s help, I could not influence Tennessee’s habits—I would lose my job. Having seen the doctor’s eyes, I lost my nerve and forgot to ask about warning signs. I consoled myself by remembering that Tennessee had been taking these drugs, and more, for years. I thought too that he might dismiss me if he knew I had gone behind his back. Only in an emergency would I do that again.

After leaving, we walked to a pharmacy around the corner, but before we reached the druggist’s counter, Tennessee stopped in his tracks and pulled a letter from his jacket pocket.

“I almost forgot,” he said. “Could you mail this for me? I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

I would not know what prescriptions he was filling.

We arrived late for Virgil Thomson’s party. Milton’s apartment was on the Upper East Side. A baby grand, its top strewn with sheet music, dominated the room. The furniture was substantial, yet unremarkable, serving the needs of comfort rather than aesthetics. The largely undecorated, pale green walls called no attention to themselves. There was a quiet confidence about the space—a setting not meant to boast or flatter, but to relax and serve its occupants.

            “My! You’re a tall one!” The voice and the brassy laugh that followed were unmistakable. Ethel Merman was holding court. Two fawning, middle-aged men in cardigans flanked her. The men, dramatic in expression, made a fuss over my height—sizing me up, speaking in stage whispers to Ethel. By contrast, Ethel flirted boldly. Like a racecar, she revved her voice, just waiting for an excuse to hit the gas.  

            We had barely begun speaking when Milton came out of the kitchen carrying a blazing cake. Ethel, seeing her cue, let loose and led the pack in “Happy Birthday.”

When the song was finished, the party reshuffled as guests lined up for cake.

I claimed a slice and stopped to stand between the dining room and the living room. Milton approached me. “Have you met Meryl Streep?”

I suppose it was because I was standing, juggling a cup of punch and a plate of cake—and trying to figure out how to eat or drink any of it as well—that I had not noticed the woman sitting quietly on a lone chair beside me. I was standing next to the actress I most admired.

She was eating a piece of cake.

“Oh, hi!” she said as she stood up with a half-giggle, wiping the icing mustache from her lip. Her eyes, the way she turned her head, her laugh—put me immediately at ease. After introductions, she asked about my working for Tennessee. We talked about my duties, how I liked the job so far.

“That must be amazing. . . . Working—being around. . . . I guess you see—experience . . .” Her gestures completed the thoughts.

We talked about her work.

“Oh, I start a wonderful project soon.” She fidgeted, and then her face dropped. “I won’t be home for a while.” She sighed. “I’ll be away.”

We were interrupted—someone needed her attention.

“It was nice meeting you,” she said, as she looked me in the eye. “Good luck with that job. He’s lucky.” And with that, she slipped away.

Tennessee joined me as I watched her cross the room. “I believe Meryl Streep is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said.

I agreed. I knew I could not define that beauty; it was more than just physical. Only three years before, she had burst into my awareness as I watched The Deer Hunter. In a few weeks, her new film, Sophie’s Choice, would open. I could hardly wait.

“They first noticed her,” Tennessee said, “in Twenty-Seven Wagons Full of Cotton.”

I could feel his pride. His plays were not just plays—they were vehicles that had launched many careers.

“Well,” he said, “let’s find some dinner. Cake doesn’t agree with me.”

And so I followed him. We thanked our host and hostess, and headed out into the wet November evening in search of a good hamburger.

.

Chapter 5: Old Friends

Chapter 5

Old Friends

“I never said any such thing about Jane Wyman!”

Tennessee picked up the copy of The Paris Review from the coffee table and flipped through it without seeing. Dotson Rader had left it before leaving our suite at the Hotel Elysee.

“Never said that about Reagan either—not in front of Dotson. Damn it!”

He snapped the volume shut and tossed it back on the table. A moment later, he picked it back up, and allowing the leaves to open in his hands, the pages parted at the right place. He skimmed the text for a moment.

“Here it is. ‘The no-nose girl married the no-brains man.’” He looked at me, exaggerating the disbelief and anger he had hidden from Dotson, and then carried the journal into his room.

My stomach sank. In a few days, we were to fly to Washington for the Kennedy Center Honors—including a White House reception hosted by President Reagan and his second wife, Nancy.

A week before, Tennessee had shown me the invitation. He had been an honoree two years before, in 1979, and now, the trustees had invited him and a companion to attend the ceremonies as their guests. For two days, I hid my excitement, pretending not to care. He toyed with me, bringing up the subject repeatedly—we would go, we would not go—amused by my attempts at detachment. Finally, on the third day, he decided we would attend. I jumped to handle the details. I quickly called the White House, giving our Social Security numbers and other information needed for security clearance. I had long fantasized about attending the Academy Awards. This would be better.

Dotson and his boyfriend, Richard Zoerink, had come to our suite that morning to visit and to show Tennessee the new issue of The Paris Review, which included Dotson’s interview. Tall, with dark unkempt hair, big glasses, and a long, red neck-scarf, Dotson looked like the caricature of a college radical from the sixties—the kind of person who championed causes I had followed and led organizations I never joined. He was friendly—but with a patronizing edge. He took us to lunch. There, he playfully engaged Tennessee, alternately as a friend and as you might a favorite uncle-gone-batty.

Dotson wrote for magazines, and according to Tennessee, was the highest paid writer in his field. Tennessee was the nation’s most successful playwright. But Dotson’s triumph was in the present, while Tennessee’s was in the past. Critics had savaged Tennessee’s later work—work which confused the audiences that loved his earlier plays. Still, he always responded politely when asked about Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or A Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee loved Dotson’s camaraderie and his talent, but Dotson’s friendship came bundled with the reminder of the new success that eluded Tennessee.

“That interview . . .” His face grew red as he strode back into the room. “He combined things I said over the years—made some up. There was no . . . interview!”

I had seen several of Tennessee’s outbursts, and had already learned that as often as not, he misunderstood, misinterpreted, or forgot something. I did not know what was true here, but I knew he demanded my loyalty.

There was nothing to do about a published interview, but my heart was set on the trip to Washington. While I knew he would settle down eventually, our trip was only a few days away. I could not let an interview in a literary magazine torpedo an opportunity to go to the Honors ceremony and the White House.

“Reagan doesn’t care,” I said. “He won’t read The Paris Review. His staff won’t read it—neither will his friends. Johnson and Nixon retaliated. Reagan just laughs. It rolls right off. He couldn’t care less.”

I let it go. I would have to wait for his decision.

Having been in New York for three days, we were now marking time. Most of the business that brought us north had been dealt with. With the Washington trip no longer certain, I was anxious. It was too early to fly to D.C., and it would have been foolish to return to Key West for such a short time.

We went shopping and Tennessee bought me a tuxedo. I met Jane Smith, a singer, dancer, and actress who had been in the original production of Oklahoma!, and later sang opera in Europe. Jane was the widow of the architect and artist Tony Smith. Tennessee had known them both since his earliest days in New York, and Jane remained a close friend. Her bearing suggested her years on the stage, and she had a keen alertness to the world around her. Statuesque and possessing clear, smiling eyes, she must have been in her sixties.

Vassilis Voglis, another friend, invited the three of us to his apartment for dinner. A natty dresser in his fifties, he had not known Tennessee as long. His rich, accented voice revealed his Greek origins. Like Jane, he was warm and expressive. A few years before, Vassilis had inherited a small fortune when his lover, whose father had been president of the New York Stock Exchange, died of cancer. Vassilis worked for arts agencies and as a hospital volunteer.

Vassilis had defined a dining room in his loft apartment by enclosing the space with loaded, old bookcases. Removed from the huge front windows that looked down on city streets five floors below, we dined in candlelight, surrounded by Dickens and Proust. A week before, Vassilis had traveled to New Jersey and gleaned potatoes from a field, potatoes too small for the mechanical harvester. The aroma of roast pork and potatoes filled the air.

 “Oh, Vass, this wine is so good,” Jane said, as we finished dining. She raising her glass of Bordeaux to the light. “I can’t remember when I’ve dined so well.”

 She put down her glass. “And it’s so good to have everyone here—away from business.” She put her hand on Tennessee’s arm, smiled, and looked him in the eye. “No one demanding things from Tennessee.”

It was true. There was a complete absence of pressure of any kind. Jane and Vassilis were simply friends and wanted nothing of Tennessee but his company. Jane had been his friend during his biggest successes, and she had been his friend through his darkest days in the late '60s, when he had been committed, briefly, to a mental hospital. She adored him through all of it.

We talked of the upcoming premiere of Tennessee’s new play, A House Not Meant to Stand, which would open in Chicago in April, and of Jane’s daughter’s pregnancy. We listened to Vassilis’s arts gossip.

There was a pear tart for dessert.

The candles burned low.

Jane put her arm across Tennessee’s shoulders. “Tenn darling, you are going to the Kennedy Honors, aren’t you?”

Tennessee removed his glasses and rubbed his eye. “I don’t know. There’s this thing . . . ”

“Yes, I know . . . the interview. There is always some thing, but you’ve never allowed things to stand in your way.”

She turned and looked at him directly. “The interview doesn’t matter. You belong at the ceremony." She smiled at him as she leaned back and then swept her hand slowly through the air. “I can just see the two of you, so handsome in your tuxedoes . . . Everyone will be jealous.” She closed her eyes and put a hand on mine. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to walk into that auditorium arm-in-arm between the two of you!”

She squeezed my hand and then looked at Tennessee.

“Well . . . you might be right,” he said.

He turned slowly toward me. “What do you think? Shall we brave it? Face Reagan. Spit in his eye?”

“Sure,” I said, “it’s a cocktail reception.”

He smiled through a mock grimace. “OK then, we’ll go.”

With that settled, I was excited again. Everyone was relieved—including Tennessee. As the nation’s most distinguished dramatist, he should be there. The timing of the interview's publication was unfortunate, but who in the Reagan White House would read a literary magazine?

As the light flickered, Vassilis leaned toward Jane. “Could you sing for us?”

She smiled as she straightened her back, and then met Tennessee’s eyes.

“Oh Danny boy,” she began, “the pipes, the pipes are calling . . .” She sang unaccompanied and unselfconsciously, and when she finished there was nothing at all to say. Then she sang “My Bill” from Showboat. Had her late husband materialized in the candlelight, I would not have been surprised.

When she finished, she turned to me.

“Scott, what can I sing for you?”

After a beat, the question registered. I could think of only one song. “Summertime.”

Whenever I listened to music, I heard melody but few lyrics. “Summertime” flowed through Jane as if she were a clear channel. I heard all of the words for the first time. When she finished, I thanked her, wishing I had a more adequate response.

It had grown late, and Jane had to drive home to New Jersey. The three of us found our coats, thanked Vassilis, and rode the elevator down to the street. Tennessee and I walked Jane to her car, and then, cocooned in the warmth of the taxi and fully sated, I closed my eyes as the Checker rattled and bounced through the frigid night.

Chapter 6: Cape May

Chapter 6

Cape May

“By all means,” Tennessee said, “we must meet the Cape May Fairy!” We had just passed a sign pointing the way to the ferry landing, but we would not be crossing the Delaware Bay. We were heading for the town of Cape May. It had been Tennessee’s idea to leave Manhattan for a break before we continued on to Washington. He knew I had spent five years in Cape May after college, so he hired a car and driver to take us the three-and-a-half hours to visit the southern tip of New Jersey. We sipped cocktails in the back of the Cadillac as we gradually escaped the sprawl of New York, and then traveled through mile after mile of the Pine Barrens. After Egg Harbor, the horizon opened as the highway found the edge of the salt marsh. Water in the winding channels reflected the November sky, and birds, as infrequent as the cars on the Parkway, took lonely turns against the clouds. I talked of my years in Cape May.

I had arrived in the town shortly after getting my art degree in 1973, joining my college friends, Hilary and Chuck. Hilary and I planned to put together an art studio, which led to our first attempt at business—selling art. Incite: a Gallery was only a cubbyhole in a Victorian hotel, but we attracted a backer. With his help, we opened a store in the center of town. In Whale’s Tale, we sold crafts, jewelry, paper goods, and specimen shells, only out-of-the-ordinary items, in contrast to the beach stores around us. The business grew steadily, and after two years, we were able to quit our second jobs and even hire employees.

In its heyday, Cape May had vied with Saratoga to be the retreat for wealthy Southerners. Louis Chevrolet raced Henry Ford on its beach. Five Presidents spent at least parts of their summers in the town. However, by the mid-1900s, Cape May’s popularity with the well-to-do had waned, and it became a haven for working-class families from Baltimore and Philadelphia who liked the inexpensive accommodations, and for the artistic fringe who found charm in the deteriorating Victorian structures.

Then, in the early 1970s, a new, moneyed crowd discovered the town. Victorian buildings became hot properties and were bought and renovated. New cafes and restaurants opened. Trendy stores replaced souvenir shops. We were in the right place at the right time.

But in that fifth summer, the summer of 1978, my life changed. I had enjoyed the years I spent there, but my leaving was abrupt—and the end of the world as I knew it. What had begun in the early ‘70s as an undulation of mood, swelled and crested as full-blown mania. When, during high season, I became boisterous and erratic, my partners barred me from working in the store.

Life pulsed through every fiber of my body. I was certain that I had never been more alive. Every song was sung for me. Every sunrise was a salutation from God. Incredulous, I dismissed all offers of help from friends, and they, caught in the crush of summer business, had no time for my energy or for my rantings. Convinced I was meant for a higher calling, I sold my share of the business to my partners. Then, having all the time in the world and an ever-more-tenuous tether to it, I stalked the beaches and bars, looking for adventure.

Soon, after a scuffle with a beach-tag inspector, I was hauled off the beach by two cops and committed to a mental hospital. There, Lithium quickly brought me down from mania. A month later, I was released to my parents in Pennsylvania, but with nothing to break my fall, I continued headlong into depression.

I had been back to visit Cape May a couple of times since then, but kept a low profile. The memory of my behavior embarrassed me, and I did not want to run into townspeople who had witnessed it. I sensed my illness lurking in the shadows, and was afraid I would see it reflected in their eyes as well.

But now, like a manic-fantasy-come-true, I was returning to Cape May in the back of a Cadillac limousine, sipping cocktails with Tennessee Williams. As we passed The Lobster House, I slouched low, thankful for the tinted glass.

We checked in at the Golden Eagle, a tired modern hotel. Away from the Victorian part of town, it was the only hotel in Cape May with an indoor pool for Tennessee’s exercise. While he swam in the pool, I walked across Beach Drive and stood atop the seawall. The ocean, having scoured away the beach years before, broke patiently against the granite boulders.

The next morning, Sue Hobbs, one of the friends who had not distanced themselves from me when I was manic, lent us her ancient VW Bug. Tennessee perched himself on the passenger seat, which appeared to have been chomped by a shark. I folded my torso and limbs into the driver’s space. I could work the controls well enough.

As we drove through the old part of town, sunlight played on the calico limbs of sycamores that lined the streets. In the quiet, I felt anxious. I loved the excitement of summer, but the crowds had returned to Cherry Hill, Chevy Chase, and Bryn Mawr. I hated the isolation of Cape May winters, and sensed the monochrome of its approach beneath the beauty of the day. As we drove along Beach Drive, the Arcade was shuttered tight, the sounds of Skee-Ball replaced by the squalling of gulls as they circled overhead, then dove to fight over bits of carrion on the beach. Not a hint of Coppertone or coconut oil rode upon the stiff, salty breeze.

I pulled back into town and parked behind the pedestrian mall. In Whale’s Tale, I talked with Karen, the one employee I still knew. Chuck and Hilary were out of town. Tennessee examined specimen shells displayed in glass cases, and then bought a crystal pendant for his sister, Rose.

We walked the three blocks of the pedestrian mall and back. No one recognized Tennessee, and I saw no one who knew me either. We stopped at Barry Clothes, where Tennessee bought a blue sweat suit. Bald Stan, pumping our hands, followed us out afterward. I wondered which had surprised him more, Tennessee’s appearance in town, or my recovered sanity.

A block further down, we ducked into Kahn’s Ugly Mug for lunch. We found seats at the bar, a long wooden island that dominated the room, and ordered draft beers and clam chowder. Several men from commercial fishing boats sat opposite us. Two women, weathered as the men, sat with them. Elsewhere, unemployed townsmen nursed noontime beers.

“Look . . .” Tennessee said as he nodded toward the front. A large figure nearly blocked the light streaming in as he entered the bar. “It’s the Cape May Fairy!”

Lonnie, who had been an awkward, flamboyant teenager when I first arrived in town, had grown up on the back side of Cape May. He did not fit in with the other descendants of the slaves brought to town by southerners before the Civil War. He had grown to be a large man—and a town character. He worked as the host of The Shore, a party bar across the street. The Shore, like most businesses, had already closed until the next season. The Mug was the only bar open year-round.

Lonnie’s blue silk shirt was open to the navel. Around his neck hung a chain with a three-inch, gold medallion that showed bright against his hairless chest. His wrists and fingers flashed more gold. He greeted the bartender extravagantly and called greetings to the men at the bar. A few returned discreet nods.

“Oh my God!” Lonnie recognized me from across the bar. Then, as he approached, he recognized Tennessee.

“Well, sir,” he said to Tennessee, “let me wish you a very special welcome to Cape May!”

Tennessee thanked him and shook his hand.

“In town for a while?” Lonnie asked, as his gaze bobbed from one to the other of us repeatedly.

Tennessee and I looked at each other and shrugged in unison.

“Physical,” the Olivia Newton-John anthem, played on the jukebox.

Lonnie turned to me. “It is D-E-A-D-L-Y around here—deadly.” His hips began moving to the music. “I need a party!” His hands were over his head. He was oblivious to the rough men at the bar, many of them trying to shake off the previous night’s hangover. The women cast wary glances.

“Catch me,” he said, “if you want to party tonight. I’m over The Shore—just go up the back stairs. Or call the bar—Tony had the phones forwarded.” He moved toward the door. Before disappearing, he stopped and hollered back, “I’m watching the whole block while they’re in Boca.”

Back at the hotel, Tennessee went for a swim. He wanted to meet my friends, so I called Sue, and she and her husband, Phil Dietz, joined us at the hotel for dinner. They brought their daughter, Eliza. Eleven days old—her first venture out. The empty, worn-out dining room set the tone. Normally one of the most interesting, interested, and animated people I have known, Sue was exhausted. Phil held Eliza, his dark beard brushing the top of her head as he ate. Dinner dragged—the food was flat, the wine metallic.

Saying he did not feel well, Tennessee excused himself early. I caught up with Sue and Phil on Cape May news, but soon Eliza wakened, and they needed to take her home.

After they left, I stopped at the front desk to let them know we would be checking out the next day. Cape May was too quiet. Tennessee had decided we should return to New York in the morning. I felt like a failed host and was grateful to be leaving early. Just being in town made me anxious, and doubly so serving as Tennessee’s guide. I felt I had to please everyone without knowing how to please anyone. I had lost all sense of self and proportion.

“Do you think I could get his autograph?”

The desk clerk introduced herself as Miriam, the mother of a long-ago friend of mine, but she was someone I had never met. How did she know who I was? 

“Gee . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to deal with this. No one had asked me to get his autograph before. In my mood, I would rather have walked barefoot across burning coals.

“I’m a big fan.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them and spoke. “‘After all, a high station in life is earned by the gallantry with which appalling experiences are survived with grace.’”

I felt prickles on the back of my neck as I recognized the last sentence from Tennessee’s Memoirs—my favorite of all his lines.

“It’s in my will,” she said, with a big smile. “I’m having it put on my tombstone.”

The cheery mention of death spooked me. “I’ll ask him . . .” I said, “later.”—knowing I would not. “He’s resting now.”

Back in my room, I called and arranged for the service to send a car in the morning. The next day, it arrived on time, and after we climbed into the rear compartment, Tennessee declared, “Well, the town is beautiful—your friends, lovely. Maybe we can come back another time—in season.”

I sat back. Soon we would be out of Cape May. It was going to be a long ride back to the city. I settled deeper into the seat. We crossed the high bridge over the canal, and then as we turned onto the Parkway and headed north, I looked out across the waving marsh grasses and wondered what my fate as Tennessee’s assistant would be.

For years, he had traveled with a paid companion—sometimes an actor down on his luck, sometimes a hustler, and sometimes even a fan. Most of them slept with him. Many stole from him. Some caused scenes in public. Few of them lasted longer than two or three weeks. Many of them abandoned him, often without warning, at home or on the road. Tennessee’s mental condition was aggravated by this—and aggravated the situation as well.       

            The most important thing to Tennessee was his relationship with his creative powers—though he never spoke of it. I could sense his frustration in the heave of a sigh, the tear of paper from his typewriter, or the slam of a door. I wondered if through clouds of alcohol, drugs, and anxiety his inspiration had grown chimeral, or if ideas shined like jewels in the night, sometimes caught, sometimes slipping below the landscape before he could grasp them. Then again, perhaps this had always been the case.

            Whatever his experience, he fought his demons daily, determined to express what was in him—and I was determined to bring some stability and continuity to his life.

He had a courage I did not possess. He insisted on living his life as he chose. My job was to support him in that. I respected his determination and audacity—admired him for it—but another part of me wanted to protect him, although I knew trying to control his behavior would have meant the end of my job. I could keep away those he wished not to see, and I could be ready to deal with anything that came along, but I could not interfere with his choices about drugs, alcohol, the people he associated with, or the things he decided to do.          

Tennessee’s friends and business associates in New York had all welcomed me, encouraged me, and offered support.

“If you need to, call me at home.” Milton Goldman had said as he jotted the number on his card that day in the ICM offices. Jane Smith had signed on as my fashion consultant, leading me to Imperial Wear, where I bought extra-long suits, and then to Brooks Brothers where she coordinated them with ties as her treat.

“There . . . you look wonderful!” she said after adjusting the knot. As she smoothed my lapel, I sensed she was dressing Tennessee, and with that touch, entrusting me to do for her friend what she could not do herself.

That I had come into such a position was not entirely surprising. I had no focus in life. My parents had joined the masses in suburbia after World War II, shedding individuality for the promises of corporate life. They had endured the struggles of the Great Depression and the war years, and embraced their place in the post-war climb toward prosperity.

“Oh no,” my mother had insisted. “Not architecture. Too hard to get established. Accounting. You like numbers…”

I had a head for numbers, but an inclination toward art. My mother was as domineering as the Pope she esteemed, and I, steeped in the doctrines of absolute authority—church and parents—did not conceive of rebellion. Ambition withered, and I became subject to the prevailing winds. My excellent performance as a student was due more to dollar-an-A incentives than purposeful intent. In college, desperate for a breath of air, I changed my major from biology to art, but I had no vision of life beyond my studies. Then, in 1973, I graduated and was thrust abruptly into the adult world.

            At the end of that summer, I landed in Cape May. And it was there, four years later, that I read Tennessee’s Memoirs. An admiration welled up within me, and I knew I would know him one day. 

             A year later, I was committed to the mental hospital, and then when I was released a month after that, nothing remained of the life I had known. Eventually, I landed a job in restaurant management, and then two years after that, the currents bore me to Key West.

            I knew, of course, that Tennessee lived in my new town. Although somewhere deep in my mind I still expected I would know him, I recognized this as an outlandish idea that I could not pursue. It was the sort of idea that if entertained, would have to be expunged, and, like so many manic delusions before, burned on the funeral pyre of the grandiose.

            And yet, here I was.


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