was gesturing emphatically as he said, “It’s clear that Williams was jealous of Inge, and that’s what led to the falling-out between them.”
The professor on the other side of the table waved his hands in the air and said, “No one’s denying that Williams was jealous of the success Inge’s plays had on Broadway during the early to mid-fifties, but it’s an overstatement to call the cooling off of their friendship a falling-out. I mean, Inge dedicated
The Dark at the Top of the Stairs
to Williams and suggested to Audrey Wood that Williams write the introduction to the published version.”
“Yes, and you’ve read that introduction. It’s clearly not the work of someone who had any affection remaining for Inge.”
“But that was all on Williams’s side. I believe that Inge still genuinely liked Williams and brought up the subject of writer’s block simply out of concern for him.”
“I think it’s more likely that Inge was deliberately trying to poison the relationship–”
I leaned over the table and said, “Excuse me, boys.”
They both looked up at me in surprise.
“Y’all have been arguin’ for, what, eight or ten hours straight now, so I reckon you can pick it up again without any trouble. I just need a minute of your time. Do you know Dr. Lawrence Powers?”
“Of course,” one of the men responded. “Everybody knows Larry.”
“Have you seen him in here tonight?” June asked tensely.
Both men frowned, looked at each other, and then shook their heads. “We’ve been here ever since we got back from the opening ceremonies,” one of them said. “I don’t believe Dr. Powers has been in the bar at all.”
“I agree,” the other one said. “No sign of him.” He looked across the table and raised a finger. “But that brings up the interesting point of which director achieved the consistently finest presentation of Williams’s work.”
And then both of them said simultaneously, “Elia Kazan.”
While they were looking shocked that they had found something they couldn’t argue about, I said, “Thanks, fellas,” and motioned with my head for June to follow me. As we resumed our circuit of the bar, I heard one of them say, “Of course, Kazan’s best work was on the screen.”
“How can you say that? His stage productions of Williams’s plays are clearly superior!”
The rest of the argument was lost–thankfully–in the hubbub of conversation that filled the bar. It took another minute or so for June and me to check out the other tables and booths and the stools along the bar itself. Papa Larry was nowhere to be seen.
The restaurant was closed, so we knew he wasn’t in there. June said, “If he wandered off from the hotel, he could be anywhere in the French Quarter. We’ll never find him!”
“Now, don’t give up yet,” I told her. Something obvious occurred to me. “You’re sure he’s not in his room?”
“I went by there to check just before I came to your room. He didn’t answer, and I knocked and called out to him, both.”
“Maybe he was in the bathroom, or really sound asleep.”
June shook her head. “I’m certain he wasn’t there. I knocked for a good five minutes. He would have heard me. And that was the second time I’d been there. I went by earlier to check on him, and he didn’t answer the door then, either. That’s why I started looking for him.”
“You always look in on him like that at night?”
“I do,” she said, giving me a defiant frown as if she expected me to try to make something of it. “His health isn’tgood, and Edgar won’t look after him. Somebody has to do it. Anyway, I’ve gotten in the habit of checking on him every night. We live in the same house, you know.”
I hadn’t known that and, again, didn’t consider it any of my business.
That didn’t stop June from going on. “It’s the old family home, the house where Edgar grew up. After Lucille passed away–that was Edgar’s mother–we moved back
The professor on the other side of the table waved his hands in the air and said, “No one’s denying that Williams was jealous of the success Inge’s plays had on Broadway during the early to mid-fifties, but it’s an overstatement to call the cooling off of their friendship a falling-out. I mean, Inge dedicated
The Dark at the Top of the Stairs
to Williams and suggested to Audrey Wood that Williams write the introduction to the published version.”
“Yes, and you’ve read that introduction. It’s clearly not the work of someone who had any affection remaining for Inge.”
“But that was all on Williams’s side. I believe that Inge still genuinely liked Williams and brought up the subject of writer’s block simply out of concern for him.”
“I think it’s more likely that Inge was deliberately trying to poison the relationship–”
I leaned over the table and said, “Excuse me, boys.”
They both looked up at me in surprise.
“Y’all have been arguin’ for, what, eight or ten hours straight now, so I reckon you can pick it up again without any trouble. I just need a minute of your time. Do you know Dr. Lawrence Powers?”
“Of course,” one of the men responded. “Everybody knows Larry.”
“Have you seen him in here tonight?” June asked tensely.
Both men frowned, looked at each other, and then shook their heads. “We’ve been here ever since we got back from the opening ceremonies,” one of them said. “I don’t believe Dr. Powers has been in the bar at all.”
“I agree,” the other one said. “No sign of him.” He looked across the table and raised a finger. “But that brings up the interesting point of which director achieved the consistently finest presentation of Williams’s work.”
And then both of them said simultaneously, “Elia Kazan.”
While they were looking shocked that they had found something they couldn’t argue about, I said, “Thanks, fellas,” and motioned with my head for June to follow me. As we resumed our circuit of the bar, I heard one of them say, “Of course, Kazan’s best work was on the screen.”
“How can you say that? His stage productions of Williams’s plays are clearly superior!”
The rest of the argument was lost–thankfully–in the hubbub of conversation that filled the bar. It took another minute or so for June and me to check out the other tables and booths and the stools along the bar itself. Papa Larry was nowhere to be seen.
The restaurant was closed, so we knew he wasn’t in there. June said, “If he wandered off from the hotel, he could be anywhere in the French Quarter. We’ll never find him!”
“Now, don’t give up yet,” I told her. Something obvious occurred to me. “You’re sure he’s not in his room?”
“I went by there to check just before I came to your room. He didn’t answer, and I knocked and called out to him, both.”
“Maybe he was in the bathroom, or really sound asleep.”
June shook her head. “I’m certain he wasn’t there. I knocked for a good five minutes. He would have heard me. And that was the second time I’d been there. I went by earlier to check on him, and he didn’t answer the door then, either. That’s why I started looking for him.”
“You always look in on him like that at night?”
“I do,” she said, giving me a defiant frown as if she expected me to try to make something of it. “His health isn’tgood, and Edgar won’t look after him. Somebody has to do it. Anyway, I’ve gotten in the habit of checking on him every night. We live in the same house, you know.”
I hadn’t known that and, again, didn’t consider it any of my business.
That didn’t stop June from going on. “It’s the old family home, the house where Edgar grew up. After Lucille passed away–that was Edgar’s mother–we moved back
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