The Tennessee Waltz

Some things happen in your life that even after many years you never quite understand. About a year after we were married, my husband and I were invited to a birthday party at Elaine’s, the famous New York eatery and watering hole for actors and writers. About eighty guests were finding their seats around circular tables in a private dining room. As we settled in our places, I noticed the playwright Tennessee Williams, impeccably dressed, just sitting down at a table nearby and beginning polite conversation with the person to his right. Unfortunately, my back was to him, so I couldn’t subtly watch him. After the appetizers were finished, soft rock changed to a melodic waltz, and I heard footsteps approaching our table. I turned around and Tennessee Williams was behind my chair. I thought he was coming over to speak with my husband, a fellow playwright, whom he had not met before. But instead, with a slight southern lilt in his voice and an inviting smile, he said politely to my husband, “May I dance with your wife?”

I could hardly breathe. He better say yes, I thought. A few years before in the Marais section of Paris, at a Fireman’s Ball celebrating Bastille Day, a very nice fireman innocently asked for a dance and my husband nearly punched him in the face. “No, you may not!” he had screamed at the bewildered Frenchman. I felt so embarrassed. This time he’d better consent. My husband paused momentarily, then gained composure smiling graciously. “Of course,” he said. Good thing he answered yes, because I would have danced anyway and then fought with him about it on the way home.

I felt flustered as Tennessee Williams led me to the middle of the room. The music pulled us in. But the odd part was, there was no dance floor. Rather, he created one. He put his arm around my waist and I placed my hand on his shoulder and we began waltzing. No one else was dancing but us. I followed his lead twirling around and round. His beat was up-down-down, up-down-down. I tried to get i