Free Killer On A Hot Tin Roof by Livia J. Washburn

short story.’
    “Well, there was no disputin’ the truth of that. I’d taken some of what he wrote in that story and used it in the play, but only a little, a very little. Most of it came right from my own life. I had never told him that I came from a well-to-do family, although he might have figured that out from the way I was travelin’ ‘round Europe when he met me, and I’d never said anything about how I was married once, before I realized that I just … wasn’t cut out to be married. So he didn’t know, right there at first, that all of that was me. That those words had my heart and my soul in ‘em. I guess he thought that I had …
    made it all up. I don’t think he saw, really saw, what it meant to me.
    “But … he was Tennessee Williams. I guess he thought I’d be flattered, and I was, I truly was. And I didn’t want to offend him, so I said that if he really thought the play was good and he was really interested in workin’ on it, I supposed that would be all right. We would work on it together. Whip it into shape, he said. And then we’d give it to his agent and she would arrange to have it produced on Broadway, and then Hollywood would come a-knockin’ and they would make a movie out of it … but to do that, the play would have to have his name on it, too, of course, he said. ‘By Tennessee Williams and Howard Burleson,’ he said. That’s what the play would say. But when the time came for all those wonderful, wonderful things to happen–and they did happen–that’s not what it said. It said
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
by Tennessee Williams, and nobody ever knew about Howard Burleson. By then Tom was in New York, and he wouldn’t take my calls, and I don’t know what he done with all my letters … burned ‘em, more’n likely … and I never saw him or talked to him again.”
    The old man had been talking for a long time. His voice was cracked and hoarse as he finished his story. He picked up his glass again and sipped the liquor. A long, soft sigh came out of him. Silence hung over the table. The trio on the bandstand had stopped playing sometime while Burleson was talking, and I hadn’t noticed. I doubted if Will or Tamara had, either.
    Finally, Tamara said, “That’s a very touching story, Mr. Burleson. Almost tragic. But how come no one has ever heard of it before? Something as big and important as Tennessee Williams taking credit for a play he didn’t write … don’t you think rumors of it would have surfaced before now?”
    “How could they?” Burleson asked. “Tom and I were theonly ones who knew about it, and once I realized what was happenin', I was so devastated I tried to put the whole thing outta my mind. I went back to Atlanta–that’s where my family is from, you know–and tried to forget all about Tom Williams and the play and that whole time in my life. I’ve lived there quietly ever since. I had a small inheritance to support me, you know, and my needs are few. I have books and music and a few friends. A man can live with that and nothing more if he puts his mind to it. I would have gone on like that, if not for that devil, time. My granddaughter–”
    “You have a granddaughter?” Tamara interrupted. “But I thought you were … I mean …”
    “Not the type to have offspring?” Burleson asked with a smile. “Ah, but I told you, there was a time when I was married. In those days, people like me didn’t live as openly as they do now. And in truth, I think I was trying to deny my true nature. But yes, I had a wife, and I had two children, and in due time, I had grandchildren as well. Great-grandchildren by now, I’m sure, maybe even great-great-grandchildren.” He shook his head slowly. “I have never been close to my family since returning from Europe. Their choice, not mine. Except for Natalie, the granddaughter I spoke of. She has taken it upon herself to look after her dear old homosexual granddad. Last year, after I fell and nearly broke my hip,