Every Day by the Sun

by Dean Faulkner Wells

  THE TELEPHONE RANG SHORTLY BEFORE DAWN JUST AS MY baby was waking up for the day. It was Friday, July 6, 1962. I was staying with my mother at Nannie’s. I heard the urgency in her voice. “No,” she said. “No. We’ll come right away.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, patting my shoulder, looking away from me. “Pappy died. Last night. We need to go down home.” I could barely hear her over the whirr of the oscillating floor fans. I did not want to hear. Not Pappy. I dressed hurriedly, awkward in my sixth month of pregnancy, and called a babysitter for my eighteen-month-old daughter. I was as ready to go as I could be. The thought came to me that July 6 was the Old Colonel’s birthday.

  We drove down South Street and turned onto Garfield. There were few cars. As we approached the gate at Rowan Oak, a single police car blocked the entrance. This was the first time the gate was closed and we weren’t allowed to use the driveway. We had to park at Miss Kate’s. Other than the single police car, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. It would be just as hot as it had been the day before and the day before that. Yet the whole world had changed.

  We met my cousin Jimmy Faulkner halfway up the driveway and I shed the first of many tears to come. He told us that Jill was coming on a chartered flight from Charlottesville. Cho Cho and her husband Bill were flying from Caracas. Jack was driving up from Mobile. Jimmy’s father, John, was in the library working out funeral arrangements. The Faulkners were coming together again.

  As we walked up the driveway I looked at the house that had known so much joy and sorrow. If the walls could speak what tales they could tell. The sand crunched under my sandals. In the dry heat of summer the heavy scent of cedars and honeysuckle was stronger than usual. Brambles and wild blackberries had grown up along the drive. In the garden off the east gallery Aunt Estelle’s spring flowers had bloomed out, the iris and peonies along with the six-foot-tall Cape Jasmines.

  Pappy was gone, and I felt like a stranger in his house. I went upstairs to see Aunt Estelle. She sat on the bed in her room, more fragile than ever. She opened her arms to me. “He loved you dearly,” she said. We held each other and wept.

  The hearse from the funeral home delivered Pappy’s body in a plain wooden casket almost identical to the one in which Nannie had been buried, and one that he would have chosen for himself. For some members of the family, mainly Aunt Estelle’s sister Dot Oldham, it was not good enough. It “just didn’t look right.” The funeral home employees had barely placed Pappy on a bier in front of the fireplace in the parlor when Dot, ignoring anybody else’s opinion, ordered Pappy returned to the funeral home where she would select a “proper” casket for him.

  I was just coming downstairs when I looked out the screen door and saw Miss Emily and Mr. Phil Stone walking slowly up the brick walk to pay their condolences to Aunt Estelle. At that very moment the offending casket was wheeled out the front door to the waiting hearse, which then drove away at an unseemly speed. As I watched, the Stones froze, whispered to each other, turned their backs, and walked at a steady pace to their car.

  No one would have appreciated this Addie Bundren moment more than Pappy. Dot went to the funeral home and selected a “proper” casket. She and Pappy were back at Rowan Oak within the hour.

  We Faulkners usually bury our dead quickly and with little fanfare, so that we are able, as Nannie said, to return to earth as soon as possible. This was different.

  By midafternoon Friday the word had spread all over Oxford. Friends appeared in swarms bearing casseroles, fried chicken, hams, baskets of biscuits, deviled eggs, potato salad, cherry tomatoes stuffed with crab meat, cakes, pies, cobblers. I stood like a statue amid this flow of visitors. I had retreated to a sad, lonely place all my own. I was beyond reach. Dot, Wese, and Chrissie manned the kitchen and dining room, setting out a funeral buffet on the dining table and sideboard.

  Pappy made the six o’clock news. The gate to the driveway now held back journalists and photographers representing national and international publications. They camped out within yards of Pappy’s “Private Keep Out” sign. William Styron, on assignment for Life, was one of the few invited into the house. We recognized him as a writer, not a journalist. He had flown down from New York with Pappy’s publisher, Bennett Cerf.

  A dozen policemen with walkie-talkies stood at the front gate while others walked the perimeter of Bailey’s Woods. To get past the police barricade your name had to be on a list sanctioned by Aunt Estelle and Dot. If the police didn’t recognize you, they radioed the house and a family member walked down to verify your identity. Such an assault on the family’s privacy in a place as graceful, tranquil, and ordered as Rowan Oak was surreal. As I left the house to go see about my baby, I looked back. It was a circus. Too many lights, too many cars, too many voices, too many people.

  Friday night had been so hectic that Jimmy, John, and Jack agreed to meet with representatives of the media at the Mansion restaurant to answer questions about funeral plans. They made it clear that no member of the press would be allowed inside the house at any time. Then they amended the statement that Pappy had died at Rowan Oak and admitted that he’d died of coronary thrombosis at Wright’s Sanatorium in Byhalia. Since this was where Pappy had often gone to dry out, the first statement had been issued to counter rumors that he’d been drinking heavily. They were learning on the fly to be spokesmen for William Faulkner. Then they read Aunt Estelle’s statement pleading for privacy: “Until he is buried he belongs to the family. After that he belongs to the world.”

  Night and day the phone calls, wires, cables, and flowers poured in, an overwhelming display of grief at the loss of this man whom I loved so very much. My hands shook as I held the telegram from the White House containing President and Mrs. John F. Kennedy’s condolences.

  The funeral service was held at Rowan Oak in the front parlor at two o’clock Saturday afternoon. About fifty people packed the room, spilling over into the front hall and the dining room. The heat was intense. Women in summer dresses were fanning themselves, patting their faces with lace handkerchiefs, not merely perspiring—sweating. Besides family members there were close friends, like Miss Kate Baker and Jayne Coers. The Reverend Duncan Gray read from the Book of Common Prayer and Psalm 46: God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble. At the conclusion of the service we recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  The funeral cortege formed and began its slow, measured journey to the square, then north to St. Peter’s Cemetery. Tar oozed through cracks in the asphalt. As the motorcade passed the courthouse, townspeople and university students silently lined the streets. Every store along the funeral route was temporarily closed. The Oxford Eagle had distributed leaflets early that morning:

  Pappy was the first Faulkner to be buried in the newly opened section of St. Peter’s. He lies under a fine oak tree, just below the hill where his ancestors are buried. The inscription on his tombstone reads “Beloved, go with God.”

  After a brief graveside ceremony, family and friends returned to the house, where Chrissie and I were waiting. I had intended to go to the ceremony but as I walked to Wese’s car, I realized that I could not control my grief. I stayed home and wept. Faulkners do not cry in public. Before anyone returned we had emptied all the ashtrays and cleaned up the silverware, plates, bowls, and glasses. Chrissie washed and I dried. Then we replenished the buffet. Doing something with my hands was reassuring, and my salvation. I went back to check the library. A wooden statue of Don Quixote on the large table presided over the room. All was silence.

  I was remembering the last times Pappy and I were together, before July 4. My first husband was on a tour of duty in Southeast Asia and I had moved temporarily to Oxford from Shaw Air Force Base with my baby girl, Diane, and my eighty-pound boxer, Beauregard. I was expecting my second child that fall.

  We spent many an afternoon at Rowan Oak that summer of ’62. Pappy and Aunt Estelle were in residence and it was the perfect place for my toddler to explore. One afternoon, Pappy had
Andrew bring around one of his gentlest horses. He wanted Diane to see a horse up close. He picked her up so she could pat him and feel his mane. On another visit, Pappy was waiting for us on the gallery holding a small American flag for Diane. He took her down to the paddock to see his horses. They walked hand in hand, Diane turning to wave the little flag at me.

  A few days later, toward the end of June, when we went down home to plan our July 4 celebration, we found Pappy in bed, downstairs in his office. He had suffered a wicked fall that morning while riding his jumper, Stonewall. He was in great pain. Wese was holding Di, and as he reached up to take her, he winced and eased back on the pillows. He was hurting too much to hold her. “Let’s have the picnic at Kate’s,” he said. “I’ll be better by then.”

  When we left, he waved a gentle good-bye. I never saw him again.

  After the funeral, Aunt Estelle and Jill came home and went straight upstairs. I went out on the east gallery to cool off. The hundred-degree heat was stifling. It was hard to breathe. Pregnant women are hotter than any other people on earth. Rowan Oak had no air-conditioning downstairs, and fans did little more than move the air around. One of the first to take Dot’s suggestion that the men remove their coats was William Styron. I had read Lie Down in Darkness and was pleased to meet him and tell him how much I admired his work. There were perhaps fifty people in the house but conversations were muted and respectful. It was very quiet. Joining me on the gallery was Shelby Foote, who had wandered out to smoke. “It’s so hot in there,” he observed, “you have to walk sideways.” I introduced myself and we sat in comfortable silence. I noticed that his pipe smoke smelled like Pappy’s Dunhill tobacco. And like Pappy, Foote was first and foremost a courtly gentleman. His hoarse, whispery voice with southern rhythms was familiar and reassuring. It was as if Pappy had sent him. I would have said anything to keep him talking.

  We were joined on the gallery by a young man who attended Ole Miss and who regularly helped Pappy work his horses. Shelby had removed his seersucker jacket and tie but the young man was still suited up. I offered him a chair and the opportunity to remove his coat. “No, thank you,” he replied. “I want to ask Mr. Foote some questions about the war.”

  “Southeast Asia?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am, The War.” He launched into a lecture on the Lost Cause, so pro-Confederacy, pro-slavery, and pro–Old South that he could have been mourning the Confederate dead at Vicksburg or Shiloh. I was stunned. Foote, the greatest Civil War historian I ever knew, walked over to the brick wall and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. Turning to the young man, he was a study in controlled fury. “Sir,” he said, “I have always believed that the young should be liberal, and the very young like you should be the most liberal of all. You, sir, are so conservative that I’m surprised you don’t walk backward. Come, Dean, let us repair to the dining room.” And we went inside leaving the young man speechless.

  It was the likes of Foote and Styron who got me through that awful day. I went upstairs to say good-bye to Jill and Aunt Estelle. They planned to fly back to Charlottesville on Sunday. Aunt Estelle was sleeping. Jill was dressed for bed. She looked like a little girl in her pink seersucker robe and bare feet. “I wasn’t at the graveside because …,” I began.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s harder to keep from crying when you’re pregnant. I got through it because I was seated directly in front of the most garish wreath I’ve ever seen. Ever. Gold and purple plastic grapes sprinkled with gold glitter and tied together with yards and yards of gold ribbon. Pappy would have found it patently absurd. I don’t know who sent it, but I should find out and write a personal thank-you note.”

  “Jilly,” I said. “Think about what you want from Nannie’s. You should have the Butler portraits, especially the one of the little blond-haired girl that looks like you.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon,” she said gently. “Now go. We all need sleep. Pappy’s worn us out again. Take care of you and your babies. G’night.”

  PAPPY WOULD HAVE been one hundred on September 25, 1997. Plans for celebrating his centennial were well under way two years in advance. William Beckwith, the sculptor from Taylor, Mississippi, was hired to render a likeness in bronze. Here the problems started. What would Pappy wear? Hatted or bare-headed? Seated or standing? A bust or full figure? And the biggest question of all: Where would they put him? On the courthouse square or at Rowan Oak? A whole lot of people had a whole lot of very strong opinions.

  Most of the family agreed that if there had to be a statue—many preferring none at all—it should be placed at Rowan Oak to set Pappy’s likeness amid the surroundings where he had lived in privacy and harmony. The men who proposed and paid for the statue—John Leslie, the former mayor, and Dr. Chester McLarty, Faulkner family physician and friend—wanted the statue placed in front of city hall for all the world to see. The board of aldermen was in general agreement. The statue would be good for tourism and bring people to the square where they would shop and buy souvenirs.

  In August, as the centennial celebration neared, tempers heated up. Environmentalists learned that a healthy young magnolia growing at the south end of city hall was to be felled to make room for the statue. The Oxford Eagle was flooded with letters of protest, which doubled when the magnolia was unceremoniously cut down. Even Jill wrote from Charlottesville. She was opposed to the statue, as she felt sure Pappy would be, and the felling of the magnolia was “the crowning blow.”

  All to no avail.

  On September 24, 1997, the day before the dedication of the statue, Beckwith invited Larry and me to a private viewing. Pappy had been stored in the basement of city hall for a week along with the city’s Christmas decorations. We met Beckwith in the parking lot. It had been raining all day. He led us into a darkened storage area. The statue was draped under a tarpaulin, completely covered except for one rather arrogant bronze foot that poked out.

  Beckwith carefully removed the canvas and the three of us stood in silence. In an inexplicable way it was like saying good-bye again. The bronze eyes under the rigid hat brim seemed to stare out over the ramparts of infinity—as Pappy had written of the Old Colonel’s statue at Ripley. I wasn’t prepared for what I was feeling. My spine tingled and I was short of breath. We spoke in whispers until the physical plant manager came into the storage room, keys jangling, to report that the rain had let up. He barked orders into a cell phone. “We’re moving him now. Let’s go!”

  Three inmates from the city jail appeared in bright orange prison uniforms with “Property of Oxford—Lafayette County” stenciled on them. They pushed the bronze statue onto its trolley. Pappy weighed five hundred pounds and the bench five hundred. I agreed with one of the inmates’ observations that Pappy was one heavy mother. With the sculptor himself helping push the trolley, the statue moved up the sidewalk, massive, majestic, as if they were hauling not Pappy but all his people—Compsons, Snopeses, De Spains—maybe even the fyce and the bear. The sun had come out.

  As we rounded the corner a small crowd gathered to watch the statue, still hidden under canvas, being hauled into place. A shopkeeper, thinking to get a laugh, shouted, “What’s the matter? Is he drunk?” Then seeing family members, he began to mumble apologies. Some things never change. (In high school my daughter Paige listened to an English teacher describe her great-uncle William as “just an old drunk who staggered around town with his pants unbuttoned.” Paige didn’t cry until she got home.)

  The statue was positioned over bolts set in concrete in front of city hall, then lowered into place. The inmates were given a cigarette break. The sculptor accepted congratulations from well-wishers. A TV crew began filming. Standing on the sidewalk during all this activity, looking over the wrought-iron fence at the statue, I thought, Aunt Estelle was right, he belongs to the world.

  The dedication of the statue took place the next afternoon. Out of family loyalty, Larry and I did not attend but gave a small cocktail party at our home for Shelby Foote, Willie Morris, and ot
her guest speakers. The university was hosting its own party, a black-tie affair. All of our guests except one rushed off to attend. Foote settled into the bentwood rocker in the living room, tamped down the tobacco in his pipe, and asked for a bit more scotch. He said, “Have I told you about the first time I met your uncle?”

  In 1938, Foote and his friend Walker Percy, both twenty-two, drove to Oxford for the express purpose of stopping at Rowan Oak. For some time Foote had wanted to meet William Faulkner, whom he admired and wanted to emulate. Percy, though a fan of Pappy’s work, worried about barging in. What reason could they give for knocking on Faulkner’s door? Could they claim to be lost? Foote decided he would ask Pappy where he could buy a copy of The Marble Faun, published in 1924 and long out of print. This excuse seemed awfully flimsy to Percy, who said he would wait in the car. Foote walked up the driveway of Rowan Oak and was met by the roaring pack of terriers, mutts, and hunting dogs. He “waded through them” and knocked on the door. To Foote’s delight, “Mr. Faulkner” came outside and they walked the grounds talking together. The fact that Foote was from the Mississippi delta was a happy coincidence. Pappy had just completed a book “about your country down there” (The Wild Palms) and was in the mood to talk about his work. After a couple of exhilarating hours, Foote remembered Percy and asked Pappy to come to the car and meet him. Pappy obliged and was cordial to Percy and wished him and Foote good luck on their trip. The future literary lions went on their way energized and inspired. “We not only had spoken to your uncle,” Foote fondly recalled, “he wished us well!”

  Later that night we joined the main group at the Sizzler, a weathered, brown-bag catfish and steak house six miles east of Oxford. The restaurant overlooked a duck pond, a litter of puppies lived under the front stoop, and the interior was decorated with bowling trophies. I walked in on Shelby Foote’s arm and liked it when people turned to look at the star of Ken Burns’s Civil War series. He liked it, too.