Every Day by the Sun Read online

  She trusted him completely. When she flew with him, she was never afraid. This could have come from confidence in his piloting, her natural pluck, or her casual disregard of danger—but it was this fearlessness that hooked Dean. That and her smile. He called her “Swampy.” I don’t know why.

  Despite his gift for flying, Dean had several close calls in 1934. During an air show, as he was flying passengers out of a hay meadow five miles south of Oxford, the windshield suddenly became covered with oil. It was spewing everywhere, coating the plane and trailing onto the field. Dean somehow turned the plane, cleared a fence, and set the Waco down easy. When he got out he was as calm and as confident as ever. The passengers, however, were so scared he had to help them out of the plane. He gave them their money back.

  Late that summer, Dean was flying three passengers from Kansas City to Memphis. As he flew over the Mississippi River at approximately one thousand feet altitude, the Waco’s seven-cylinder radial engine suddenly burned a valve and lost its power. Dean was too far from the Arkansas shore to glide back to it, and there was no place on the Tennessee side to land. Between him and Memphis was Mud Island, a small, flat peninsula overgrown with reeds and brush. He noticed flags flying in a stiff breeze, which told him the direction of the ground wind, an all-important factor in executing a tight landing on rough terrain. Gliding in silence, his passengers no doubt holding their breath, he banked the plane to approach the little island upwind, then killed the flying speed so that the aircraft was at the point of total stall at the precise second when the undercarriage, with its fixed wheels, touched the mat of soft brush. The plane came to a safe stop before it reached the far end of the island. No one was hurt, nor had the plane been damaged. Spectators on the Mississippi River bridge and Memphis shoreline observed the amazing descent. The passengers—whose money Dean no doubt refunded on the spot—were later escorted off the island by boat.

  Dean now confronted the problem of getting the plane off Mud Island. The solution was to install a new valve brought out by Vernon Omlie and a three-man crew, who cut brush and leveled the bumps and dips to make a narrow runway on the island. This had to be done by ax and shovel since they couldn’t get a bulldozer out on the mud flats. They camped out on the island for two days. To lighten the plane for takeoff, they dumped everything not essential to flight—including fuel, leaving just enough to take off and fly to the airport.

  When the engine was repaired and the narrow takeoff strip ready, Dean cranked the motor and warmed it to operating temperature, then taxied to the north end of the peninsula. He turned the plane into the wind with the tail wheel just at the edge of the water. He set the controls for takeoff, held tight on the brake pedal, and slowly pushed the throttle all the way forward. When the engine was wide open, the plane straining under the pull of the propeller, he released the brakes and pushed the control yoke to the dashboard. The Waco lunged forward and began picking up speed, bumping along the uneven dirt path. In seconds the speeding plane approached the abrupt drop-off where land met water. A pilot’s normal instinct would have been to jerk back on the wheel and try to pull the plane into the air. However, Dean used every available foot of cleared ground to build up sufficient airspeed. There was very little runway left when he pulled the control wheel back just enough to set the wings at a gentle climbing angle. The undercarriage flicked the muddy river water for a second; then the plane began climbing and Dean was airborne.

  On September 29, 1934, Louise wanted to see Dean. She didn’t know how to drive and asked Cecile Falkner, Jack’s wife, for a ride to Memphis. Cecile was eager to go. When they arrived at Dean’s apartment, Exxie told them that Dean and Vernon had gone to Batesville, Mississippi, for an air show. When Louise and Cecile reached Batesville, about fifty miles away, Dean was delighted to see them. He made an instant decision. They would be married that day.

  It was nine o’clock before he finished taking passengers for rides and the planes were tied down for the night. He and Louise set out to find a jeweler and a justice of the peace. By 10 p.m. on Sunday, September 30, 1934, they were married.* Then they returned to the hotel, where they spent the night in one large room with Cecile, Vernon, and Navy Sowell. They did not tell anyone.

  The next day, Vernon flew the Waco back to Memphis, and Dean drove Cecile and Louise to Oxford. Four days later, while working at the WPA office, Louise heard a plane and recognized it as Dean’s. When he walked into her office she was shocked by his serious expression. Had he changed his mind? Did he want to annul the marriage? As he drove back to town, he turned to her and said, “We must tell.”

  Dean was well aware of Maud’s attitude toward her daughters-in-law. Although she tolerated Estelle, she actively disliked Jack’s wife, Cecile, and John’s wife, Lucille. No woman was good enough for any of her sons. Louise would prove to be the exception. He no doubt was terrified of what she would think. A letter from “Auntee,” Maud’s sister-in-law Holland Falkner Wilkins, had yanked him up and convinced him that he had no choice but to face his mother. If Auntee knew, so did Maud. Auntee was a master of tact and deadly persuasion:

  My dear Dean;

  I am just sending my love and best wishes to you and your Bride. I hope you will always be very happy together and That the best breaks will all be in your favor.

  I am sorry you did not introduce us to Louise on Monday When we drove up near your parked car in front of Herndon’s Store, though we did not know then you were married, you Might have told us, and no one would have been more pleased, Nor wished better things for you than I. I am sure Sallie Murry Shares my feelings on the subject, since I have heard both Sallie Murry and Robert [Williams] express themselves that way. So We hope to meet Louise soon and know her as your wife and like Her for the splendid girl she is said to be by all who already know Her well.

  Since you love her, and she is your wife, then I’m sure she is a Fine girl. You see Dean, I love you when you are good, and I love You when you are bad, and now I’m adding Louise to my list since She is a part of you. Be a good sport and write to your little mother Sometimes, and just know that I’m always for you. Lots of love And good wishes from

  Auntee

  Dean did not have a minute to spare. They drove straight to Maud’s, where he introduced his wife to his mother. Maud’s merciful reaction must have surprised him. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I thought you’d never marry.”

  After visiting with Maud, Dean and Louise drove to Rowan Oak to inform William and Estelle, who were very pleased. Estelle immediately began planning an announcement party to be held the following Sunday night. Only family members would be invited. Then Louise and Dean drove out to Etta to tell her parents. Sanford and Pearl Hale were delighted. Sanford took Dean out back to the toolshed where he kept his whiskey. The Hale farm came to be one of Dean’s favorite places, and William’s as well. The hunting was good, the people and the old homestead honest and uncomplicated. Its quiet dignity offered relaxation and peace to William. He and Dean often hunted there. As they passed the bottle, Dean talked to Sanford about hosting a deer hunt early on Christmas morning.

  That night, they returned to Maud’s. The Sunday announcement party was elegant. Before the family was seated for dinner, William proposed a toast: “To the best wife and the best flier I have ever known.” On Monday morning, Dean and Louise gathered their belongings and drove to Memphis, where they moved in with Vernon Omlie.

  Married life did not change Dean’s routine. He and Louise lived as happy transients, either barnstorming or visiting William and Maud in Oxford. They never unpacked their suitcases. When they were in Memphis, the apartment was full of people coming and going. Often William would appear unannounced to spend long weekends with Dean and Louise and Vernon and Phoebe Omlie. On a whim, he flew with them anywhere they wanted, to all parts of the country either for business or pleasure.

  At least once every two weeks, Dean and Louise flew to Oxford. Inclement weather did not stop them. If fog covered the ground, Dea
n would simply fly his red Waco along the railroad tracks and follow the Illinois Central line to Oxford. He would circle Maud’s house two blocks south of the town square, and waggle his wings and goose the engine. Then he and Louise would look down and watch Maud rush out of the house and head for her car.

  Maud and Auntee soon joined the line of pilgrims to the Memphis airport. Once a month they came to see Dean and Louise. They would drive up in Maud’s car and visit during the afternoon. As soon as it was dark, Auntee was ready for dinner at the Peabody, and the Peabody had to be ready for her—with its best table, waiter, food, and wine.

  The Peabody sparkled whenever Captain Vernon Omlie joined them for dinner at the Skyway, the hotel’s rooftop restaurant. Word spread that “the Pilot” was on his way upstairs for dinner, and when the Omlies and Faulkners appeared in the restaurant, the band played a short fanfare, Vernon was introduced, and a spotlight followed them to their reserved table.

  The fall of 1934 was an easy, comfortable time for my father. He made a near-perfect score on his commercial pilot’s examination, making but a single error. When asked to list the equipment a pilot should always carry with him on a flight, Dean omitted one item: a watch. This became a running joke in the family. As his cousin-in-law Bob Williams said, “Dean never needed a watch. He lived every day of his life by the sun.”

  As the year came to a close, Dean was looking forward to 1935. Maud had accepted Louise without reservation. They corresponded weekly whenever Louise was away. Each letter from Maud closed the same way:

  I love you, Louise.

  Mrs. Falkner

  Also, business at Mid-South Airways was steadily increasing. Although Dean had never worried about money, it pleased him to be on his way to becoming financially independent. He was surrounded by people he loved. He still had time for a day in the woods. And he always knew the Waco was waiting for him.

  CHRISTMAS OF 1934 was the best Christmas of all. At 4 a.m., Dean and Louise were sitting on the front steps of Sanford Hale’s farmhouse, drinking coffee and waiting for William to arrive for a deer hunt. Louise was not about to let the men go hunting without her. She was dressed in her brother Edward’s hunting jacket and pants. In the predawn stillness, they heard the motor of William’s Ford Phaeton coming up the narrow dirt road. They saw the glow of the headlights. The dogs began to bark. Dean was wearing his heavy wool Ole Miss letterman’s sweater under a bloodstained hunting jacket, the sleeves of which had been ripped and torn by the thorns of Lafayette County.

  When the car stopped in front of the house, out stepped William and his sister-in-law, the sturdy and indefatigable Dorothy “Dot” Oldham, more finely turned out in hunting gear than the men. The dogs barked and raced around the car, then became quiet and sniffed the newcomers. Dot declared that she had talked William into bringing her so that she could try out the new 12-gauge shotgun that “a beau” had given her. William repeated Maud’s remark that “It was no ‘beau.’ Gentlemen don’t give ladies shotguns for Christmas.” Then he added, “But of course hunting don’t make much sense to Mother for you or me anyhow, much less Dot.”

  Louise’s father and brother now joined the group. The Hale men, Sanford and Edward, towered over the short-statured Faulkners. They exchanged quiet greetings. Wood smoke from the house drifted down from the roof. Sanford kenneled the dogs to keep them from spooking the deer. He led the way down a worn path past the barn, through the pasture, and into the bottom. The deeper into the woods they went, the quieter the hunters became, until the only sounds were the cries of morning birds and their footsteps. They were in their stands an hour before daylight: Dean and Louise together, Edward alone, William and Sanford together, and Dot by herself with her new shotgun.

  It did not matter that they saw no deer. As the sun rose, Sanford called across the clearing, “Let’s go back to the house for some breakfast.” Coming up the path they smelled smoke from the woodstove and the mouthwatering aroma of frying ham and boiling coffee. On the front steps they took off their muddy boots and went inside in their heavy wool socks. It took my grandmother Pearl years to get over the fact that Dot Oldham refused to take off her hunting hat at table. Nevertheless, Pearl served up an admirable hunter’s breakfast of ham and fried quail, grits and redeye gravy, scrambled eggs, biscuits, molasses, and coffee. After the meal, William drove Dot, Dean, and Louise back into town.

  Christmas dinner at Rowan Oak always started at two o’clock. Dean and Louise cleaned up and got dressed at Maud’s house—Dean in tweed coat and tie, Louise in her best dress of navy blue silk with white braid at the collar and cuffs. They drove Maud in her Buick roadster the few blocks to Rowan Oak, turning up the curving driveway flanked by tall cedars.

  Since William and Estelle rarely placed a wreath on the front door, the first sign of Christmas as Dean, Louise, and Maud entered the house was the smell of roasting turkey. Sage and thyme mingled with the clean, sharp scent of the cedar Christmas tree standing ceiling-high in the parlor. Dean and William had cut it the day before, walking less than two hundred yards into the woods west of the house but spending two hours in the process. They inspected every potential Christmas tree, weighed its merits, debated its good and bad points, and when their pint of bourbon was empty, cut down the next tree they came to. William’s theory regarding ornaments was that the beauty of a Christmas tree was “in the tree itself, not the stuff that folks put on it.” Hence, the tree was sparsely and randomly decorated.

  Soon Jack and Cecile arrived, along with Estelle’s parents and Dot. Eggnog was presented in a heavy cut-glass punch bowl on a silver tray. William served.

  The table was elegant as always with white linens stiffly starched and glittering crystal wine glasses, silver water goblets, and bread and butter plates reflecting the light of the candles. After everyone was seated and the wine glasses were filled, William proposed the first of many toasts to family members young and old—to deer hunts past and future, to Christmas and to Christmases to come. “If we were aristocrats,” he said, “we’d break the glasses in the fireplaces. But we aint, so we won’t.”

  The turkey was brought in and paraded about for all to see. William wielded his carving knife with martial precision, standing over the bird and chatting as he worked. After the turkey, dressing, and gravy had been served and the plates passed, platters of wild rice and vegetables streamed from the kitchen. At dessert time, finger bowls were placed on the table, and then came flaming plum pudding. Everyone applauded Estelle, who had cooked all day since early morning and had, in fact, been putting away the homemade cranberry sauce and various jellies and condiments since summer.

  William invited the men to join him in the library for after-dinner drinks. The ladies returned to the parlor. The weather had gotten warmer, and the doors were opened in late afternoon. Narcissus brought eighteen-month-old Jill downstairs for everyone to see and hold. The sun was setting. Afternoon slid into evening. The house was filled with the sounds of soft voices and quiet laughter.

  William walked Dean, Louise, and Maud to their car. He put his arm around Dean’s shoulder and kissed his mother and sister-in-law. “This Christmas was so good,” he said, “let’s have one like it next year and all the years after that. Merry Christmas, Mother. Merry Christmas, Louise. Merry Christmas, Dean.”

  IN MARCH 1935, the novel Pylon was published—a story about the early days of flying. William had become even more familiar with the world of pilots and barnstormers through Dean’s experiences, and some elements made their way into his novel about an unnamed reporter who follows three barnstormers and a child as they make their way from air show to air show, living with reckless abandon. It was the dash and vigor he envied, Dean’s fearlessness. “Why doesn’t a pilot fear death?” he asked Dean and Vernon Omlie over a bottle of bourbon at the Memphis airport. He knew the answer as well as they: Because, in effect, he is already dead.

  William’s habit after finishing a book was to go on a binge. Louise and Dean would receive the first,
urgent phone call from Maud: “William is drinking. He needs you.” They would drop what they were doing and fly to Oxford, where Maud would be waiting. She would drive Dean directly to Rowan Oak and take Louise home with her.

  William once said about his drinking: “When I have one martini I feel bigger, wiser, taller. When I have a second I feel superlative. After that there’s no holding me.”

  Alcoholism has run through each generation of the Faulkner men like a bad gene. The consensus of William’s biographers is that he began drinking at an early age for the same reason most people do: He liked the taste of liquor and the way it made him feel. But as he aged, he came to depend more and more on alcohol, not for pleasure but for relief, an anesthestic for pain both physical and psychological. Drinking himself into oblivion was a sure if temporary escape from reality and responsibility; yet he never allowed his alcoholism to interfere with his work. The binges came after the books were made.

  He has been described as a periodic drunk: He could abstain or control the urge to drink for weeks, or even months, at a time, but three or four times a year he was overwhelmed by the craving for alcohol. He would take to his bed, a ready supply of liquor on hand. These bouts could last anywhere from several days to over a month, during which time he avoided eating, becoming weaker and weaker until he was gravely ill. Frequently he would have to be hospitalized, usually at Wright’s Sanatorium in Byhalia, Mississippi, his preferred drying-out place.

  He was blessed, however, with a constitution as strong as his destructive tendency to drink and a body that responded well and quickly to treatment. Otherwise he surely would have suffered irreversible cirrhosis of the liver, blackouts, and memory loss.