Faulkner & Hollywood

(continued)

By D.E. Fredd

I looked up and saw a black dot drifting on the thermals in a slow circle.

"Back in Mississippi I'd say red-tail hawk; here in Hollywood I'd venture it's a vulture," he went on.

"I'm Margot, Mr. Faulkner. The studio head, Mr. Weinstein, sent his driver and me over. He wants to know if you need any help-typing, errands run, maybe some cleaning up."

"The script is complete, but it's all up here." He tapped the side of his head. "I just need to sit down and put it to paper. Sitting and thinking is more than half a writer's job when it comes to a good story."

He began to get up but lost his balance and slipped back into the chair. Margot and I let him recover for a moment before she spoke. "Maybe you should get out of the heat, Mr. Faulkner? This time of year it can make even a native a bit faint."

He conceded to the request. We picked him up under the armpits and walked him into the relative cool of the bungalow. I plunked him down on the edge of a cot near an open window and clicked on the electric fan. Margot went looking for food. "Have you eaten anything this morning?"

He looked puzzled by such a simple question and answered as if the event was a distant memory. "I was up before dawn, took a nice long walk, and decided to sit outside 'taking the air' as Trollope or Thackeray might call it. So, no, I don't believe I have, now that you mention it. I think, though, that I'd like a cool drink and then a short nap before I get to work on the script."

I looked at Margot for advice on the drink. She shrugged, giving me a "why-the-hell-not" look. I opened up a kitchenette cabinet where a dozen bottles of Jim Beam stood in soldierly formation on the shelf, each ready to step forward when the one in front bit the dust. I poured three fingers worth into glass then looked over at him.

"Any special way you want this mixed? Ginger ale, maybe some club soda?"

He'd taken his shoes off, loosened his tie and leaned back against the wall. He wasn't addressing Margot or me; his voice had the tone of a prayer or incantation. "Branch water is the way God intended bourbon to be drunk. There are other things that help, too. I once wrote 'how much better water tastes when it has set a while in a cedar bucket. Warmish-cool, with a faint taste like the hot July wind in cedar trees smells. It has to set at least six hours and be drunk from a gourd. Water should never be drunk from metal.' That's from early on in my As I Lay Dying novel, which not too many people have read yet, or so the good people at Cape and Smith tell me. Lacking the requisite branch water in a cedar bucket here in Hollywood, I'll just have Mr. Beam straight, thank you."

I took the glass over to him. He took a long slow sip, then held the glass up to the light to view its color. "The only true, native American drink so far as I know. I'm trying to appreciate wine while I'm out here but just don't have the palate for it."
Margot came over to our side of the room, pulled up a chair, turned it backwards and sat knees spread like a man but with her skirt tucked up and under her. "I read As I Lay Dying and your first one, Soldier's Pay, the one they made a movie about."

"Actually that movie came from 'Turn About,' a short story I did. Similar subject matter though. Howard Hawks bought the rights. I wrote it up but then the studio bosses found they could get Joan Crawford, so I had to re-write a war movie to fit a woman in. Today We Live was the title they gave it. If the studio was making a Bible picture and Crawford or Bette Davis were available, they'd rework it to get at least one of them up on the cross."

He'd finished the drink. His eyes were beginning to droop so Margot swung his feet onto the bed and pulled the coverlet to within easy reach. "We'll straighten up a little bit then go," she said, "and tell Solly that you'll have the script done early next week."

He smiled, "I guess I've got as much choice as a raccoon caught up in a tree surrounded by several bluetick hounds. Give me a few hours shuteye and I'll get back to it."

Margot washed a few glasses. We didn't see any dishes. I checked the icebox which was naked, save for a chunk of cheese wrapped up in a damp cloth. We tried to be quiet, but it wouldn't have mattered as he was out like a light. Margot checked his writing table, rummaging through some papers for something tangible to bring back to Solly. She brought a handful of papers over to me, a draft of twenty-five pages or so entitled Absalom, Absalom! "This is what he's been working on instead of the script. Read the first page. If this isn't a masterpiece I don't know what is."