Lies My Mother Never Told Me (25 page)

Half the family was buried on one side of the path with
FALKNER
engraved on their headstones; on the other side lay the ones who'd gone along with
Pappy
and changed their names to
FAULKNER
. It was Pappy who'd added the
u
, Willie now told us as he poured a hefty shot of bourbon from his bottle onto the grass-covered grave. Old Pappy thought
Faulkner
was more elegant, Willie explained, and chuckled merrily at the great writer's antics.

Through the dense fog of my drunkenness, this
u
made me feel uneasy, for it seemed phony and vain, not something I would ever expect from the genius who'd written
The Sound and the Fury
. I was still, at twenty-five, under the delusion that to be a truly great writer, you had to be a truly exceptional human being. And part of that, I supposed, was accepting oneself as one really was.

After a while we staggered back to Willie's modest ranch house and stayed up until sunrise, and continued to drink unrestrainedly until I was so drunk I became perfectly lucid, speedy with clarity. I felt as if I'd been plugged into a wall socket and could hear a sharp electric buzzing in my head. I was way past
being able to sleep and was probably closer to alcohol poisoning than I've ever been in my life. The buzzing did not abate, and I did not sleep or come down from that drunk for two full days.

Recently, reading Larry L. King's biography,
In Search of Willie Morris
, I learned that around this time, Willie had been arrested for drunk driving, and had punched the cop who'd pulled him over, and spent the night in jail.

Also around this time, Willie met JoAnne Pritchard, and began to come out of his despair, though it apparently never left him completely. Eventually he gave up his position at Ole Miss and moved to Jackson with JoAnne. They were married—to everyone's astonishment—in 1990, and Willie seemed to “turn a corner” in his depression and his drinking.

Willie always helped with the James Jones Literary Society whenever I asked him. He was the keynote speaker at several symposia, including an early one in Robinson. Kevin and I took him to the Jones family plot in the Robinson cemetery. He stood there before the graves in his old windbreaker and sagging khaki trousers, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, for a long time in silence. He admitted to us that he had driven to Robinson before, just to see where my father had grown up, but he hadn't asked anyone for directions to the Jones home or to the cemetery plot. He'd just sort of quietly snooped around, as was his wont.

 

The last time I saw Willie he'd brought JoAnne up to New York in 1996, for the publication of his young adult novel,
My Dog Skip,
which became a big success. Kevin and I met them and my mother for dinner at Elaine's. JoAnne, who had several grown children of her own, had dark, lustrous hair and eyes and a pale complexion, and a poised demeanor. Willie was still drinking bourbon, but he seemed happy and didn't look as bloated and unkempt.

I could tell my mother was in a mood; her lips were pinched in
that unpleasant way. Perhaps she felt threatened by JoAnne and the brand-new life Willie had started that had nothing to do with us. Out of nowhere she said to Willie, “What was that broad's name? The one who kept grabbing your crotch under the table that time at Shelby Foote's house? Did you ever end up fucking her?”

James Jones, circa 1936—I love this funny picture of my father at about age fifteen. He looks like a nerd!

 

James Jones publicity shot, 1951—My father is barely thirty years old in this photograph, which was used on the back cover of the first edition of
From Here to Eternity
.
photograph by Patt Meara

 

James Jones at work at the Handys' home, Robinson, Illinois, circa 1948—The Handys built an addition onto their ranch house, just for him, a twenty-seven-year-old veteran with a desire to become a novelist. A wall of glass bricks separated him from the rest of the house.

 

Gloria and James Jones the day after their wedding, Haiti, February 1957—They look so happy here, a shining, golden couple.

 

My mother with me at three months, Paris, 1960—This was from a series taken by a
Life
magazine photographer.

 

Gloria and James Jones on the Quai aux Fleurs, Paris, 1959—My mother is pregnant with me in this photo. Shortly after, she was bedridden for the duration of the pregnancy.

 

Gloria Jones, circa 1958—She was an image of perfect glamour, with her satin dress, painted nails, a cigarette, and a martini. I couldn't wait to grow up and be just like her!

 

Bill Styron and James Jones playing harmonica—This photo was taken in Biarritz, France, in the summer of 1965. We often took vacations with the Styrons.

 

Norman Mailer, Adele Mailer, Gloria, and James Jones, circa 1958—This is the only photo I have of Norman and my father together. Soon after it was taken, they got into an argument and did not speak for close to twenty years.

 

James Jones, Sylvia Beach, Thornton Wilder, and Alice B. Toklas, Paris, circa 1958.
Loomis Dean/Getty Images

 

James Jones with Montgomery Clift, circa 1953—They met during the filming of
From Here to Eternity
and became good friends. My father taught Clift how to play the bugle and how to box.
reprinted by permission of Columbia Pictures

 

James Jones and Lowney Handy, about 1955—Behind them is the house he built for himself with the money he made from
From Here to Eternity
. None of Lowney's charisma and attractiveness can be seen in this picture. She was around fifteen years older than my father, her star writing pupil.