San Francisco Writers Conference First Prize for Fiction 2013:
“The Night F. Scott, Papa, Tall Tom, and Wee Willy Faulkner Came to Maxwell Perkins’ Birthday Party”
by Grant Flint
“No,” I told the reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle, “I don’t have any advice on how a person can live to be 100.
“Besides, that’s not why you’re here,” I told her. She looked Chinese-American, maybe 30 years old, wore glasses.
“I told your editor the real story I have. Which is: I was there the night of Maxwell Perkins’ party, his 53rd birthday party. Best editor in the last century. ‘Genius editor of geniuses.’ More important was who was at that party.”
“Yes.”
“Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Giant ol’ Thomas Wolfe. And weird Faulkner. William Faulkner. In one place, altogether. Never before, never again.”
She looked at me passively. Like that psychiatrist did a few years back.
“You didn’t bring a photographer,” I said to her.
She lifted her iPhone up. “Smile,” she said.
I don’t know how to pose for a picture. There was a click or flash or both, then she touched something on the gizmo in her hand. “You don’t mind my recording you, do you?” she asked.
“Not me, I don’t mind,” I told her. “I want you to.”
“Before you tell me your story—” she said, “when was that? What year? That party?”
“1937,” I said. “August 11, 1937. Before Hemingway left for Spain again. Max Perkins’ real birthday was September 20, but the party had to be early.”
“1937?” Her face didn’t change. “Before you tell me about the party… people want to know,” she said, “what they can do to live to be 100. Any advice?”
“No. Except maybe have yourself a great, great grandmother like mine. ‘Ol’ Granny. Sandhills of Nebraska. Lacked three days of making it to 100. Had far-vision. What they called it. Could see a wagon coming miles away. Before anyone else.”
“Yes,” the reporter said.
“But that’s not why you’re here,” I said. “Shouldn’t be anyway. You’re here about Max. His birthday. And Papa. And Fitz. Wild Tom. And scrawny little Bill Faulkner. The dude.”
She looked at me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Sitting there on my dingy old brown sofa. Me in my easy chair.
“People say I couldn’t have been there,” I offer. “76 years ago. Highly unlikely.”
I looked out my long window, north side of the living room. A scrawny little squirrel, I thought of Faulkner, was chasing another little squirrel, high up in my giant tree, scrambling nimbly from branch to branch. Generations of those little scamps in the years I’ve been here.
“It was an accident,” I told Amy, the reporter. “One in a million shot. That’s why I’m telling it. Why you’re here. Or why you should be.”
She waited. There was something unusual about her. “How old are you?” I asked. Old men can ask anything they want.
“49,” she said.
“49? You look 30! 49, you’re half as old as me!”
She didn’t seem pleased with my compliment. Or displeased.
“An accident,” Amy said. “Why were you at the ‘party’.”
“Well,” I answered, “like I said, one in a million shot. The lady, the wonderful lady who threw the party, was Maxwell Perkin’s virginal soul mate, Elizabeth Lemmon.”
She half smiled. “You look 30,” I said. “How old do you think I look? 90? 85?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Younger than my grandfather.” Then she smiled.
“You see,” I told her, “I was only 24 then. At the party? Those writers, they were all about the same age, 37 to 41. Max was 53. Elizabeth, Elizabeth Lemmon, she was 43. A charming, smiling darling. Max, you know, was married to someone else. Had five daughters. That’s why those three writers, F. Scott, Papa Hemingway, and Tom Wolfe, there at the party, were like his sons. The only sons he had.”
“And you were there,” Amy asked, “How? Why were you there?”
“Only because Miss Lemmon’s niece, Reba, was my Jenny’s best friend.”
“Jenny?”
“My sweetheart. Probably long gone now. Would be 98. I wrote my first short story when I was 22. After reading Thomas Wolfe. Look Homeward, Angel. Then Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises and Farewell To Arms. And Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby and Tender Is The Night. And Faulkner, Sanctuary and As I lay Dying”
Amy nodded.
“You know those books?” I asked.
“Yes. Most of them.”
“Well, I read them, and wrote my first short story about Jenny and me when we were at that beach in Fort Lauderdale. Four days and nights. Took her virginity. Got bad sunburned. There were purple air sacs all over the beach. Rotting ‘Portuguese man-of-war’s. A kid went along poking them with a stick. Little explosions. My first story. I went overseas in the military. Won second prize with that story in the All European Armed Forces short story contest. Beat out a few hundred, they told me.”
Amy nodded. Impassive face.
“So Jenny told her best friend, Reba, about that, and Reba told Elizabeth, Miss Lemmon, her aunt. And when I came back from overseas duty, I met Miss Lemmon. Because of Jenny. And Reba. And that’s how I got invited to the party.”
Amy nodded. She didn’t seem overly sold on the idea.
“I know,” I said. “Not, on the surface, believable. But there was more to it.”
“More?”
“I don’t know exactly… But I think she had me come to her party–as a peacemaker.”
“Peacemaker?”
“Max had asked Miss Lemmon on three occasions to let two of his ‘boys’, Fitzgerald and Wolfe, stay at her mansion. Wellborne. To dry out from excessive boozing. Get their act together, finish their books.”
“Yes,” said Amy.
“And they did that. Fitzgerald three times, Wolfe only once.”
Amy nodded. Took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes gently.
“So– she wanted to honor Max, have his ‘boys’ there, Fitz, Papa, and Wolfe for his birthday. She knew from Max’s letters that Wolfe was about to fly the coop, go to another publisher. And Faulkner? I don’t know. He was thinking of leaving his publisher, Harper’s. Maybe would come to Max. Max would lose Wolfe, get Faulkner. Maybe. Or not.”
Amy nodded.
“Can I get you a coffee? Only take a minute.”
“No, thanks,” she said. I wondered how many old coots she had interviewed this way.
“Anyway – – I think I was there to be a peacemaker. All four of them were alcoholics. Maybe she wanted a hedge. There would be explosions, she knew that. Those four geniuses were like fighters in a winner-take-all, free-for-all. You know? They loved each other. Geniuses. But they hated each other. Love, hate. Only one of them could be the best writer in the world. There had been fights. And makeups. Civilized rage. Those three, Max’s ‘boys’. And crazy Faulkner, the southern, ornery gentleman. And this was Max’s party. I was the fresh blood. Someone they could perform for. Be mildly decent for. She knew it wouldn’t work, she knew that. But I was to be the ‘temporizing’ agent. Hopefully.”
“Yes.”
“And she, Elizabeth, thought she could put a framework on that party.”
“Framework.”
“I was to prepare five questions about writing. To ask the great men. To keep them in order. Maybe.”
“And you did? The questions? And you went there? To the party?”
“Yes. August 11, 1937. Scared shitless. I mean, very, very frightened. And to make it worse, much worse – I was late. An hour and a half late!”
Amy seemed maybe almost interested.
“I was driving there in a borrowed car, a Plymouth. Huge front fenders. fancy hood ornament. Sailing boat, three sails. Little over an hour drive from D.C., I passed Middleburg, was on Highway 50, missed the turnoff, went back, found the gravel road to Welbourne, immediately had a blow out, almost went in the ditch. Had a terrible time trying to change that tire. Strange car, hard to find the tools in the trunk. Got it done, finally, hands all grimy now.
“Finally got there. Damn near turned around to flee. Very close to it. But drove up that twisting road. Unable to think. What was I going to do? Then saw the Mansion. Welbourne. Moonlight now. Haunted. Six tall, white pillars in front. Very old and elegant. Friendly, ghostly.
“Arrived. Brainless. Parked, went up to the door. About gave it up right there. Didn’t even have the nerve to knock. The door opened. It was Elizabeth. Lovely Elizabeth. Bright, warm blue eyes. ‘Welcome,’ she said, dear little laugh. I blushed, she took me to the bathroom to wash my hands. I didn’t look at my face in the mirror. I came out.
“‘They’re in the library,’ Elizabeth said. I followed her there. To meet the four best writers in the world.”
END
Author Grant Flint
Grant Flint’s romantic short story, “The Twinkling, Teasing, Loving, Innocent, Break-your-Heart, Save-your-Soul Eyes Incident” won MillValleyLit’s Summer 2013 prize. Grant then went on to win the San Francisco Writers Conference 2013 First Prize for Fiction with the above story. The aging Grant passed soon after.