Evan Hunter - Sons

“Bought it,” I said.

“Taste jus’ like piss,” she said again. “Give me some more of that stuff,” she said, and reached for the bottle. She drank

again, said, “Whoo, man, that’s jus’ awful,” and then said, “What’s yo’ name?”

“Will.”

“I’m Daisy. How’s that?”

“That’s fine,” I said.

“No, it ain’t, it’s dumb. Dumb ole nigger name.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said.

“Listen, I’m sorry ’bout your mother,” she said.

“That’s okay.”

“I got two li’l kids my own,” she said, “I know wha’s like to be a mother. I’m real sorry, man.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

“Sorry,” she said, and shook her head. “Listen, Bill,” she said, “there one thing...”

“Will,” I said.

“Will,” she said, “one thing Daisy know how to do, it’s take the miseries out a man, you hear?”

“I hear,” I said.

“You want me to?”

“Got no money. Spent it all on this piss here.”

“I know you got money, Bill.”

“No, cross my heart.”

“How you ’spect to get a fancy lady ’thout money, Bill?”

“Got none though.”

“Show you a real fine time, Bill.”

“Got no money though.”

“Listen, Bill, tell me the truth.”

“That’s the truth.”

“You got money, Bill?”

“No money.”

“Pore Bill,” she said. “Mammy gone, money gone, whiskey ’most all gone. Give me some of that whiskey there, Bill.” She took the bottle again and, without wiping the lip this time, tilted it to her mouth and drank. “Oh, man,” she said, “like to burn a hole clear thu me.”

She handed the bottle back to me. We sat silently on the bench.

“Well, Bill,” she said at last, “what we goan do ’bout you?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“You wanna go back there in the bushes?”

“Got no money,” I said.

She rose unsteadily and stood swaying before the bench, her head tilted, her eyes squinted, a single gold earring dangling from her left ear, the other doubtless lost in some GIs undershorts. She held out her hand to me then, the white-pink palm suddenly revealed, and said, “Come on, Bill, we goan to church.”

She led me stumbling drunkenly off the path to the spreading cover of an oleander, and then she guided me gently to the ground and pulled the black dress up over her long brown legs and put my hand between them. “You got a rubber, man?” she asked, and I said, “Mmm, yes,” and she said, “Doan you come inside me ’thout one,” and I thought, Minister’s daughter or whore, all anybody thinks about these days is getting pregnant. What would be so wrong about getting pregnant, Daisy-girl, what would be so wrong about shooting some hot white seed into you? You want to be a whore with a twat of gold? Okay, make a baby for me, Daisy, make a baby girl with long blond hair and honey molasses skin to take the place of the one we laid deep in the ground today. “You goan be able to get this up, Bill?” she asked, and I said, “Take it in your mouth, honey,” and she said, “How I know where you had it last?” but she put her head into my lap and her lips gently parted over me, soft and wet and thick, and she sucked deep dizzying draughts and then abruptly moved her head away and whispered soberly, “Where’s the rubber, man?” I rolled onto my side, her hand dropping to cover me and coax me while I fumbled with my wallet and extracted from it the Trojan the United States Army Air Force had so thoughtfully provided. She smoothed it onto me with professional agility, and said, “You goan put that thing real deep inside me, Bill, you goan fuck this mother clear out of your head,” and I thought she had somehow got the sentence wrong, and then she was on her back again, her legs bent and spread, holding me in both deft guiding hands as she pulled me into her. “Now give it to me, Bill,” she said, and I thought, Honey, it’s Will, can’t you get that straight, and she said, “Tha’s right, baby, give it to me, fuck me out of my head, baby, give it to me, Bill, give it to me,” repeating a litany she had probably learned in the cradle, changing nothing but the name, and even that was wrong. All of it’s wrong, I thought, I’m choosing the wrong memory, this is what I’ll remember for September 15, 1943, and not an open grave receiving my mother’s body! I tried desperately to recall what my father had said to me as I knelt beside the coffin because it seemed to me all at once that my mother was in danger of being instantly forgotten, of disappearing forever into an urgent brown void beneath a spreading oleander in a Tennessee park. I could remember my father’s presence suddenly behind me, could remember the weight of his hand on my shoulder, and then, at last, his words came back to me, and I repeated them in my head as Daisy wrapped her legs tight around me and pulled my orgasm into her slippery vault, not knowing what all the words meant, but taking solace from them anyway.

“I almost lost her years ago,” he said. “We were lucky,” he said. “I loved her, Will. I won’t know how to live without her.”

My darling Bert,

How are you, my dearest? I’ve just received four of your letters in today’s mail, dated September 16, September 17, September 20, and September 21. It certainly docs take long for them to get here, doesn’t it? I think maybe there are German spies at work. Have you been getting mine?

I took them all up to my room and read them one at a time with Clara making a big fuss trying to get in the door. She sometimes behaves like nine instead of nineteen! This time, she claimed I had hidden her Vanity Fair, which I hadn’t even seen! All she wanted to do, of course, was read your letters. You do seem to have got pretty passionate over there in France, my dear. I sometimes blush myself when I read them. (Maybe you ought to go see the chaplain, if there is one.)

Bert, do you wear your gas mask around your neck at all times? I read a story in the Record that said too many of our boys over there have been throwing away their respirators or whatever you call them, and then when the Germans shoot their gas, it’s quite unfortunate. Be sure to keep yours and not throw it away. Did you get the socks I sent you? I think it’s terrible that your feet are always wet. Don’t they ever give you any time at all to dry them off? Don’t you have two pairs of boots?

Bert, I miss you very much.

Things are about the same here in Eau Fraiche, except that you aren’t here, and of course most of the other boys are gone, too. It’s very quiet and strange. The Chenemeke was playing Lest We Forget with Rita Jolivet this week, and I took Meg to see it. She is quite a little pest, even though she’s my sister. Whenever a love part comes on, she starts squirming and fidgeting, which I think odd for a girl going on fifteen, don’t you? I hope you are not making goo-goo eyes at any of those mademoiselles, by the way. I hear they are really something, those French girls. You be careful, Bert, because I love you very much, and am of course being true to you.

Clara is right this minute making a terrible racket on the Pianola in the parlor because she knows I’m up here writing to you, and she can’t let anyone live in peace, naturally. Bert, I worry about you day and night, please be careful.

I shall have to end this before I start crying.

All my constant love,

October 3, 1918

Dearest Bert,

We have had our first four cases of the Spanish influenza, which I think is a pretty romantic name for a disease, don’t you? Do you know about it? Has it reached there yet? The Record says it has gone into the trenches because infected boys going over there have taken it with them. I pray to God it does not come to where you are.