Evan Hunter - Sons

I guess you’re just panting to know what’s new here in the Windy City, ho-hum. Iris and I went to see Vaughn Monroe at the Chicago Theatre Tuesday night, he of the gravelly tonsils and the lunar speed contest. He’s got a pretty good band, though I must say l’s reactions were largely glandular, swooning and flopping all over the place like a salmon going upstream to lay her eggs. (Oh my! Naughty naughty Lindy!) She’s been dating a boy who works in the grinder room at Daddy’s mill. Actually she met him here one night when we had some kids over listening to records and he came to deliver some papers Daddy had left at the office. He’s 4-F because of a heart murmur. It’s my guess that I is developing a heart murmur of her own, though, judging from the way she talks about him all the time. But V. M. gave him a little competition Tuesday night.

I am now busily reading A Tale of Two Cities in Classic Comics for a test coming up next week in Miss Lougee’s English class. (I think you had her when you were a junior, she’s the one with the long nose and the teaspoon figure, a charmer altogether.) She marks on a curve, and the highest grade on the last quiz she gave was a 47! I guess that gives some indication of the wisdom she’s distributing to us little adolescent minds, huh? Speaking of little adolescent minds, Dumbo, how about writing once in a while? I know you’re a very big officer now in charge of Air Force personnel, planes, landing fields, bases and parachutes (not to mention that big pool where you won’t let the enlisted man swim, shame on you!) but perhaps you will now and then think fondly of your bratty little sister back here in Chicago and drop her a line other than those change-of-address cards you’re always shooting off.

Guess who’s home?

And guess who went out with him?

Me!

And I won’t tell you who.

Your mysterious sister,

P. S. Who’s Ace Gibson, he sounds a dream! Bring him home on your next furlough! That’s an order!

6/12/44

Dear Will,

Remember me? I’ll bet you don’t. We met at Michael Mallory’s house one New Year’s Eve, and spent a little time together, remember? I guess you’re wondering how I got your address. Well, I’ll tell you.

The U.S.O. on Michigan and Congress has this system where girls who want to help out can give private parties in their houses. There has to be a chaperone, of course, and whoever's giving the party has to provide for refreshments and all that. It’s a very nice way for servicemen to meet people in a homey atmosphere. There are so many servicemen in Chicago these days. Anyway, I have a week’s vacation (I’m working at The Boston Store now, and my mother said it would be all right if I contacted the U.S.O. and arranged for such a party, which I did). But I was short of girls because I needed around a dozen, so I asked the U.S.O. if they could help me get some nice girls for the party, and they gave me a list of about ten names, three of which came. Well, one of the girls was an attractive little blonde, seventeen years old, with a very cute figure and blue eyes that reminded me of a fellow I had met one New Year’s Eve. We got to talking and her name turned out to be Linda Tyler. Anybody you know? It was, naturally, your sister, and when I told her I had once met you, she said you might like to hear from me, and she gave me your address. I hope she was right.

Well, well, so you’re a lieutenant now! That’s very exciting. What kind of airplanes do you fly? Your sister wasn’t sure. She said a P-38, I think. Is there such a plane? She also told me you’d be spending some time in California, you lucky thing. I’ll bet you’re as brown as a berry. I’ve never been to California. I’ll bet it’s very nice out there, though the weather here in Chicago is pleasant just now. Even got over to the lake for a little swimming the other day.

Before I forget, I’m not sure this will reach you at the address your sister gave me because she didn’t seem to know how long you would be in Transition Training before you were shipped overseas, so I’m just taking a chance sending this to you at the Santa Maria Army Air Base, and hoping it will be forwarded to you if you’ve already left there. There was a boy I was corresponding with in the Marine Corps before he got killed, and they were very good about forwarding his mail to him wherever he went, though he had an F.P.O. address, and I see that you don’t have an A.P.O. yet. Well, I’ll just hope you get it, that’s all. I’ll hope, too, that your sister was mistaken about your being sent across. Now that we’ve landed in Normandy, the war should be over soon, don’t you think?

Do you hear from Michael Mallory? Your sister said that he was a pilot, too. Well, I don’t seem to have much more to say. I hope you receive this letter, and I hope you’ll remember me, and answer it if you can.

Yours truly,

P. S. We don’t live on Halsted any more. My new address is:

Miss Margaret Penner

5832 South Princeton Avenue

Chicago, Illinois

I can’t wait for you two guys to get together. My brother’s about as big as you are, Will, maybe an inch or so taller, with blond hair and brown eyes and my dumb buck teeth, only on him they look good. Are you an athlete? He was an athlete back home, a four-letter man, his sports were baseball, basketball, soccer, and track. Baseball was really his game, though; he pitched a no-hitter in the Little League when he was only ten years old, I’ll never forget that day as long as I live.

My mother came over to the field in the seventh inning, wearing jodhpurs and flicking her riding crop against her boot. I told her Skipper had a no-hitter going, and she said, Really, what’s a no-hitter? She was there to pick us up after the game, and she was pissed oft because it wasn’t over yet. She kept telling me about a dumb mare named Peony who’d developed a capped hock. I wanted to say Listen, go to hell, you and Peony both, my big brother’s got a no-hitter going, can’t you understand that? They carried him on their shoulders after the game, he was all covered with sweat, his face all flushed, and he looked around — he was on his back, you know, legs up in the air, arms waving for balance — he twisted his neck and spotted me in the crowd and yelled Hey there, Ace, we did it, huh? We did it.

He was in college when this thing started, you know, he could have gone in as an officer, but he didn’t want to. I told him he was crazy. Look, I said, get the most out of it, Skip, get the good chow and the broads and the easy times, why knock yourself out? No, he couldn’t see it my way. He enlisted in the Navy, so now he’s a big deal Gunner’s Mate/Third, what’s that the equivalent of, Will? A buck sergeant? He’s wasting himself, he really is. And with that Navy officer’s uniform, he could be getting more tail than he’d know what to do with, not that he’s making out too badly as it is. He’s got himself a little nurse off the hospital ship out there, she’s risking decapitation for fraternizing with an enlisted man, but she just can’t keep her hands off him. She goes around in a fog all day long, just waiting to get ashore to be with him, No, no, Miss Abernathy, I told you to prick his boil, do you know that one? You do? There’s this new nurse at a hospital, you see, and on her first day the intern tells her...

Dear Will,

The picture on the front of this card is me at Cape Cod. (Ha-ha) Here with Mommy alone just now, but Daddy will join us on the Fourth. How come the Air Force never sends you home? They sure are keeping you flying, lieutenant. (Ho-ho!) Our address here is: c/o Lambert, Truro, Massachusetts. Write, right?

Love & stuff,

Charlotte Wagner