Evan Hunter - Sons

June 14, 1944

Dear Will,

I’m writing again because I thought my last letter might not have reached you.

I guess you’re wondering how come all this activity when we haven’t seen each other for almost a year and a half now, and hardly knew each other even then. Well, I found you very interesting to talk to that night, and I thought it might be fun for both of us to start a correspondence. There are no ulterior motives involved here, Will, as I have a boyfriend at the University of Ohio who is in the Navy’s V-12 program there, and he knows I’m writing to you. I told him so when I spoke to him on the telephone last night. His name is Frederick Parker, Freddie for short. He’s from Edison Park, perhaps you know him.

Well, enough about Freddie.

I’m dying to know what it feels like to fly an airplane. Perhaps, if you have the time, you might describe it to me as I’m truly interested. I would imagine a person would be scared to death up there. Suppose you run out of gas or something? Do you fly with another person in the airplane with you, or are you all alone up there? Is it difficult to read all those instruments? In pictures I have seen, it looks like there’s a hundred of them.

I suppose you’re very handsome in your lieutenant’s uniform, though Freddie would kill me if he could read that. (I won’t tell him if you won’t.) In case you’ve forgotten what I look like, I’m enclosing a picture I took at the lake a few Sundays ago. (Don’t mind the girl clowning around in front. She’s my girlfriend Louise.) I got a terrible burn the day the picture was taken, you should have seen me. I’m a redhead (I guess you remember) and it’s true what they say about redheads having very fair skin that boils in the sun.

Well, I guess that’s all for now. I Love A Mystery goes on in about ten minutes, and I don’t want to miss it. Please tell me all about flying.

Fondly,

I’ve always had a thing about names, Will. When I was twelve or thirteen, I used to dream of dating girls with names like Connie or Grace or Wendy or Gail, they were all lovely blond dolls with long hair blowing. I guess I must have fallen in love with a dozen Connies later on, but only because I was already in love with the name. Even now, if someone says, Listen there’s this great girl you have to meet, her name is Gladys or Adelaide or Hannah, it’s simply not the same as April or Deborah or Diane. Okay, it’s a quirk. But you try living with Avery for a while. All I’m trying to say is that the name got me even before I saw the actual airplane. Even the number got me. What are you laughing at? You think P-38 is the same as P-40 or P-47? Well, it isn’t. There’s something sexy about P-38, stop laughing, will you? P-38, listen to it! It rolls off the tongue, P-38, it’s got a nice easy flow to it — you jackass, I’m trying to tell you something about this airplane we’re flying!

You know what the Germans call her? Der gabelschwanz teufel, I think that’s how it’s pronounced. It means fork-tailed devil. Now, Will, that’s a pretty fair reputation to have up there with you, the fork-tailed devil, the Lockheed Lightning. You can’t tell me that Curtiss Warhawk or Republic Thunderbolt sound anywhere near as exciting as Lockheed Lightning, that’s like saying Minnie is as exciting as Fran. I’m not even talking about looks now, I’m talking about the name of this bitch, the P-38 Lightning, it makes you want to hop into her and ride her up against whatever they’ve got!

The first time I glimpsed her, Will (I know you felt exactly the same way because I saw you when you landed, I saw that look on your face) the first time I glimpsed her sitting out there on the field in a long line of silver beauties in the sun, I thought You can’t ask me to fly that sweet precious thing, you can’t ask me to risk taking her off the ground where she might get hurt, you’ve got to build a big plexiglas bubble all around her and just let people come to gape at her the way I’m gaping now. I could have written a poem about that piece, well, what the hell’s so comical, would you please tell me? I happen to be serious here.

No, the hell with it. Never mind. No, never mind. Just forget it. If you want to go through life an ignorant, insensitive clod, that’s your business. Why don’t you go over there and sit with old Hotshot Horace, let him spit on you when he talks, maybe you like guys who use their hands when they tell how they dove at the screen, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat, pwwwwwwwssssssshhhhhhhh, all over your blouse, go ahead, Will, never mind the people in this world who’ve got a little feeling for things.

I know that airplane has the same effect on you, I know she has.

Will, did you ever see anything so gorgeous in your life? I could’ve kissed that whole long shining silver line of her, right from that sweet thrusting nacelle, cannon and all, machine guns, every tooled part of that beautiful machine, kissed both those booms and traveled down her belly under those majestic wings — did you ever imagine such a wingspread? I thought, God, she’s the biggest fighting airplane I’ve ever seen, she’s going to swallow me, this bitch, and make me a part of her. When I climbed inside her, Will...

Saturday

June 17, 1944

Dear Will,

I haven’t heard from you as yet, but I thought I’d write anyway, just to see how you were getting along. It is now two o’clock in the morning, and I just got home from a dance at the U.S.O. The dance ended at twelve-thirty, but some of us girls went over to Wabash for hot dogs afterwards, and so I just got here. It is very quiet and still here in the house, you could hear a mouse squeak. (Not that we have any.)

I had a dream about you the other night, it was a very strange dream, I don’t even know if I should tell it to you. Louise says I shouldn’t, but I’ll take a chance. She thinks I’m crazy writing to you, anyway, even though my boyfriend Freddie knows all about us. (I mean, about my writing to you and all. I have never told him about how we met, do you think I should? I will do whatever you advise. He’s a very jealous person.) Anyway, about the dream.

It took place in Michael Mallory’s house, but it wasn’t on New Year’s Eve, it was Christmas morning instead. And it seemed I was living there or something because I woke up in the bedroom upstairs, and I was in my nightgown, and I came down the steps into the living room wearing only my nightgown. There was a big Christmas tree in the center of the room, all lit up with lights, and there were a lot of Christmas presents all around the tree, and all of the presents were for me. They all had these little cards on them saying “To Margie.”

So far it’s a funny dream to be having in the middle of the summer, don’t you think, when the temperature here in Chicago was ninety-four degrees yesterday!

Well, naturally, I started opening all the presents (this is the part Louise says I shouldn’t tell you) and in each one of the presents there was YOU!?! Even the tiniest present, when I opened it there was YOU!?! inside. You were wearing your uniform and a flying helmet and goggles and a white scarf and you had grease marks on your cheeks and around your eyes when you lifted up the goggles. You also had a mustache. (You haven’t grown a mustache, have you?) And each time I opened another present I was very happy to see that it was you, and I kissed you each time (I mean each time I took off the wrapping paper and there was another you). I got your grease all over the front of my nightgown. It was this pink nightgown I have, it’s hardly anything at all. Finally the whole room was all full of these Will Tylers, some of them life-size, some of them smaller, some bigger, I was absolutely surrounded! Then you said, this was the first time you said anything in the dream, you said “Margie, you have my grease all over you,” and I said, “Yes, my nightie got dirty,” and I woke up.