Sons by Evan Hunter Page A

length and then clasp me suddenly to his chest, laughing, the way he used to when I was very young. I found myself grinning with him.
    “Will,” my mother said, “I thought...”
    “Man of surprises,” my father said, “man of surprises,” and kissed her again in punctuation, on the mouth this time. “Do you still want to go to that party?”
    “Well, I...”
    “Let me help Wat,” he said, and opened the door for my mother, and gave her a hug when she stepped out of the car, and then came to the tailgate with me. We carried the organ into the house, and then brought in the amplifier and the mike stands and the two speakers. My father kept putting down Leon Coopersmith all the while we worked, telling me he had a tin car, telling me the people who selected judges for these band battles should make certain they picked someone attuned to the sound of youth, all the while bursting with his own secret, but taking the time and the trouble to console me about Dawn Patrol’s loss. As we made our last trip inside, he said, “Well, you’ll win the next one,” and then shouted, “Dolores, do we
have
to go to that damn party?”
    My mother, still looking bewildered, said, “I suppose not, I’ve already called to...”
    “Then let’s forget it,” he said. “Let’s all go over to Emily Shaw’s and celebrate.”
    “What are we celebrating?” my mother said. She was excited now, too. The energy he radiated was positively contagious. We stood by the kitchen sink, the three of us, grinning at each other idiotically, my father savoring the moment when he would tell us his secret, my mother and I relishing the suspense. When he finally revealed his coup — he had made arrangements with a French photographer named Claude Michaud to take a series of candid shots of De Gaulle, with the general’s permission and cooperation — it hardly seemed as important as the buildup had been, but we showered him with congratulations nonetheless, telling him how marvelous it was, and agreeing that we had good cause for celebration. My mother looked radiant. As my father spoke, her eyes never left his face. She listened to him intently, proud and pleased, shining with adoration.
    “Okay.” he said, and jabbed a finger at me, “tie and jacket, on the double,” and then turned to my mother and said, “Do you know what they say in France?”
    “What do they say in France?” my mother asked.
    “In France, they say ‘This Will Tyler, he is one lucky son of a bitch!”” and burst out laughing.
    “Hey, watch the language,” I said, “there are little kids around.”
    “Who wants a drink?” my father asked.
"I
want a drink,” he said. “Dolores? Would you like a drink?”
    “All right,” she said, “if you’re...”
    “Hey!” he said, and snapped his fingers. “He knows
Linda! "
    “Who knows Linda?”
    “Michaud. He met her and Stanley when they were in Paris last year. Do you think I should call her?”
    “Sure, if you want to,” my mother said.
    “The rates go down after six, don’t they?”
    “Last of the big spenders,” I said.
    “Ha-ha,” he said.
    “Debating a phone call to Chicago.”
    “Put-down artist,” my mother said to me, but she was grinning.
    My father went to the telephone. “Come on, come on,” he said, “what’s everybody standing around for?”
    “I thought I was getting a drink,” my mother said.
    “I’ll bring it up, hon,” my father said, and lifted the receiver, and waited for a dial tone. My mother was watching him from the steps leading upstairs. “Hey,” he said to her.
    “Mmm?”
    “I love you,” he said.
    My mother smiled and gave a brief pleased nod. Then she turned and went up the steps.
    “Hello,” my father said into the telephone, “I’d like to make a person-to-person call to Mrs. Linda Kearing in Chicago. The number...”

March
    It was my kid sister Linda, of all people, who clued me in. I had met her completely by accident outside the bio lab on the