Sons Read Free Page A

a nice ugly pair of gigglers. They were both blondes, both wearing their hair in shoulder-length pageboys, both wearing navy blue taffetas with gold buttons down the front, flaring from the waist over thick legs, their beauty was so fantastic they had to duplicate it.
    “Well,” I said, “I think I’ll have another brew.”
    I opened the tap and poured myself a foaming glass of beer, and then chug-a-lugged it, aware of the no-doubt-admiring glances of the two ugly gigglers, and then looking toward the living room and wondering what was keeping the redhead. I figured maybe I would have to hit Walsh, but that was okay. He had no right trying to sneak his hand up under, sneaky little Jap. I wondered why my father wouldn’t let me join the Air Force. I opened the tap again. One of the gigglers said, “May I have one, too?”
    “Sure,” I said, and handed her the glass I’d already filled.
    “Why, thank you,” she said, and giggled again.
    “Are you sure you’re old enough to drink?” Russo asked.
    “I’m sixteen,” she answered, which meant she was fifteen, and which meant she was just as old as my kid sister Linda who was definitely
not
old enough to drink.
    “She’s sixteen,” Russo said.
    “Mmm,” I said.
    “Yes, I’m sixteen,” the girl said again.
    “That’s certainly old enough to drink,” Russo said.
    “That’s certainly old enough for a lot of things,” the other guy said.
    I didn’t say anything.
    There was a momentary silence as “Star Eyes” cleared the record player, a click, and then the next record dropped, the tone arm moved into place, and Frank Sinatra began singing “Sunday, Monday or Always” with a choral background. I began thinking about musician’s union strikes and things like that, and started getting very depressed again, and just then the redhead walked into the kitchen. Her lipstick had all been kissed off, and she was very flushed from all that Walsh activity. Her hair was rolled up from either side of her head into twin pompadours, falling straight and free behind in a cascade around her shoulders, burnished copper against a black crepe dress, three rhinestone buttons over her bosom. She came directly to the beer keg and said, “Can I have a beer?”
    “Sure,” I said.
    “Will’s the bartender tonight,” Russo said, and laughed, I didn’t know at what.
    “Looks that way,” I said, and smiled, not at Russo but at the redhead.
    “Is that your name?” she asked. “Will?”
    “That’s right.” I handed her the brimming glass. “What’s yours?”
    “Marge.”
    “That’s a good name for a redhead.”
    “Is it?”
    “Sure. All beautiful redheads should be named Marge.”
    “Oh boy,” she said, “what a line,” and rolled her green eyes, and sipped at the beer.
    I poured myself a fresh glass from the open tap. Russo and the other guy had moved toward the sink, the two gigglers following them. “What’s your connection with Walsh?” I asked.
    “Who’s Walsh?” she said.
    “The guy you were necking with on the couch.”
    “No connection,” she said, and shrugged, and sipped some more beer.
    “Did he bring you?”
    “No.”
    “Who did?”
    “I came alone. Michael invited me, so I came.”
    “How old are you?”
    “How old do I look?” she asked.
    “Fifteen.”
    “Oh, come on, I’ll be eighteen in April.”
    “Marge what? Did you say Marge?”
    “Yes.”
    “Marge what?”
    “Marge Penner.”
    “Wanna buy a duck?”
    “No relation.”
    “I’ll bet you hear that a lot, though.”
    “No, this is only the ten thousandth time,” she said.
    “I get the same thing,” I said. “My last name’s Tyler. Everybody always wants to know if I‘m related to the President.”
    “To Roosevelt? I don’t get it.”
    “No, to Tyler. John Tyler. He was the tenth president. Of the United States.”
    “Oh,” she said.
“Are
you?”
    “No, no. You want to dance?”
    “Sure.”
    “What about Walsh?”
    “What about