Midnight Whispers (Cutler 4)

"Does he have a wife who will be our new mother?" he inquired.

"I don't know if he ever got remarried. I don't know much about him at all," I said sadly. "So please don't ask any more questions, Jefferson. Just sit and look at the scenery, okay?"

"It's boring," he complained, folding his arms across his chest and pouting. "I should have brought one of my games. Why didn't I bring any toys?" he whined.

"Jefferson, we didn't have time to pack a lot of things. Please, just be good," I pleaded, practically in tears. What was I doing? Where would I really go?

Jefferson shrugged, drank his milk and ate his cookies. He drifted off and on during the rest of the trip, as did I. The rain slowed down to a slight drizzle. Finally, I saw the New York skyline in the distance. As we drew closer and closer, it seemed to grow higher and higher, the tops of the buildings practically scratching the gray sky. When I saw a sign that said Lincoln Tunnel and I knew we were about to cross into New York City, my heart began to pound. I started to recall all the things Mommy had told me about New York—how it was so big and how there were so many people, it was hard to be a stranger there. But I also remembered how much Aunt Trisha loved New York. If she was so excited by it, it couldn't be all that bad, I hoped.

Jefferson became excited when we entered the Lincoln Tunnel. It seemed to go on and on forever, and then, suddenly we burst out into the light and the streets of New York. The traffic and the noise was just as Mommy had described. No one seemed to mind or care that it was still raining lightly. Jefferson kept his face glued to the window, drinking in everything: the street vendors, the taxicabs, the policemen on horseback, people begging and sleeping in entryways, and many fancily-dressed people hurrying to and fro, some with umbrellas, but most without. Moments later, we pulled into the huge bus station and the driver announced: "New York, Port Authority. Watch your step getting off."

I took Jefferson's hand, holding him so tightly, he grimaced with pain as we stepped down. We waited as the driver pulled our small suitcases out from the luggage compartment. I took them, handing Jefferson his, and then we entered the station. People were rushing about everywhere, everyone else seemingly knowing where to go.

"Where's your real father?" Jefferson asked, looking around.

"He doesn't know we're here yet," I said. "I have to find his phone number and call him." I spotted a wall of pay phones and hurried us to them. The size of the telephone book was overwhelming. Jefferson's eyes bulged with amazement.

"That's a lot of telephones!" he exclaimed. "Watch our suitcases and my pocketbook while I look up his number, Jefferson," I said. He nodded and I began to turn the pages. When I came to Sutton, however, my heart sank. There were more than two pages of Suttons and more than a dozen had either Michael, Mike or just M. as first names,

"I've got to get more change," I said. "Lots more." I took out my remaining money and looked about for a place to get change. I saw a newspaper stand and hurried over.

"Excuse me," I said when the man turned to us. "Could I get change for the telephone?"

"What do I look like, the Chase Manhattan Bank?" he replied, pulling the corners of his mouth into his cheeks. "Buy something, you get change," he said.

"But . . . all right. Give us a Hershey bar," I said. I handed him five dollars. "All in change, please."

"Who you calling----everyone in Manhattan?" He shook his head but gave us the change. Jefferson was happy with the Hershey bar.

I began to make the phone calls, my fingers trembling as I dialed the numbers. What would I say? How would I begin? What would I call him when he answered—Daddy? Michael? Even Mr. Sutton? No one answered at the first number. An elderly lady answered on the second.

"Is this the home of Michael Sutton, the singer?" I began.

"Singer? No. Michael's a plumber," she said. "I'm sorry."

Down the list I went, some people politely replying no, some very annoyed with the phone call. One man thought I was making a prank call and started to curse. Finally, I called one of the M. Suttons and after four rings, a woman answered, her voice sounding dry and deep like the voice of someone who had just been woken.

"I'm looking for Michael Sutton, the singer," I began.

"So am I," she interrupted.

"Do I have the right number?" I asked.

"Who are you, one of his students?"

"Students? Yes, ma'am," I said. "And I'm sup-posed to have a lesson with him today."

"Well, I hope it's not until this afternoon," she said curtly.

"It is."

"Well what do you want?" she demanded. "Is he there now?" I asked.

"In body but not in spirit," she replied. She followed it with a laugh.

"Can I speak with him, please?"

"He's sort of indisposed at the moment. Call back in about . . an hour," she said.