Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/129

 beautiful ones … you've never seen anything so ugly … ugly as their daughter … I shouldn't say that about her, but gosh Glenn, she is ugly. She's awfully nice, though. I've taken her to dances, but when I do … I've got to dance with her all evening. No one ever cuts in." Gaylord grinned. "Good dancer too and a nice personality. But she just doesn't click with anyone. She's awfully smart. I like to be around her because she knows what she's talking about. She's been to Europe and can tell more interesting things about Paris, Rome and London … I go over real often … we just sit and talk … she's awfully thoughtful and kind."

"What's her name?"

"Wanda. Wanda Steves … pretty name, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Sounds like she ought to be beautiful."

"Just goes to show you names can be deceiving."

"Yours isn't."

"Isn't what?"

"Deceiving."

"It isn't?" Gaylord asked inquiringly.

"No," said Rogers. "It fits you to a ‘T.'"

Gaylord's hands rested lightly on the wheel. For once in his life was a boy going to say something nice about him? He was almost afraid to risk asking but he did … he asked, "How … how does my name fit me?"

Rogers shrugged. "Well …"

The car rocked across the rough railroad tracks and there again was the long line of dirty buildings. Shirt-sleeved men idled about their entrances, and groups of heavy-breasted women in cotton dresses, dragging screaming children by the arms, hurried down the sidewalks to some unknown destination. Gaylord watched the scurrying figures, grinned at them quietly, complacently, without even seeing, and his hand moved over the black plastic steering wheel. Across the street, seated on park benches under the tall cottonwood trees, old men sat whittling and talking, spitting tobacco juice on the mossy green carpet; and young boys in soiled shirts wove in and out of the railing surrounding the large porch of the auditorium, playing follow-theleader; and in a rocking chair sat an old man, drawing heavily upon a corncob pipe. The smoke moved upward, veiling his wrinkled 119