Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/173

 "I'm glad you're not sick."

"I'm all right."

Glenn repeated, "I called last night but no one answered."

"You must have called when I was up town. Mother and Dad were both gone too."

"Yeah, guess you were. Are you going to school today?"

"Sure."

"Well … I'll see you then … glad you're not sick … bye."

"Wait a minute, Glenn."

"Yeah."

"I'll pick you up."

"Oh, I don't want you to go to any trouble. I can walk."

"Why should you … no trouble. I'll be there at a quarter of eight. How's that?"

"Sure it's not putting you out?"

"Course not, silly. You be ready."

"Okay, Gay. See you at a quarter of eight."

"See you … bye."

"Bye … glad you're not sick …"

Gaylord hung up the receiver. His eyes sparkled and last evening's feeling of guilt was gone from them. Instead, he lost himself in this achievement with pagan identifications, went to his room drunk with the good fatigue of a strong young man, his mind full of tranquil images.

And thus, in the early morning, the world was wonderful. It was wonderful to be alive. The nude figures under the red silk shades seemed to smile as he pranced around the room dressing. A soft humming, filled with a triumphant ring, came softly from his closed lips.

He ran his hand across the flat abdomen after he had stepped into a pair of tight blue shorts. "Damn, must be getting fat," he said to himself, glancing at his reflection in the door mirror. "These shorts sure are tight between the legs." He rubbed his groin and remembered the past evening … "Okay … you," he grinned, "get down and stay down … I'm not taking any chances with you this morning."

He drew out a fresh white shirt from one of the large drawers of the chest. It squeaked and seemed to say, you lucky dog, as he closed it. He almost lost his balance pulling the tan gabardine slacks 163