Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/306



NEW ORLEANS WAS A PLEASANT memory, and the Sunday morning following his return, Gaylord awoke at seven-thirty. To him, now, lying wide-eyed and motionless on his bed, he remembered Blake had not called last night as he had said he would. A frightening feeling that his perfect existence might crumble made him fidgety.

He lived through their past week … through evenings they had been together. His hand pressed against the silk pajama pants, tenderly cupped his flesh, and dreams filled his brain. He whispered, "I want you, Bob … I wish you were here in my arms now … I wish I were in your arms … why didn't you call last night like you said you would?"

He had waited for the call alone in the living room until ten-thirty. Several times he had been on the verge of calling but had put it off; then, it was too late, and he had given up and gone to bed. Hurrying up the stairs to his room last night, his heart had been heavy, his mind muddled. Was Blake peeved with him? Had he done something wrong? No, nothing he knew of. Something must have come up, but he could have at least called. He had picked up a book and gone to bed and read until twelve before he had finally turned out the light, and then sleep had come quickly.

On this beautiful Sunday morning he drew new courage, and with it came a gnawing in his stomach. I'm hungry, he decided. I should be I guess, I didn't have any supper … think I'd like a glass of milk …

He moved quietly down the stairs; not wanting to awaken his parents who always slept late Sundays. (They had gone out early 296