Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/342

 could talk. He felt unprotected, beaten and alone. He dared not look at the bronze face for fear of doing something wrong; instead, he thought of the many times he had wanted Blake to take him in his arms and love him instead of just saying, "Hello," and passing on down the long school corridors, sidewalks, in their cars. Again he saw the face he thought so handsome, searched that unknown landscape, that grin he could never invade. It had been so easy for others, but to him it had been almost like a hostile land, untouchable, and it had become that way again. And with this inside, he buried himself deeper into the seat. He wanted no one to hear his sobbing.

Glancing across the bare flat land, he watched a pale light coming from a window of a farm house. It flickered, sputtered like himself. In its reflection he saw Blake, naked to the waist, and his broad chest glistening gold. The legs were covered with football clothes and he lay stretched out, as if dead. Gaylord remembered the time well. Remembered the sudden cry of terror that had sprung from his lips when Blake had been knocked out of the game and lay there on the grass covered field, crushed and jumped on by the thick legs and arms that had suddenly covered him. "Bob … Oh … Bob," he had cried out to the surprise of others seated around him. They hadn't understood then and they wouldn't understand now.

Blake struck the brake pedal and the car stopped. Gaylord was not surprised or shocked. He did not look in Blake's direction; instead, he turned to look back in the night toward some trees. He could hear Blake breathing deeply and he waited for what he did not know or care. But he could no longer restrain himself, he must know what was wrong; a sound broke out of him.

"Bob … don't hate me … Please don't hate me," he whispered.

"Gaylord," Blake said cruelly, savoring the cruelty, "you don't have to be afraid … I'm not going to hurt you … and … I don't hate you … I don't want to … I guess I should say I'm sorry for what I've called you but I'm not … not really … I meant every word I said … You know, Gaylord, you take the cake … you sure made a fool out of me … A God damn big fool."

"But how … how have I made a fool of you? How?" It was as mysterious to him as was his love to play with dolls or why other boys did not … Why …?