Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/37

 Gaylord now sat rigidly on the bench, and the constant shaking of his feet on the floor was in unison with the beating of his heart. He felt naked and wondered how many had noticed. His mind shouted for him to go, to get away before the drunk returned, but he was not sure of his legs. He tested them to be sure the weight from his body would not cause them to fold.

When Gaylord rose to go, he passed through the crowd shuddering, and with his eyes cast downward. He was still confused but he knew his way past the swaying mass, past the blur of faces. Someone taunted:

"Hi, Gay … you're not leaving so soon are ya … I didn't even know you were here."

He smiled back at the boy but never stopped. He didn't care if he was almost running. He was afraid he'd ask him why he was shaking and he wouldn't be able to tell him. He liked him and didn't want to be rude but he could find no excuse or lies for his nervousness.

He arrived at his car like a tornado. In a state of exhaustion, he unlocked the door and leaped inside the car, his heart pounding inside him. Had the ignition switch grown smaller? Why wouldn't the key fit the slot? He tried again in a perspiration of impatience. He kept looking around but he was alone. Was he really alone? Had Max followed him? No, because that woman wouldn't have let go of him so soon. Still he had said that he would be back.

Tremblingly, Gaylord tried again and this time the key went into the slot with ease. He immediately turned the key and pushed a button that lowered the door glass. But just as soon as the glass had disappeared, it appeared again. "Better keep it up," he said out loud. "That fool might come up this very instant." The thought made his stomach turn. He pressed down the door lock and looked into the darkness. Max's vile breath seemed to fill his nostrils again and another shudder wracked his whole body. He knew he was going to cry. He put his teeth over his bottom lip, and bit down hard to stop it from trembling, to keep back the tears.

Suppose his car wouldn't start. Large drops of perspiration ran down his forehead, and the cords in his neck tightened as he pressed on the starter. Suppose the battery was dead. His mind was as tangled as the curly hair over his forehead. Suppose he had flooded the engine. 27