# Maybe—Tomorrow/Chapter 29

​CHAPTER 29
THE NARROW ROAD IN FRONT OF them was red earth free of traffic, except for them. Gaylord could hear the sound of the car wheels and feel the vibration against his closed lids. He shivered at his thoughts. He was lying bound, stretched out on the red earth, his body naked, and slashed like that of some person being sacrificed. Around him danced vicious creatures, carrying sharp thin twigs, slapping and cutting into his torn flesh. Still they continued, jabbing red hot pieces of smoking steel; touching his heart with the first lunge. He saw them far above, coming at him from a sea of blood, dazzled and remote under its red carpet that now covered him. He was cut off from everyone; was being punished. There were laws against desires and loves he longed for, and his love had been forbidden long before it began. This was no dream. He had never felt more sharply aware in all his life. He was almost afraid to open his eyes, and on opening them he cried again silently; the note of despair poignantly within him, because it was only a dream. All his life, as much as he could remember now, seemed to be a time of dreams. He had never seen things clearly, or understood them. The blankness seemed a living, formless thing, like three-dimensional shadows in his brain. He had no idea, or cared less, where they were or what was going to happen. He only knew that he was lost and death would have been welcome. How strange it was that the mind could change in so short a distance, from a bright welcoming hue to this dark, restless, puzzled state. The pain, humiliation inside kept rolling over and over him so that he was almost choked with the feel of it. Blake was his friend, his dearest one. Why had all this happened? What was the reason? There was something more behind all this, something insidious; the nearest thing to evil that he had ever known; but what was it? Whom could he ask? There was no one. No one to whom he ​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 …?
​"Did you enjoy it, Gaylord?"
"Did I enjoy it?" He was like a country boy in a big city.
"Don't play so damn innocent with me. I've been around … I'm not that dumb."
"What did I enjoy, Bob … what … please … tell me."
"Listen," Blake began, "don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes."
Gaylord saw the blood color the bronze of Blake's face had turned, as though the words had been an effort, as though it had taken a long time to find the necessary ones.
"I don't want to do that," cried Gaylord. "Why should I?"
"I know you and this Glenn were out in the woods all day," Blake said glibly. "And don't think I don't know what happened. Shit … Guess you should be tired … How many times, Gaylord … did you make up for lost time?" He tried to grin. "You know, you are cheap and common … I didn't think you were … but you are … you're cheap and common." His voice choked. "That kind of crap catches up with you sooner or later … and I thought you were something real special … I didn't think you'd ever do that to me."
Out of the dullness that seemed to completely cover him, the reason had finally been solved. The cause of all those bitter words was plain. Jealousy … Responding to some desperate call of his emotions, he cried, "You're wrong, Bob … so wrong. How could you think such a thing? Don't you know I love you?" Tears came to his eyes, onto his cheeks. He threw his arms around Blake's neck, holding him tightly against his chest. "You must believe me, Bob, or I'll … I don't know what I'll do if you don't believe me."
"Why don't you grow up." Blake measured the other shrewdly; "You can't be a spoiled baby all your life." With a stab of jealousy, he went on. "I hope this Rogers guy really does you up brown …" He shoved Gaylord away. "And stop pawing me."
Time stood still and the squirrel-grey sky grew more melancholy. Even the air seemed more restive and depressed. Gaylord hunched in his seat unable to say any more. What else could he say … What a fool he had been to succumb to Rogers. What a fool … oh what a fool … but he hadn't. Nothing like that had happened between them, but how could he make Blake believe him. After reading the ​contempt in the dark eyes, how could he explain that nothing had happened. He was caught in a world of image and feeling.
In the drained light, the trees were stark and mournful. He had the fantastic notion that on those naked branches dead men hung, their lifeless bodies swaying in macabre rhythm. It seemed to him he was kin with all the dying … all the misery in the world. He put his sweating hands to his throbbing head and in a daze, shaped a name, Glenn. The symbol of his guilt. Glenn … Names … His numb lips repeated it.
Abruptly he sprang up, cried, "No, Bob … you're wrong … I swear you're wrong. Nothing like what you think happened." Blake wasn't looking at him. With a clumsy gesture, he pulled at the other's shirt, looked at him, hoping his face would reveal he was speaking the truth, would tell better than words. "Look at me, Bob. Please look at me," he silently cried. "Can't you see I'm not lying. Can't you see I'd never hurt you? I love you too much to do that … understand … please understand …"
Gaylord's head inclined towards Blake's chest, his face sober and tear-stained. He did feel guilty because the desire had been there … It had been deep and if Glenn would have made even the slightest move, he realized now that Blake would be speaking the truth. He did not look up, only rested his tired head across the broad chest. How strange it felt beneath him, how awfully strange. He was innocent, and yet he was guilty too. But life was like that. The littlest seed could grow into a huge tree the same as one act or word could become a burning quarrel.
"You were in the woods with him, weren't you?" Blake said gravely.
"Yes … but nothing like what you think happened."
Blake laughed. "What's the matter? Wouldn't he let you?" Roughly, he pushed Gaylord aside. "You must be losing your charms, Gaylord."
"You didn't give me a chance to finish."
"You don't have to. I know what went on between you two." Blake looked off into space.
"Bob … nothing like what … please let me finish …"
"We're finished … washed up … you and me. I've had enough ​of this mess." Blake shrugged. "You go to New Orleans and let those queers paw you, come back here and go out in the woods with this guy. What the hell do you expect me to think? Or do you just think I should say, ‘Did you have a nice time, Gay, with the nice boys?' Shit." Again he shrugged his shoulders. "What's the use?" Then he growled, "What I'd give for a good stiff drink."
Words, words; Gaylord couldn't hide from them. He was silent. He had never felt more helpless in his life. Blake fumbled in his pocket and drew out a package of cigarettes. His hand shook as the lighter contacted with the white column of tobacco. "Here," he said in a bass voice, "don't you want another cigarette? You're getting good at that too, aren't you?"
"Don't … Bob … don't," Gaylord cried out miserably, pushing away the package shoved under his nose.
"You mean you don't want one? What's the matter? Mouth tired too?"
Somehow he lived through the mixed sentences; his despair so great, he felt sick and dizzy. He sat there looking out into the vast unprotected sky. He gazed intently as if there was nothing he wanted from it. Nothing could ease the dullness or be found there or any place else. "It's all over," the thought was like a white-hot iron rod drawn quickly across his mind, searing a deep burn that would never heal. His hopes, desires, and dreams, were all gone. His hands lay limp on his legs and the damp trouser cuffs made a chill run through his body. He wished he could cry, scream, do anything besides just sitting there. He thought of the cool creek and the woods. Why couldn't he have drowned? Died with the knowledge Blake loved him, wanted him … instead of this.
"Bob?" Gaylord began uncertainly. "Why didn't you call me last night? You said you were going to. I stayed home all evening waiting … I was so … oh I don't know …" His lips quivered. "I don't know." His voice was mute and dejected.
Blake turned on him. "For your information," he began, "and I don't know why in the hell I'm going to the trouble of telling you … I went over to Joy's … She called and wanted to talk to me … You know what she wanted?"
"No … I don't."
​"She wanted to talk about you … We had quite a talk and I even told her about us. That's another laugh. She's a smart gal. Already knew." He laughed. "She knew we were fooling around all the time. I felt like a damned fool." He hit the steering wheel with his closed fist, then continued. "You know what she said?" He looked at Gaylord not waiting for an answer. "Said she loved you too … poor kid." He laughed loud. "You're a good one, you are. Even screwed her, didn't you. She wouldn't let me and she lets you … what do you think of that, huh? Doesn't that flatter your ego?" Blake's two fists came together with a loud crack. "She knew you were a fruit all along. She didn't think you'd do anything but, you sure fooled her, didn't you? Is that the first cherry you ever got? You know what a cherry is, don't you? 'Course you didn't get Thelma's, you know that don't you … I got there ahead of you … You're some guy you are … What did that guy in New Orleans call you? A faggot, wasn't it? Oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot you don't know what a faggot is, do you?" Sarcastically, the words rushed, wild, and cutting, but to Gaylord they became only a sound. "‘Be good to him, Bob,' Joy said," Blake continued. "‘He's such a lovely boy. So sweet and thoughtful' … isn't that a laugh? And the funniest part of it is I agreed with her. Damn fool, both of us. She didn't know you were throwing that thing of yours in anybody's face that would take it. She was suspicious of Thelma and was so afraid she would hurt you. Thelma, huh … she couldn't hurt you … You're both nothing but a couple of cheap whores … Not even a whore … you give it away don't you … why in the hell don't you sell it. Yea … you're thoughtful, all right … Thoughtful … huh … like so much hell." Then, as if speaking to himself, Blake uttered in a drab low voice, "Thoughtful of yourself … that makes sense. Just as long as you get what you want you don't give a damn who it's with. Now it's this Glenn … Well I hope that farmer can satisfy you … Does he smell like a horse or do you care?"
Resolutely, Gaylord tried not to think about the afternoon, but it swam in his memory. He was not sorry he had gone. No, not now he wasn't. He didn't see the creek as cold and dismal under the warm sun. He saw it friendly and all blue. Friendly the way Rogers had always been. How could Blake say such things about Glenn Rogers.
​An adult emotion was being born in Gaylord for the first time. He felt the strangeness of it within him, but it meant nothing. He only knew he must not let Blake feel this way toward Glenn Rogers. He began … "I'm sorry … deeply sorry if I've hurt you, Bob … I know I've done things I'm not proud of … Things that I am ashamed of. I guess I am what you called me, but I don't want you to feel that way about Glenn … I don't think he knows about queers … queers like me … faggots, yes I know now … I'm one of those too, I guess … He's a fine boy and sex never entered his mind. If it would have … who knows what would have happened because I believe I would have been willing … even loving you I would have weakened … I think I would have … I'm not sure … but that time with Paul was the only …"
Blake cut in short. "Now isn't that just too sweet."
Gaylord's feelings of failure were intensified, not only because of the words, but because of the look that followed. Without wishing to hear more, or even caring about the results, he threw a bombshell.
"I don't care what you say or believe, Bob … I just don't any more … I'm telling you the truth. I can't change your feelings and neither can you change mine by calling me names. I can't explain what it is about me … I don't understand why I want to do such things … I don't know why I've silently loved you for so many years … You certainly never gave me any encouragement … but I did … I've thought of you so many nights … I used to lay in bed and wonder about you … wonder how I could become your friend … wonder what I would have to do to make you even notice me. I've loved you for so long."
"You love me? Shit; you've a helluva way showing it," Blake barked. "I told you I wanted to see you today."
"Why didn't you call last night? That hurt me too. I thought you were out with someone."
"I told you why."
"But I didn't know then. I wanted to call you but I was scared you wouldn't be home. I called mother from Glenn's this morning and she told me you hadn't called."
"I slept late."
"Just don't hate me, Bob …"
​Blake sat holding his head with one hand, listening. Then said, "I can't help the way I feel."
"I know," replied Gaylord. "I don't know why I went to church this morning. Now it seems such a long time ago and it was only this morning. I was feeling blue and church is always comforting to me. After church I saw Glenn and his mother and Mrs. Rogers asked me to have breakfast with them. I didn't want to but I just couldn't refuse. It wasn't all planned like you think … it just happened. When Glenn suggested going out to their farm and fish I thought it would be fun. You hadn't called and I'd never been fishing …"
"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go fishing. I'd have taken you."
"I'd never thought of it … never had any desire to go."
"But you did."
"Yes … I did. I felt so miserable when you didn't call last night … and this morning I was so jittery … I hadn't been to church for so long, I thought it would make me feel better. It did too …"
Blake sat like a piece of machinery. His thumb hitting the same spot on his forehead, moving mechanically back and forth as if it was drilling a hole between his eyes. "I guess we'd better go," Blake said, still tapping his thumb. Again Gaylord felt crushed under the happiness that could have been. He considered Blake silently, uncertain of words. The space between them had broadened even more. He could never win him back … if only Blake didn't hate him.
"Bob," Gaylord began, "please don't hate me. Can't we be friends?"
"I don't think so," Blake said sharply. "I'll take you home. You said you were tired. No … I don't think so …"
Again the vibrating was around him and again Gaylord looked into the space before him. He sat there silently looking into the moving sky toward the high clear stars. They looked down as hard and cruel as death. He could feel himself shrinking to pigmy size under the gigantic sky. The wind went through it, crying. It stretched above him endless and black and utterly empty; and Gaylord was alone, alone in a vast universe which became suddenly formless and without plan …
​They drove in silence. Nothing but the sound of the motor echoed inside the moving machine.
He had been denied, shut out. His head felt heavy, almost too heavy for the cord in his neck to hold it up. Words filled his brain but they were tangled, twisted, meaning nothing, saying nothing. He looked like a figure of wax and ebony sitting upon a pedestal …
Thus, out of what seemed only a few short moments, with its embraces, meeting; school with its lessons and naked bodies; between the act of finally falling in love; the afternoon with Joy; Thelma; New Orleans; Paul; Glenn; slaps; kisses; Bob … Out of all this his downfall had been gradually forming.
"You were on my mind all afternoon, Bob," he began sadly. "I even wrote your name in the sand along the creek without realizing what I was doing. It scared me for a minute because I didn't know what Glenn would think. I didn't want him to know I loved you and I was afraid he could read my mind … I didn't want him to think we were … well … you know … Then, I didn't care. I wanted to tell him all about you … Tell him I loved you … I guess the same way you told Joy …"
"Oh yeah?" Blake interrupted.
"Yes, Bob, that's what I wanted to say … but I didn't." His lips quivered. "I'm sorry for what happened between me and Joy. I know it was wrong and I can understand the way you must feel about me. I think she knew I was thinking of you all the time. I was so ashamed afterwards … would have given …"
"There's some things you can't undo after they've been done," Blake said gravely. "Anyway it's all over now …"
The next moments passed with unbearable slowness, but at least Blake's last words had not been cruel. Gaylord covered his face hearing their despondency. A mosquito began to sing around his ear but he didn't care. Let it bite … let it bite hard … his blood was … useless to him … it felt like water. Then he heard, "Son-of-a-bitch," and Blake slapped hard at his own cheek. A mosquito can get him to talk, Gaylord thought, and he was envious of the singing pest.
Out of the corner of his eyes he watched Blake get another cigarette. He lit it, puffed a few times, and flipped it from him ​distastefully, out upon the road. I'm like that cigarette, thought Gaylord. I've been thrown away too.
Within him a wound was bleeding but even in his distress all his senses converged and focused on Blake, his young Prince out of the Arabian Nights. He would always remember every detail of that exposed body which moved with such precision charm. He sat dreamily, watching the rhythmic ripples of the arms, thighs, the grinning face and the swinging of the genitals as his Prince waved at him. It made him feel a little better even though it was only a vision of the impossible.
What now? What was the solution, he asked himself and the pounding of his heart made a desolate tangle in front of him; a rectangular pit like a huge sunken grave, swarming with weeds so thick and tall that he could not see the base of their axises. Was the only answer death? Was this why he was seeing this! He had a strange frown as he studied the grave. He lay beneath this earth, flesh, hair seared off by decay, the same decay that touched him now. But it was peaceful … alone … His only solace, the realization that he had tasted the object of his hungry searching, as if it sought to drive him off, there were happy memories that nothing could take from him. It was something he had desired passionately, like a parched plant in dry soil. He had begun to believe that he might clutch at the edge of something like real love and happiness here in this small, dingy and uninteresting town, about which he felt a stranger, but before which he humbly lived and hoped. But that security had been short. And beneath his failure in all these, moved the mysterious dreams of his profound longing. Longing not because of the things he was without but for the things that he could not accomplish. He sensed almost a hatred in him as though he had only himself to blame for his feminine ways, and questioned himself desperately about the reason.
It seemed to him that he had suddenly assembled here the pages of a myth of himself but where was the answer in putting them together? Where was he? In what space and time, this strange young man, desiring manhood … It was as if suddenly a blinding light on something that had always been half in shadows must come to light. He must change. The nervousness, softness and tenderness must ​be completely demolished. But why should he? Now, that the searchlight which Blake had turned on the world was off.
Then he remembered, as if he had heard them all before, the dirges in the night, and the sound of his own wailing. He remembered trying before … trying … He clutched at his trousers. He would try again, but the tragedy that cluttered his mind roared steadily on. He closed his eyes hard. It was as blind and useless an action as he had ever known.
The far, faint bark of invisible hounds aroused him and he thought of a poor helpless animal running for its life, running from jaws that could so easily destroy it. He had been running all his life. A mist crossed his eyes, and his throat felt dry as he tried to swallow. He wished he would choke. Choking had smote many with death, and love's end had smote all with a desire for it. He beheld a world that no youth ought to see, a world of grey skies, buildings and lawns. Death had fixed ghostlike on this scene and sucked it bloodless. But it wasn't devoid of relevance for him. Clouds beat around in a beautiful tide, and he wondered how much iodine it would take for him to become a part of this.
Yes, all things were restful in this dawn. But the happiest of all was himself, a beautiful young man, almost transparent in a thin garment of shining gauze, riding on a star. Somewhere before … he had ridden on a star …
Again he heard the wail of the hound. It seemed close and he imagined himself caught in quicksand, sinking in slime He reached up and caught a golden branch … Instantly, the branch became a bronze arm. It circled his mudded form. He could hear his own cries, feeble, as from a great distance. This was no dream. He was being violently squeezed and a warm breath was on his lips … It spoke … and the car came to a halt.
"Gay …" it cried tightening its arms. "I can't hate you … don't you know I love you?"
The mythical words … those long awaited mythical words … He went on holding his breath. Affection, pity, and plain hunger for this passionate creature he had known so long broke to the surface of Gaylord's life. He was tired of living with ghosts, no matter how beautiful, weary of loyalties that no longer sustained the weight of ​loneliness. His gaze traveled from Blake's lustrous hair spread over his bronze forehead, past his full-lipped mouth, lingered at the dark lashes of his eyes, and slipped back to the dark hair. He buried his face on Blake's chest and wept … the terrible tears of a boy sick and far away from home. "Oh, Bob," and his voice was like part of a dream. He turned his face upwards and as he did the vivid face descended. Their lips met fiercely, passionately. Everything swung under him and stopped. For a long and timeless moment they sat thus locked. Shadows filled the noiseless car about them and the sky was warm above them. With something like a groan Blake released him slightly.
Blake whispered, "It's taken me a long time to say it, but I'm sorry, Gay … Can you forgive me. I was a jealous fool over nothing. I know you didn't lie … I knew it all the time."
All Gaylord could think of was how warm Blake was, how precious the skin under his touch, the fragrant odor of his oily hair … Oh, Bob … Bob … he cried silently, but all he could do was look into the dark face. He could see no features, but he didn't need to see. He already knew, had known for so long, every shape, color, line of that handsome countenance.
They stayed in a death-like grip … feeling each tensely drawn body … patting … grinning … both sobbing …
"Do you forgive me … do you like me a little bit?"
"Oh, Bob, I've loved you all my life … Don't ever leave me … I don't want to live if you do. Please, don't ever leave me."
"I won't," Blake whispered … "I'll never leave you."
They filled their lungs full of the warm night air. The trees stood silent and friendly; seemed to understand as they had probably understood many times before.
Gaylord shivered and Blake asked, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine …"
"What are you shaking about?"
"I was wondering if that poor little animal got away."
"Animal … what animal?"
"The one a dog was chasing. It barked again just before you touched me … scared me for a second." It was good to see the ​grin prying at him out of the darkness. What a difference it made in the expression of the eyes.
"You mean I scared you?"
"Not for long," Gaylord said quietly. "At first I thought that dog had me."
Blake laughed. "You mean you thought I was a dog?" And then he whined.
Instead of answering, Gaylord moved closer.
No one o'clock in the morning ghosts rose from the road to haunt him as they started back towards Cotton. If loving Blake was a crime for which society would never forgive him he didn't care. In Blake all the beauty, life, and loyalty, the endless dreams and young hopes had come alive. Was it so easy to dispose of someone who gave all this? Who else could save the effeminate boy or find beauty in his sensitive soul? "For whoever or whatever you love, love is beautiful." This was his legend, and no one could take this from him.
As if to reassure himself, he reached for the hand on his shoulder. Still holding it, he looked at the other on the steering wheel.
Blake broke in. "What are you thinking of, Gay?"
Gaylord opened his lips still moist with the taste of passion. "Of you," he murmured … "And how lucky I am to have you."
Blake tightened his grip. "So am I to have you."
"We're all supposed to be created equal but I think this is the first time I've ever felt like I was."
"Gay?"
"What, Bob."
"Let's take a little trip together … let's go someplace … just you and I."
"I'd love that," Gaylord sighed, already imagining them on a strange land. Riding over roads and long expanding bridges; together and without questions; to be part of each other; to be able to sleep in each other's arms each night. He sat there enthralled picturing their flight. "I'll go anywhere you want to go … anywhere."
"I think you would," Blake grinned.
"You know I would."
"Where would you like to go, Gay?"
​"Where would you?"
"I'd like to show you New Orleans."
New Orleans … Gaylord became alive with anticipation and memories of the old city. "I'd like to see New Orleans with you."
"Okay … it's New Orleans," said Blake curtly. "I've got some money saved up. We'll take in everything. Just you and I." He sighed deeply. "You don't like Cotton and I don't any more. Maybe we could stay there … A new place with new faces and problems, that's what we need … Hell, what can you do in Cotton without everybody knowing it? Not a damn thing."
But Gaylord was not thinking of others, for in that instant, the faces of people became an image of unimportant time. They were the only two in the world and they would go thus together through some oriental garden full of love and vastness. They would explore cities, clusters of shining jewels on the dark surface of the night. They would not be lost wandering in metropolitan jungles, for they would have each other. This was no dream, and if it was, wasn't he the "Dreamer of Dreams?" He had dreamed his whole life … dreamed in an upstairs bedroom in a little town so many years. And so dreaming, he held the golden bronze next to him, and the flesh responded warm and alive under his hands.
Blake's fingers pressed against the warm naked skin of Gaylord's chest. "It would be fun to live in New Orleans." He cleared his throat. "I'd like that … I'd like to meet Paul Boudreaux … he must be a nice guy."
"He is, Bob … a very nice guy."
"There's so many like us in this old world … wonder why …"
Gaylord did not answer. Instead, he looked into the darkness, and beyond it he could feel the heartaches, the miseries, and the great mysterious pattern of life it sheltered. To his ears came the distant sounds of voices and laughter. They beat softly on the wall of his school, a harsh surf churning on immemorable shores. They poured scorn and mockery over the listening soul of Gaylord Le Claire.
If only they had not been so accusing … if only the years had touched him with kindness … if only people were …
Take away the scorn and give love … go out and ask and listen before condemning …
​His memory rehearsed for him the faces he had seen in a club, at a party. They were unnaturally white, and they all smiled with sad grins. No one seemed to understand why their meetings had to be behind locked doors and smoke filled dives. No one seemed to understand that they concealed a crime so dark and a secret so dreadful that it had never been put into print. They didn't seem to know why they craved strange love. No one had ever tried to help them understand.
Gaylord saw then that they were not all bad, but wasn't that true with all humanity? There was a rotten apple in every crate … the same with men and women … but why should they all suffer … Did God number them among his angels or had they been forgotten? No. They would be officially banished from the masses where their love had taken root and which they had made fragrant with penned desires, but nothing could keep the good from God, because they too, were his children.
A train whistle could be heard in the distance and Gaylord's thoughts again centered on their departure. It was as if someone were announcing a sunlit morning; it was to him that someone holy had spoken.
He nestled close to Blake. In a few weeks they would be leaving. There was going to be a tomorrow now … The sun would come up, life would go on … his life …
And now he wasn't tired at all. Far from it, for life was strong in him, so strong that the fevered and strange dreams of the past were like a climax and farewell to a life that he had left forever …
"And Bob," he said, "beside Paul, there's someone else I'm just dying for you to meet. He's such a character and says the funniest things … His name's Gene Limbeaux …"
And the earth on which they rode was unimportant as they planned and drove toward Cotton …