# Maybe—Tomorrow/Chapter 28

​CHAPTER 28
DUSK HAD FALLEN ON COTTON, Texas, and the dim-spread beams of street lights stretched out before him quiet and serene. He drove through the center of town, passing the square. It seemed more deserted than usual. There were people on the sidewalks but most of the stores were closed and there was none of the crowded hurry and bustle that had become common of late. He came into the old residential section at the foot of Columbus and West Grey Streets. Gaylord noticed again how badly kept all the old familiar houses were beginning to look. Many of them had become apartment houses, one a tea room. Little signs advertised their changed status. He was relieved when he had passed through it and turned down his own street.
The swim and tramping through the woods had been fun but it was going to feel good to be home. He was tired, but when he had let Rogers out in front of his own home, Rogers had suggested a show. "I'm not tired," he had cried … "Let's go to a show, Gay."
"No thank you," Gaylord had replied … "I'm going home … See you tomorrow."
"Remember next Sunday."
"I won't forget," he had said before driving off and leaving Rogers. And now Gaylord looked out of the car window gazing out moodily at the passing scene. Seventeen years of viewing the world around him had given his eyes an accustomed slant, and he had no desire to change his perspective now. He was too tired.
A car moaned behind but it made not a ripple on his private reverie. This reverie was a pleasant one dominated by the prideful knowledge that Glenn Rogers liked him.
He pulled off the street into his driveway and stopped his car in the garage. He sat for a moment before descending, recalling the past ​afternoon. It had been fun. He had really enjoyed himself. Glenn Rogers had been so nice … Gosh he was a swell boy … He pulled himself erect, got out of his car, and turned to the front of the house, stepping heavy on the paved driveway. The pavement was hard under foot and he recalled the softness of the thick carpet of leaves leading to the creek. The huge green wall of vines dipping to the edge of the banks, the old tree Rogers had dived off, was all so clear in his thoughts. He rubbed his eyes as he walked, half-contented, and dreamily visualized the naked body on the end of the log.
Then he heard it. For a moment he was not sure it wasn't just a shrill bird; a high cadence in the voice of the woods deceiving him; but before him came the unmistakable squeal of tires and the locking of brakes. It was followed by a man's voice in a flat declarative. "Gaylord," it commanded … "Come here."
The woods with all its beauty suddenly disappeared, and the water in the creek had become black and lost. He stood rooted to the spot. A twinge bisected his larynx. He glanced at his wrist watch with a stalling-for-time maneuver. The car looked familiar, there were many such models, but the word "Gaylord" sounded strange. He walked up to the car expecting to find someone he did not know. He looked into the car window. Bob … it was Bob Blake. Bob bidding, his dark features flushed and excited; and the violent face he saw was the same that had haunted the background of his life, shadowy and unrevealed. But this was not the boy he loved. This was not that boy's face. This one was full of hate with black unruly hair and stormy demanding eyes. Blake was definitely in a stage of agitation. He had never called him by his full name before. Gaylord's brain was confronted by a white barrier thick and high, a barrier that he could not pierce or leap. His words came stumblingly as he tried to speak … "Why Bob … it's you." He looked into the stern eyes, but they did not return his glance. "What's happened? Are you all right?"
Serene egotism radiated from Blake's features. "Get in," he said, "get in, Gaylord."
He shivered miserably on the seat. He sat very quietly looking at Blake through eyes strangely marine in color and depth. He seemed a changeling now, an Undine-creature condemned to spend his life gazing from sea caves at the only mortal who could give him a soul. ​His need to be made whole, to be valued by one man, to light his cigarettes from the flame of a match, to sew his buttons onto his shirts … to be saved from the fatigue and humiliation of successive Blakes … all these were in his eyes and voice as he pleaded, "What is it, Bob? What's wrong? Are you in trouble?"
"Hell, no." Blake's jaws grit feverishly. "Nothing's wrong. I want to talk to you." For the first time he looked at Gaylord. "Can you go for a short ride? It won't take long, or do you have someone else coming over?"
For a mad instant Gaylord felt as though he must throw his arms about the other; here, without thought or sense, was all security, all the answer that he needed to the poignant confusion he had always felt; but he couldn't. He could not then any more than he could fly. He knew it in a flash, and knowing it, recognizing its inevitability; forced his hand away and looked up. "You know I can go for a ride, Bob," he said, "you know better than to ask me that. You know there's no one else coming over."
Again he wanted to break the tenseness between them; speaking so formally and meaninglessly there alone. Words that said nothing, and yet words that uttered a whole wild torrent of meaning. I wonder if people know about us, he thought. Wonder if they've told Bob. But I can't ask him … I don't … And because he would not, it thundered through his mind as they drove away. Suppose people know what I am … what I've done, thought Gaylord. They'd never understand. I'd have to leave … run … run … run … And he knew once more that he would be running all his life.
They drove in silence; passed the long, shivering edges of corrugated porches fronting the one-story buildings. The glare picked up shiny spots on them, spots free of the rust that almost totally covered them. Gaylord spelled out the peeled lettering, neon signs, his lips never moving. His hand moved up slowly and brushed across his throbbing forehead.
They passed the large and stately Stevens' home and the branches of its surrounding trees spread over them like bat wings and bad omens. He felt enclosed in ice as the landscape, unrecognizable and meaningless, drifted by. Drifted by in a series of frame houses. They ​shone of fresh paint, fronted with porches, some screened, crowded behind dark shrubbery and soft light. A few of them were set back in large spaces of grassed earth enclosed by a painted picket fence covered with honeysuckle and wisteria vines. Here and there a chinaberry or cottonwood tree offered its shadows but to Gaylord the whole combination was nothing. Only when he heard, from somewhere out of the still dusk air, a child's penetrating cry, "Mother … Mother … can I go to the show with Chuck?" did he feel some of the frozen tension leave him. Even then he could not turn to Blake and pour out upon him what was tumbling about within his brain. Looking at him sitting sunken behind the wheel, he knew that he could tell nothing; and he wondered if the time would ever come when he could tell him everything again.
The line of houses on either side broke away; they were on an open road. A bug hit the windshield, making a loud thump, but this time it didn't change the expression of Gaylord's eyes or frighten him. He felt only sad and drowned in compassion for both of them sitting there alone under the metal top, oblivious, farther apart than all the changes, the complexities, that had mazed them in and engrossed them during the past weeks had placed them. He knew now. He had begun knowing from the minute Blake had spoken his name and then he had entered the car, and then Blake had spoken again, coming toward him like an enemy. Four such simple and inconsequential things considered apart. Placed side by side they answered a lot of things. In fact, they answered the whole mystery that had tormented him from the time he had heard his name called. He did not even yet know the answer. He only knew … and knew hard … that he had lost.
Gaylord cringed at the fantasy he had worked up for himself. Why … why … he cried within himself …
Behind them lay the town, and ahead a blank space of open fields, poles and billboards. A hidden bird gave out with a melodious chirping. A butterfly hit, close where the bug had, splashing the windshield with a dirty yellowish film, obstructing and making the moving pattern before him blurred … more indistinct than before. His face was without emotion, frozen motionless. His hands clutched tragically together. His short span of happiness was over. Past. He ​turned toward Blake and out of the corner of his eyes saw him. Bob, he thought with helpless and loving recognition. He bit his lips; he had been holding off for a long time and now he couldn't keep it at bay any longer. It was a moment of supreme agony for him as he sat there clinging to impossible hopes. It was not a moment for silent weeping … even for crying out. He could only sit and hope … and think through the hoping. He tried to pull himself together … tried to touch, ever so lightly, Blake's leg … He couldn't. And his hand fell back on his own curdled bones beneath his gabardine trousers.
Blake lit a cigarette, then moving the package at Gaylord mumbled, "Here … want one?" Simple, devastating statement, devoid of kindness. The sharp dictatorial tone fell around him. "You smoke too now … don't you?"
"I'd like a cigarette, thank you."
How formal his answer. How artificial the sound. The look in Blake's eyes was frightening, cold. He thought, why do you look at me like that, as if you've never seen me before. What do you want me to say? He turned again to Blake, a tense outline framed in smoke. "May I have a light, Bob … please …" He wanted to sound natural, understanding. "You've always lighted them for me remember?"
Blake's exophthalmic eyes popped with indignation. "Shit." He stopped short, like a cyclist jamming on a coaster brake. "There's a lighter right in front of you … Can't you push it in or are you too weak to even do that?"
Gaylord saw the rage, forces, dark and nameless, leap up in Blake's face. He recoiled from the picture it presented. His nostrils choked. He froze and held his breath.
In that terrible moment his frustration was maddening, yet he did not dare press the matter lest he lose all. There was something cruel and savage about Blake now. Something detached, a something he had never seen there before. The challenge was frontal, and he could not meet it.
Despair. Was there nothing in life but despair? Was life to be like this always, full of words and looks and harsh actions from every side? Was there no escape?
He thought of Glenn Rogers as he pushed in the lighter. It jumped out and he lit his cigarette. He put it back and looked again ​at Blake. Blake did not look back. Instead, his hand hit hard on the wheel and Gaylord felt that it had been meant for him. The duel between them, half confessional, all counterpoint went silently forward … Gaylord murmured … "I'm sorry I forgot about the lighter …" The soft, trembling young voice was flat. No apology … no nothing. He threw away the cigarette.
"Huh," grunted Blake.
Gaylord felt crushed under the sour indictment. Reality hit him with a cold metallic touch but he would not admit it. He could not lose Blake. He would overlook the bad and see only the good. To have Blake's love in spite of the hateful words, clamored in the young Gaylord, tempted him to despair devices … "I'm sure tired … It's …"
Blake cut in bluntly. "Guess you ought to be."
Gaylord listened to the words and the sneer that followed. "Bob?" he asked. "What's wrong? Have I done something?" He looked at Blake and there was sentiment in his survey. He touched Blake's leg, and asked, "Can't you tell me?"
"Don't touch me," Blake's teeth met hard. And he deliberately drew his leg from under the gentle caress; shrank away as if the hand was unclean; as if by the touch his leg would become diseased, decayed.
The car about Gaylord seemed to draw in. It shrank even more. Panic was growing. It was aflame along every nerve, burning in the heart of every body cell. He lived a terrible moment before he cried out, "Oh … Bob …"
"Yessss," Blake snarled, gripping the wheel angrily. "What the hell do you want now?" He hung onto the wheel as if his life depended on it and stared in front of him like it was the last day of his life.
Gaylord hesitated, lost and miserable. "I wish you'd tell me why you're acting this way."
"How do you want me to act? Want me to purr over you like I would a dame?"
"No," Gaylord answered and his lips felt parched, dry … He was afraid he was going to cry. "I don't want you to purr over me …" He was going to cry. Tears were already forming. He looked ​up again at Blake, withdrawn and cold, and even as he did so he could feel Blake stiffening away from him. And then the other looked at him, examining his face angrily.
"You don't want me to." He pushed away a strand of hair from his forehead. "Is that it?"
"What do you mean, Bob, I don't want you to."
Huge, hideous laughter burst from Blake. "You're so damned innocent." He sat back against the seat, lifted his rump off the seat like a man suffering from meningitis, and roared into Gaylord's face. "So God damned innocent." He stopped laughing. "What in hell do you take me for … a chump?"
Hot tears came to Gaylord's eyes and spilled onto his cheeks. For a moment he only looked into Blake's cold eyes silently. There was no sound of his crying. There was no sound of the hurt he felt as only he could be hurt. Memory of childish sorrow crept in him. "Maybe we'd better go back," he said. "Don't you think you'd better take me home?" Home. What a valued word, a restful word that monosyllable "home." He savored it.
"God damn it," Blake roared. "I said I wanted to talk to you."
"You haven't so far." He was tired and wanted to get it over. It looked hopeless now but maybe tomorrow … Tomorrow? What about tomorrow? He didn't want to think about tomorrow or the other tomorrows … "I wish you would say something."
"Can't you wait? I've waited for you all afternoon," Blake said harshly. "You sit there and wait until I get damn good and ready. That is if you want to hear what I have to say." He went on as if he was unable to stop talking. "Make up your mind, 'cause it don't make a damned bit of difference to me either way or the other. I'll take you home right now if you want to go."
"No … I don't want to."
"No … I don't want to …" Blake imitated him. "Well, God damn it, be a little patient … But you're not that way are you. You want things to happen right away … You're so damn innocent," he repeated. "So sweet and innocent, you just don't know what's wrong … you'd just love to know but you don't … and you want to so bad … don't you … Shit … You're wrong … that's what it is. You're all wrong, Gaylord … you're wrong for me, you're ​wrong for yourself … you're wrong for anybody …"
"I guess I am, Bob …" he answered quietly. He felt defenseless and beaten under the truthful phrase. The old familiar pain of exultation cut through him. It seemed only yesterday that he and Blake had stood under the shower. He remembered the kiss and felt like a captive bird.
Blake turned his head and snickered. "Well at least you know you are … That's something …"
Gaylord met it openly, reached out for the hand on the steering wheel. He felt defenseless, beaten, but he must try and regain his respect at least. "I didn't know you felt I was wrong for you … I'm sorry you feel that way. I didn't feel that way toward you. I still don't understand why you are treating me like this. It's not like you to treat anyone this way." Even as he spoke, Gaylord knew it was all over.
"How do you want me to treat you?" Blake shot back. "Like a—er … fairy queen?" He laughed a throaty laugh. The words had been an effort but he had found the right ones.
"That all depends."
"Depends on what?"
"How you'd treat a ‘fairy queen.'"
Blake chuckled maliciously. "How in the hell should I know?" He pressed on the gas and the car moved faster. "You and your 'fairy queen' make me sick," he said, and a sneer crossed his lips. "I don't see why in the hell I've messed around with a bitch like you. A God damn cheap little bitch … that's all you are … a cheap sissy bitch." He was filled with contempt and wanted his words to hurt, to cut deep and stay. "Fairy queen … huh," he growled. He threw the words savagely, and accurately hitting his goal-post, target, right in the middle. "You and your sissy ways …"
Again that word arose to mock him. Gaylord was sorry he had spoken. "Fairy queen" had only been a word, but now it came back haunting him. He sat destroyed, believing that all his dreams had toppled. The hope of regaining Blake would forever be a dream. He was lost to him and all that was good in life was lost before his need to lose himself in this man. He gazed on Blake, seeing him a wondrous being. Even as the triumph in Blake's words continued, in his head, Blake was still Blake.
​"I'm not a bitch," Gaylord sobbed, "or a fairy queen. How can you say I am, Bob? How can you say things you don't mean."
"Don't mean?" Blake grinned in a flat mean tone. "Like hell I don't mean it. You wouldn't call yourself a man would you … You're a cheap little ‘queer' and right now queers make me sick. Sick to my guts. You make me sick … you and your damned whining. And stop that silly sniffling. You can find yourself someone else … you're good at that anyway." The expression of malice across his face was cold white hatred and he gave each word time to strike and stick hard.
Blake let up on the gas a little and the car almost stopped. He went on. "I wish you were a man … it'd be different then … I could slap the shit out of you. But you're not. You're too pretty. Too innocent … too … too much like Venus. Isn't that what Stud called you? ‘A Venus with a penis.'" He laughed a nasty laugh. "He sure hit the nail on the head. I guess you were sorry I came in when I did … They would have really given you a big time … All three of them but you've had that many before, haven't you? You like changes anyway, don't you? Like to try them all out and see who's got the biggest, or do they come too big for you? Did you have a big one today … you must have … you look sort of pooped out … which way did you do it … did you try something different?" His loathing tones came faster and faster, and a look of self-ridicule engulfed him. "From now on you can try them all. I won't butt in any more … You're not that good and I'm sure I'm too small now that you've tried everybody in New Orleans and this damn new asshole buddy of yours … I'm through … did you hear? Through … Can't you talk?"
"Yes … but I'm …"
"I know … you're tired. Well, I'm not … and I'm going to keep on driving as long as I damn please. If you like to be with me so much I'm going to give you a real treat. Even if you do make me sick, you're going to get it one way or the other … You're going to listen and do exactly what I tell you to do and I'm not kidding … I'm going to give you a chance to show me how good you really are."
And Blake turned down a deserted lane.