# Maybe—Tomorrow/Chapter 11

​CHAPTER 11
WHEN GLENN ROGERS LEFT GAYLORD's car and walked towards his house, he was confronted with the grim realization that he was very late. If his father had had to milk, durn, he'd certainly be in a bad mood.
Sheepishly, he looked around the side of the house toward the barn, but his father was not in sight. Maybe he had gone to town. His anxious glance fell on his mother who had just opened the back screen door.
"I'm sorry I'm so late, Mom. Did Dad milk? I didn't realize what time it was … Did you say Dad milked?"
"No, dear." His mother smiled. "I did. Dad had to go back to the farm about four o'clock and he hasn't come in. Come on and eat your supper. I've left everything on the table. I was beginning to worry about you. Where did you say you've been?"
"Gay and I went for a ride," he said. "Gosh, Mom, he's got a keen car. Did you see it?"
"Yes, I saw it. It is a beautiful car, but honey, from now on don't stay so late. Your father …"
"I won't, Mother. I'm sorry you had to milk."
"It's all right, dear."
They both went to the kitchen and Rogers tardily seated himself at the oilcloth-covered table. The supper was strictly a one-dish affair, a solid working man's meal with no fancy trimmings or nonsense about it. And usually when Glenn Rogers sat down at the table he ate heartily, but this evening his appetite was gone.
He raised the top of a large dish, replaced it without disturbing ​its contents. In a dizzying rush, memory of the afternoon came back to him. He remembered the look on Gaylord's face at noon. Remembered him saying ‘I'm not hungry … This glare is too bright … I've got a headache …' He remembered the look on the boys in the opposite car too … There was something wrong there … something very wrong or why had Gaylord wanted to move so quick. The sun was not in his face but he hadn't said anything. He saw Gaylord in his thoughts as he had seen him then.
"What's the matter, Glenn?" his mother asked. "Aren't you hungry? The stew's real good … I made it because you like it so much … There's some fresh bread too."
"I know it's good, but I'm just not hungry. Gay and I had a coke and a candy bar after school. Had two hamburgers for lunch. Gay took me to lunch. Guess I'm still full."
"I'll get you a glass of milk." She started for the ice-box.
"I don't want any," he said quickly. "Honest, I'm still full." It was useless to suggest it again Mrs. Rogers knew. But she was not angry, only a little concerned. She had prepared the stew because it was one of his favorite dishes, and during the long wait for his arrival she had heated it over and over again. Something was wrong for he had never turned down stew before.
"How was school today?" she asked.
"Fine."
"Gay must be a very nice person, taking you to lunch and riding."
Rogers felt the eyes of his mother upon him. They knew when he was troubled; they knew his bliss and his agony; they knew his dreams. Did they also know about the strange feeling within him now?
About him were things with which he had grown up. Even the plate before him had been brought from the old home; so had the table, chairs and all the other furniture around him.
The glare from the electric light lay on them strongly; but the air that drifted through the open door and window was cool; so was the scent of blooming tuberoses. It reminded him of Gaylord. Tuberoses and Gaylord seemed to go together. Silence drew his mother closer and as he felt this and sought the release of conversation, presently, he said, "Gay is nice, mom … He's one of the nicest fellows I've ever ​met. He's got everything and still he's not a bit stuck-up like some of the fellows in school."
"I'm sure he's very nice."
"His dad gave him that car for a birthday present."
"It must be wonderful to be able to buy things like that." And then she added, "You'll have to ask him over some evening … or would you want to?"
He smiled, understanding what she did not say. "I'd like to Mom … I'd like to very much. I want him to meet you … I told him about your bread."
"You didn't."
"Yes I did too."
"He wouldn't like my bread."
"Yes he would too … Even if he's got everything … I bet he never has had bread like yours …"
"His dad must be very wealthy."
"I guess so … He sure wears nice clothes … I wish I had some new clothes."
"We'll get you some new clothes."
"I'm not jealous mother but I …"
"I know you're not." She patted his shoulder; quickly understanding.
"I wish I had a car though. It don't hurt to wish, does it?"
"No … it doesn't hurt to wish … Maybe Dad will let you take the car to school a little later on."
"I can see that." He grinned in amused appreciation. "He'd never let me do that, but I don't care."
"I know you don't," she answered, touching his arm in an affectionate reassurance. "You must be patient with dad … he's worked so hard all his life, he doesn't mean all he says." Rogers nodded soberly, and she continued. "He just wants you to know the value of money."
"Don't worry," he told her. " I do. But if I ever have any, I'm going to know how to enjoy it more than Dad does. Every time I ask him for money you'd think I was asking for his last cent. I've done a lot of work for him Mother and I don't know why he's the way he is. He'd have to pay somebody else but no … he won't pay me. You ​know how he is … When I get to making money of my own I'm going to enjoy it … I'm going to buy you some things you need too. You never spend anything on yourself."
"I don't need anything."
"You do too … You know you do, Mother."
"We can't afford everything we want right now."
Once more an old fact was brought sharply before him. It was one that his father had been saying as long as he could remember.
Now he thought of his father either timidly or morosely but as frankly as he knew how. His father was a shrewd man. In his conversation a few seconds before, he had been surprised that his mother still took up for him. His father was a farmer, a German and something of a dictator. The sound of these stuck crossways in his mind. They sounded right for this man who had always held the upper hand over him. Never giving but always demanding. Well, he wouldn't be under his firm rule forever … He'd make his own way in the world and buy what he wanted. He'd buy his mother anything she wanted but his father could buy for himself.
Glenn Rogers departed from his mother and went to his room bearing his school books. He did not open them but lay on his bed for some time dwelling resentfully on his father's attitude; simultaneously, with masculine inconsistency, he told himself that if his father had been possessed with a single token of love, he would have suggested his using the car sometimes. After all, he used the pick-up most of the time and his mother couldn't drive. He had never taught her. But it was clear to him that he would never ask for it. It would have to come from his father's lips before he'd take the darn old car to school.
He gazed around the room not seeing the iron bed, maple dresser, the large worn artificial leather chair or the gingham curtain in the corner behind which he hung his clothes.
He turned on the small radio he had bought with "cotton-picking money" and then off again before a sound came from it. He opened a book; tried to dismiss his father from his mind, and settled down to hard thinking along more objective lines. Obviously, the car was not the best means of bringing alien elements harmoniously together; it ​would be folly to attempt such a request; on the other hand his dad hadn't been too bad. He had worked hard. At least his mother would have it easier now that they lived in town.
He looked up from his book, stared at the wall of his little room, felt he had no reason to hate his father and felt slightly ashamed. Gaylord was just lucky to have a rich dad. And even with the new car Gaylord didn't seem too happy. He was almost sad at times.
I wonder if Gay likes me, he thought. I wonder if he does. I hope he does … I hope we become good friends. He sure is pretty, I've never seen a boy so pretty … he looks just like a girl.
He licked his lips and swallowed hard, and for a moment he was just a flustered sick little boy because his whole life had been changed.
Three hours of trying to study and listening to the radio did nothing to assuage his agitation.
He had never felt particularly interested in boys but he was now unable to forget the young curly haired boy who had taken him for a ride and whose appearance indicated that he was of the nervous and emotional type. He had never known a boy with such translucent skin through which deeper flesh tones showed, or seen eyes so mysterious and blue.
He smiled at his own fancies and long after he had undressed and gone to bed he tossed and turned, his mind full of millions of things. The world hereabouts seemed to be made of vast plane surfaces which met at angles almost imperceptible. Sometimes they seemed close at hand, other times fifty miles away. Once he saw a group of farm buildings and then his old school.
He pounded his pillow trying to free his brain; wrinkled his closed eyelids and pulled them hard, but sleep would not come. He tried to dismiss everything from his mind but couldn't … The old schoolhouse remained vivid.
He thought of the time he had caught a boy whipping his horse. He set his jaw remembering the long thin stick falling on its fat flanks. How infuriated he had been, and what a beating he had given the youth; the long run before he had caught him.
"Don't you ever come around my horse again or I'll kill you," he had yelled over a bloody nosed youth sprawling on the sandy ground.
"I won't, Glenn," the boy had cried. "I won't."
​Rogers grinned weakly and stared in the darkness, and for a moment he again had that terrible sense of aloneness which had oppressed him when he had left his old home and his horse. He hit his closed fist, that had brought his horse revenge, against the palm of his open hand. He could almost feel the sticky blood on it again. He didn't like to fight and he hadn't meant to hit so hard, but he wasn't the type to allow anyone hurting anything he loved. He remembered his horse now; saw its large brown glassy eyes and hoped the renters would take good care of him. Blackie was a good horse, but he was scared of strangers on his back, especially if they wore spurs. He never had … never had to. Yes, he was going to miss Blackie; going to miss the long rides in the woods, the good smell around the farm; his swimming hole in the creek.
The creek lingered, all drenched in greens and blues. He had swum in the beautiful pool where stately trees dripped moss and colored leaves to the ground and water, and somehow that life was sacred; it became beautiful and important to him now.
Now, in his dark room, Glenn Rogers was carried over the plowed fields by his faithful horse; over the grass covered earth of his father's farm which stretched to the majestic trees in the woods where lurked squirrels and strange moving insects.
Gaylord must see all this; all this beauty that had been his. He even visualized Gaylord's hands around his waist while his clutched the leather reins; both astride his galloping black horse, feeling the sweet fresh air on their face, the cool caress of the pool on their flesh. No … That was only a dream … Gaylord wasn't the type to like those things. And with this thought, that glittering pool was lost; his childhood was over; or rather, that boy there in the water had been subtly changed and lost by a veil of natural changes.
That first day at the new school burst into his mind. That morning he had gone to see the principal demanded to be remembered. It had taken about fifteen minutes before he had gathered enough courage to knock. A voice had asked him to come in, and with a lump in his throat, he had entered the principal's office and asked to be enrolled.
Again he remembered the principal saying: "Glenn, country schools are a lot different from ours and it might take a little time for you to get used to us. New teachers, new friends and new methods ​are always hard but, it won't take long for you to adjust yourself. You're a fine looking boy and you've a good card. I think you'll be right at home in a very short time.
"I remember when I first came here four years ago. I regretted making the change after the first week or so, but I'm still here and would probably feel funny if I were to go back to the old place.
"We've got a wonderful staff of teachers, and you, being from the country will sure enjoy our gym. It's really a fine one.
"If you need any help at any time, feel free to call on any of us. I want you to like it here. That's my job, to make you and the other students enjoy coming to class."
In a school convulsed with new faces, strange rooms and shrill voices, Glenn Rogers had become a student; had walked shyly down its long halls, looked timidly for his home room. His face had peered furtively from door to door; passed the mob of young figures; crossed the hard floor with doubtless steps. His landscape had changed, and inside he had felt tangled up. He had collided with someone; blushed and pushed forward into the strangeness.
The pillow pounding continued and for an instant cool reason locked his feeling. He saw them all aloof, their faces unfriendly and unwilling. No one had tried to make him feel at home. Then, he remembered Gaylord; remembered leaning forward and picking up the pencil Gaylord had dropped. He had accepted it, speaking a quiet, "Thank you." For a moment, when he spoke, he met his eyes, and he saw them widen in a quick but friendly surprise and when he opened his book again, he felt Gaylord watching him.
He remembered his own thoughts of Gaylord and wondered if there had been any similarity in Gaylord's. He remembered Gaylord's eyes; they had explored his searchingly and deeply with a sort of longing in them. He liked the sincere face mingled among the vehicular tangle of dreams. He liked Gaylord and something within made his pulse race. He felt as though he had never been alive before.
"We're going to be good friends, Gay," he said softly to himself. "Good friends." And when this was decided, he punched the pillow again, and went to sleep.