CHAPTER 12
THE FOLLOWING MORNING AFTER Gaylord had finished his breakfast, he continued to sit at the table and idly run his fingers across the edge of his water glass. His athletic frame was clad in grey trousers and a dark royal blue sport shirt. His sensitive face was handsome but his eyes were strangely sad; forlorn, yet somewhat wistful. There was some unusual quality about him that made his mother pause and watch him a second before she interrupted his thoughts. She stood in the doorway and fingered the pale blue satin robe she wore. It was smartly tailored and had her initials embroidered in bold letters across the left side. It had been a present from her son on her last birthday.
Mrs. Scott had told her all about the lengthy details Gaylord had gone into when he had taken the shiny material to her house. Mrs. Scott did fancy sewing for several of the women of Cotton; those that could afford her prices. Still, she was kept busy sewing for this selected clientele; busy making garments that flowed willowly and gracefully.
"Let's make this simple," she had said after Gaylord suggested flowing lines. "Your mother is such a lovely thing, Gaylord; let's make it … no, simple isn't the exact word I want to say. Let's make it tailored, smart … trim cut. I'll personally embroider three large initials on the left side, above her heart."
Above her heart, had struck Gaylord like a blow from a sledge hammer.
"Yes," he had answered, "that's it. Just what I want."
Carol Le Claire, watching her son, thought she had never seen on anyone's face such perfect distribution of handsomeness.
"How's my baby?" she asked, in a voice low and musical. She bent over and kissed his forehead. "Did Irene fix you a nice breakfast?"
Gaylord accepted the kiss with an unusual nod. "Irene?" he questioned. "I fixed it myself. She hasn't shown up yet, and I'm not a baby, mother."
"You'll always be mother's baby." She sauntered towards the stove and poured herself a cup of steaming coffee. "Wonder what's wrong with Irene this morning … She's always on time."
"Mother, today is Thursday. Remember, Irene doesn't come on Thursdays."
"Of course it's Thursday. This week has gone so quick … I haven't done a thing … absolutely nothing all week."
She sat down at the table across from her son. She had hardly seated herself when Gaylord said, "Mother, do you mind if I don't go to school today?"
"Don't you feel well?"
"I feel fine but I'd just like to stay home today. I really haven't a thing to do today. It's so hot too."
"Well, if you know your lessons I don't know … I don't know why you can't take one day off. Sure you feel all right?"
"I'm all right, but I just don't feel like I could stand sitting in that old school house all day again today," he said with a challenge.
She watched him through the entire statement. There was character in each word; a sense of loneliness in his clear blue eyes, and a determined ruefulness in the curve of his lips.
"Well, dear, if you feel that way, stay home and rest."
"Thanks, mom …" His solemn face lighted up with a childlike smile. He idolized the pretty young woman in the satin robe; he loved the honest eyes that looked straight into his; and he appreciated the words that the soft lips had just uttered.
Carol raised the cup and sipped the steaming coffee. "Phew," she cried on tasting it. "Your father must have made this. It tastes like lye." Carol smiled again. "That reminds me. Your father wants me to go out to the oil field with him this morning but if you want me to, I'll stay home and be with you."
Gaylord looked at his mother. Not at her eyes now, but at her firmly rounded chin and her lips which seemed to express himself; pride, honesty, courage. No woman's lips could be curved that way unless she had faced days of loneliness and deprivation; unless her mind had known bitterness and heartache; and yet, she had remained sweet by knowing it. It occurred to Gaylord that he had a wonderful mother. A mother who loved him above anyone, and whose only incentive in life was for his happiness. Still, he didn't want her around today. He didn't want anyone … today, he wanted to be alone.
"Oh, no, Mother; you go with Dad. I'm just going to mess around the house. Dad hates to go by himself … I think it would be nice for you to go with him."
"I know he likes me to go with him." She took another sip of coffee. "Darn, this is strong."
"Guess Dad did make it, because it was made when I got up. He hasn't been in though. I heated it and it boiled before I knew it. Guess that's why it's so strong. I tried to drink a cup but gave up after a sip."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to give up too."
They both laughed.
The outer kitchen door opened and tall Clayton Le Claire came into the room. He was wearing a pair of grey tropical wool slacks, white shirt and a grey gabardine jacket. The plain blue tie was held in place by a gold clasp and a miniature oil derrick, made of the same shining ore, dangled from it. On his right hand he wore a three carat diamond solitaire; a present from his wife last Christmas. He didn't care for diamonds, but this one he liked … Had liked the words uttered from Carol when she had given it to him. "Just because I love you," she had said and he had loved each word.
He looked around now as if the surroundings were not familiar; then said, "Carol, for Christ sake, aren't you ready?" He was peeved, noticing the robe. "I've got a helluva lot to do … I should be there right now … I thought sure you'd be ready by now, or are you going?"
"It won't take but a minute, dear," she cried, springing from the chair. "You watch and see." She ran for her bedroom.
"Damn, it'd better not," he yelled. He shrugged his shoulders and winked at Gaylord. "That's the way to handle women. Make them jump when you yell frog."
He went to the cupboard, got a clean cup and poured himself a cup of black coffee, then sat down at the table and enjoyed it. Said, "Isn't there any school this morning?"
Gaylord's heart figuratively stood still. The moment his father asked him the question he was nervous. There was no need for this, no need at all. His father had always been wonderful to him. He often asked himself what was the reason, why couldn't he feel free around his father? His mother didn't bother him but when his father was around he always seemed to freeze up. There was no use lying about it … he might just as well tell the truth … so he said,
"Yes, there is … but I've got some things I want to do around here this morning. I've got all my lessons."
"So, you're going to play hookey today, huh?" And then in sudden inspiration, Le Claire's tones lifted. "How'd you like to go with your mother and me. They're supposed to bring in number eight today."
"They are?"
"Uh huh. Cunningham called me last night …"
Gaylord interrupted, "Who's Cunningham?"
"He's the driller. Called me last night; said they had about a fifteen foot oil sand … Looks like we're going to have another good producer, Son."
"That's good … with a fifteen foot oil sand it should be."
"It will be. It's in the same vein as number six and six is the best in the whole damn field," Le Claire said with a defiant air.
Le Claire, whose humble origin and lack of education had been the butt of numerous jokes at first, was now sought after by larger oil men than himself. He was a natural "wildcatter," and seemed to be able to smell the oil under the ground. He had never dug a dry hole and each location had been made by himself. Now, when he was about to launch his eighth "wildcat," he wanted his son to be with him.
Gaylord tried to be interested. "Guess that will teach Mr. Hardy."
Le Claire laughed. "I can just see his face when I tell him … He bet me a fifty dollar hat this one would be a dry hole …" Le Claire lit a cigarette. "Come with us, Gay … They're going to be yours some day … you're going to have to know how to take care of them."
"What time will you be back?"
"Oh, it shouldn't be too late … You know how it goes … There's always something coming up … Shouldn't be any later than eight."
"I've got a date at seven."
"Seven?"
"Uh huh …"
"We'll probably be home by then."
"Maybe you won't … I know how it is when you get around an oil derrick."
He didn't want to lie and it disturbed him. He watched his father puff the cigarette. Did his father guess it was a lie? Know he didn't want to go with them? He knew that Le Claire was wanting him to go along … trying to shorten the gap between them. He also knew that he could learn from his father. Le Claire's name meant something to the major oil companies, and his judgment and words were respected … Perhaps he could learn why Le Claire was liked by everyone. He had made many new friends, old friends had continued with him in spite of his. good luck. Perhaps he could become like his father. He had never been happy in this new home but his father was. The new home had become as home like as the shack in the oil field; the wealthy oil men as real as the roughnecks, and the imported gabardine slacks as easy to wear as the tan dickies he remembered his father wearing before they had moved to Cotton.
And now as Gaylord watched the smoke rising from his father's cigarette, he was thinking how hard it must have been. Toiling over conference desks, oil maps, leases, going on long trips … all this because of them. How else could he have been able to buy him all the things he had? Clothes, furniture, car … yes, his beautiful car. And he had repaid all this kindness with a lie. Now, like sand from a clenched fist, he was slipping further away from his father … and his dad had tried so hard.
He had to say something and finally managed to get out, "I wish I could go with you and mother, Dad … If I didn't have plans for tonight."
"That's all right … There'll be lots of other times … Guess it is better you don't go today … We'll be late sure … It always works that way …"
"I'll go next time even if I have to break a date."
Le Claire glanced at his watch. He stood up from the table and went to the sink. Turning on the faucet he rinsed his cup and watched the water run down the drain, to lose itself in the chrome hole. A part of him was slipping away, like water down the dark hole, and he wondered how he could regain it. Looking at Gaylord, he said, "Remember, we're going to New Orleans this week-end so don't make any plans."
"I won't, Dad … I'm looking forward to it. I don't remember too much about it but I do remember it sure is full of interesting buildings … I just love New Orleans."
"I had a big time there when I was about your age … Me and a fellow stayed there over night … We sure had a time …" He grinned remembering … "Wonder what ever happened to Travis."
"Dad!"
"Yeah?"
"Can I take a friend along?"
"A friend? Why … er …"
Had he said something he shouldn't? Had another magic circle been broken? Why did his father look at him like that? He had to go on … "I just thought I'd ask Bob Blake to go with us." He didn't want to go to New Orleans alone, didn't his father realize that … Didn't he know he could have so much more fun with Blake than he could tagging along with his parents? They didn't like what he liked … Just like going to the oil field, why his father was in paradise on a rig floor … Gaylord was in hell … He knew, he had been there before. Sitting for hours in a hot car, waiting, walking through slush and mud that surrounded every oil derrick. It had been thrilling for him that first two or three times; thrilling to watch all that went on around the skeleton tower of steel; the men in their dirty overalls, their large muscles under the mud scarred flesh; the whistling of the steam as it was released through the main valves that held it captive; and the singing as it whirled itself up to the sky for freedom; the loud clanging of the endless swinging iron pipes that were clustered in a corner of the steel encasement. It had been thrilling.
He had thought of Egyptian slaves with chains around their legs being made to pull a huge stone block; had seen long black whips, lashed across their naked backs when they stumbled and lay exhausted in the path of the moving boulder. The pyramids, surrounded by burning sand, spinning and gnawing into the blood-soaked backs of the half dead men was the sound the long pipes made as they whirled into the revolving hole, vanishing from sight in the middle of the derrick floor; the huge boulder silently moving on, crushing the body of a screaming man, rolling noisily on, not feeling the bones or flesh under its large rollers. He remembered the muddy-like slush pit on the side of the derrick; the small stream of water and clay that had filled the large dredged out hole until it ran down the sides of black earth like flowing lava from an erupting volcano; covering the bottom of the pit and slowly rising to its brim, killing everything, leaving a white scum behind that cracked from the heat of the burning sun. Deep canyons and flat top mountains; nothing living; nothing growing.
His imagination had run on a wild rampage while waiting for his father. He had roamed around the boilers; looked into the flabbiness of the slush pits soon to turn a hard crust; had tried to talk to the men under the deafening noises; the loud wild noises ever present.
Gaylord now looked at his father. He must try … he must not let his father know he'd rather be with Blake than with his parents. "I thought it would be nice to have someone to run around with in New Orleans, Dad. Then I wouldn't have to tag along with you and mother. And Bob knows New Orleans."
"Sure," his father started saying … "hell, yes … take Bob with you. That's a damn good idea … Take anyone you like son … I want you to have a good time."
It was a lovely afternoon, not too warm, not too cool and the sky built a vault clustered with drifting clouds above the rustling tall pecan trees around his home. It sounded good to Gaylord squatting by the side of a camellia bush pulling out tiny blades of grass. What made the earth so many different colors? How did these delicate stems find their way between the coarse pitted soil? He had held part of the world in his hand and allowed it to fall through his open fingers, wondering what miracle it possessed to be able to give life to the invisible seeds. He examined the thousands of spider web roots and thought of a fish backbone he had stepped on one evening while walking along the bay front.
Take back the unhappy moments and leave me only the good. Fly away words that make me sad and give me only the ones I want to hear. Leave me alone you people who do not understand, and surround me with those who do.
Gaylord Le Claire was not Gaylord Le Claire at all; he was part of the earth; part of a legend beautiful and mysterious; part of a sound of winds and images; part of the origin of things and their occult relationships to each other.
A sparrow chirped, followed by others; a flutter of wings shook in the tall trees …
"Hi, you: A penny for your thoughts."
Abruptly, Gaylord looked up into the sober eyes of Joy Clay. She was standing, smiling, behind him.
"Oh, Joy: You … what a pleasant surprise." He straightened his folded knees and arose. "What are you doing out of school?"
"I went this morning. I thought maybe you were sick when you didn't show up, so I just skipped my last two classes to come see you. I'm glad you're not sick."
"Never felt better … Just messing around in the yard a little. I was pulling out some of this winter grass."
"Your yard looks so pretty, Gay," she said, looking around.
"It does, doesn't it: We've got an awfully good gardener now and he really knows his job. I love to mess around in the soil …"
"I know … remember our mud pies we used to make?"
"Sure do … Kinda silly, weren't we?"
"I don't think so … Looking back now, I think those were my happiest days … you and I making mud pies."
He looked at her and his whole life swept before him again. Over and over memories shaped and spun out the substance of the past years; spun out the world of names, names of the different ones who had disliked him. The name of one who had rescued him from the feeling of being lost in a void of misunderstanding and darkness; Robert Blake was more than a name, and Gaylord blushed from the vision.
"Uh …" stammered Gaylord, "do you like strawberries, Joy?"
"Love um."
"We've got some beauties in the back yard. Come on, I want to show them to you. Some are so big and sweet. They're so much better than those you buy in the stores."
They walked to a small patch of straw covered ground; large green clusters of leaves dotted the straw. Close to the center of the green, clusters of red and pink berries peeped through, trying to find their way out of the shadows so they could lay naked in the warm sunshine.
He bent down and picked a large red one. Handing it to Joy, he said, "Here, here's a great big one."
"Isn't it a beauty," she sang, biting into it. "Uh, they're yummy, too."
"Got some more in the refrigerator. How about a dish full with some real cream over them?"
"Oh, no you don't: I've had one big lunch. A girl's got to watch herself, you know." She grinned, running her pretty hand across her flat stomach.
"You should talk about a big stomach. Look at this one." He grinned at her, making his stomach protrude.
They both laughed heartily. How pretty she had grown, he found himself thinking. She had always been pretty though. Those past years when he had gone over to her house, and they had played together, she had been so. Joy was an only child too. He remembered the day her father was found dead in his room. How they had cried together when they had found her mother weeping; their parting when Mrs. Clay had taken her daughter to a distant city, back to her mother's family in the west, and they were separated for almost a year; their return to Cotton, back to the same white house, and Joy introduced him to her new father. Funny, Mrs. Clay had married her dead husband's brother. It had seemed funny to Gaylord then.
Now, he looked at her a little more seriously. The childlike features he remembered were gone. Joy had her hair cut like a woman's. It showed her soft white neck. A sort of crazy patterned skirt hung in tight gathers around her waist. Her face, which was rather round, was soft and velvet; the chin puckered; the large yet lovely lips partly opened. She had on a white sheer blouse with short puffed sleeves, and the neckline was low and off the shoulders, just covering the beginning of her budding womanish breasts. The many gathers around her waist made her hips look even larger, although in a bathing suit, they were of perfect proportion. Her red shoes had high heels and were made of narrow strips of leather that wound around her small foot and up to her well shaped ankles; flesh colored hose of sheer silk added grace to the comely legs.
He found himself wondering, how many times Blake had felt the breasts … how many times he had kissed those lips … He could see her in Blake's arms; could see the large brown hand creep over the soft pink skin; linger near sacred spots. The shirtless brown back bent over and hid the scene, leaving a bronze blur before his eyes. The blur moved in a slow, lazy way and as he looked at reality, he shuddered.
"Why, Gay: You're shaking," Joy said with alarm.
Gaylord shook his head sharply … Tried to smile …
"Just one of those sudden chills you get sometimes … Really, I'm fine," he assured her.
"I hope so, Gay. Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure." There was a moment's silence and an exchange of glances. "Let's go in the house and have a coke, Joy."
"I really should be going. I just came by …"
"You've got time for a coke … I'm dying for something cold. You're not in that big of a hurry, are you … Where do you have to go?"
"Well," she smiled. "All right. We haven't had a coke together in a long time, have we, Gay?"
"We sure haven't … You never come around any more."
"Try to keep me away from now on," she grinned.
"I won't … I hope you do come real often."
They walked into the large living room. In one corner was a baby grand piano. Joy remembered it well. She also remembered the mahogany breakfront, filled with books and dresden figures; the comfortable divan they had played upon, long enough for a six foot man to stretch out on, the traverse-drawn damask drapes they used to hide behind, still graced the windows. There was the porcelain base table lamp that she had knocked over years past, the time she had run after Gaylord.
Looking at its beauty now, she sighed, glad it had been saved by the heavy carpet. The mahogany radio combination, its doors standing ajar, was new. So was a small antique chair, its seat and back covered with an expensive hand woven tapestry. But the rug, bulky and beautiful, covering most of the polished parquet floor with its oriental design, was like an old friend that had cushioned her many falls. There was the coffee table she and Gaylord had set their china dishes on. In their place now was a cut glass vase, holding some tired red roses, looking like wrinkled faces that had lost their youth.
"Make yourself at home, Joy. I'll get us a coke," said Gaylord. He started for the kitchen, stopped and asked, "Sure you don't want a dish of strawberries and cream?"
"Just a coke, please … Sure looks familiar in here. Where's Mrs. Le Claire?"
"Mother and Dad went to the oil field this morning. Won't be back until late. Dad wanted me to go but I told him a litde white lie. Said I had a date."
"Have you?" asked Joy, walking over to the piano and hitting the ivory keys.
"No. I just didn't want to go." He started for the kitchen again.
"How about a tune?" he cried at her.
"Can't, darn it," she yelled back.
She was left alone. Alone, among memories … It had been a long time since she had been here … Yes, a very long time. It looked different. She couldn't understand why; the same furniture was still there but, there was something about it that was different. Leaving the piano, she walked to the radio and turned it on.
Gaylord entered the room with cokes. "Here we are," he said, handing her one.
"Thanks." She took the paper wrapped bottle. "I was trying to get some music," she explained.
"Nothing on that thing but hillbilly stuff. I've got some wonderful records." He stopped short as the love duet from "Tristan and Isolde" softly came through the speaker. "Well!" he said in amazement. "You're better than me … I never can get anything on there when I want something. Hillbilly stuff or one of those soap operas. Gosh … Isn't that lovely?"
"Divine," whispered Joy.
They sat on the divan, their heads resting on the soft back cushion while the vibrating strains of Wagner's masterpiece commanded the room.
After a second, Gaylord spoke softly. "Wonder who's playing that violin?"
"Isaac Stern, isn't it? Sounds like him."
"I think so … No one can play like he does … I love this part … it's so beautiful," he barely breathed.
Joy nestled back into the mohair pillow. She took a small sip from the bottle and looked around to each side.
"Gay," she whispered, "this room looks different than it used to. What did you do to it …"
"Like it?"
"Oh, yes, I think it's lovely. Did your mother have a decorator?"
"I'm the decorator. I've rearranged this furniture so many times, but I think this is about the best way. I didn't know what to do with the piano."
"You mean to tell me you arranged this room?"
"Uh … huh."
"Why Gay, I think that's wonderful. It's so homey and comfortable, and yet … so elegant. I like the piano where it is."
"Thank you." Gaylord felt his face growing warm … almost hot.
"You should be a decorator," she said. She noticed the red ears.
"Why Gay, you're blushing … Why?"
"I don't know. I seem to blush at the darnedest times … I'm sorry." He laughed in amused appreciation.
"I think it's cute." She smiled again, her eyes sparkling. She raised the bottle and took a long sip of the cool cola, sighed, "This is just what I needed," with contentment.
"Me too. I was famished for a drink but didn't want to take time out to stop for one. I wanted to finish the yard."
"Now I'm taking up your time in here when you wanted to finish the yard. I'd better go so you can."
"You will not … I've done all I'm going to … you don't have to go, Joy. Oh, listen to that violin!" He paused, listening. "That's my favorite part. It breathes loveliness, doesn't it?"
"Yes … it does."
Both relaxed and closed their eyes.
Dreaming, he relived that evening with Blake. He remembered every moment; every word that had passed between them … He saw the thick trees through which moon-rays tried to penetrate; and he remembered the distant croaking of the frogs. Dark grey moss seemed to hang over his eyes. It became the chest of Blake, his head rested on it. The world had been forgotten and he had even forgotten his own name. The special name was Blake. Blake with the bronze gold-like flesh. Blake, with two strong arms that had drawn him close … close to two opened lips. If he was only there again; could return where the slant rays touched with gold; the sitting figure topped with glistening blackness, then, perhaps he would discover in the moonlight the secret recognition of all his longings.
He looked at Joy. At the bare shoulders Blake's hands must have touched. Surely they had been around them. Wasn't that some of the bronze from Blake's arms shining over the pale pink flesh? Surely those lips he now was gazing at had tasted the sweetness of Blake's, and drops of his own readiness still lingered upon them.
She looked at him and her eyes were kind, like Blake's. Blake's that were so dark and understanding. Yes, Blake was there in her eyes, on her shoulders. He was there within her.
"You're sweet," she whispered and it sounded like another voice.
She moved closer to him, so close that he inhaled the fragrance of her hair. He drew her to him, touching the shoulders with his fingers, rubbing Blake's golden bronze into his own open palm. He kissed her lips, drinking deep of the sweet honey. They moved, and made a bell like sound; lingered breathlessly on the name, Gay. The hair fell back and showed little shell-like ears … The lips spoke.
"Oh, Gay; I've wanted you to do that for so long."
Her arms went around his neck. She had him again, this time she would not let him go. They were grown now and she had him. Small tears came to her eyes. Why had she stayed away so long: So long … and still it seemed only yesterday they had been children. The swells in her bosom ached with release. Her heart leaped with happiness, almost bursting the tiny brassiere which seemed the only thing that was holding it within her. She thrilled at his touch. How odd; the touch from Blake's hands had not excited her as these did. These hands that had played in mud with hers, building sand castles, mud pies, sewing doll dresses … even fastening her clothes … unfastening them. They had been so close … so far apart. An entanglement had separated them … She had escaped, but he had been lost … lost behind the high stockade that had sprung between them.
Gaylord was watching her steadily as if she was something unreal. She stared back, her heart pounding, and there began to steal over her a slow weakness and languor, so consuming that even her hands felt heavy. Every part of her was burning with longing. She touched his arm in affectionate reassurance and looked into his eyes. They returned a childish frown she remembered so well. There was no barrier now, and yet, she was half scared, uncertain of what they said.
The restraint he had shown thus far now vanished and his arms reached out, went around her waist and drew her slowly toward him.
Joy, inexperienced but not innocent, met his lips and returned his kisses eagerly. She slid both her arms around him. Somewhere far back in her mind she thought of Robert Blake, but the sound and the image grew fainter, dissolved.
Gaylord did not have to force her back onto the sofa. In fact it was her move. She glanced at Gaylord, a wandering glance and a sweet tumult beat within her, saying something mysterious, almost forbidden, must lie beyond …
An opalescence of soft light and peace and beauty was over the room.
Gaylord pulled himself together. His hands moved upon her blouse, and a strange sense of intoxication rose to his brain. His hands trembled as she helped him remove her wrinkled blouse, tight brassiere.
She lay half-mad with passion and longing under the curly hair over her eyes. She let herself relax under his trembling and shivering body. She wanted to say she loved him and wished he would say he loved her, but he only bent down and kissed what seemed to him like gold dust from her pink nippled breasts.
Her round, faithful, adoring eyes were upturned, and every movement quivered with love and readiness to obey his smallest command.
He pulled at the flowered skirt, the lace pink panties. He saw the wide smooth belly, and tufts of hair. Sweat stood in translucent beads between her small pointed breasts. She lay there naked in his arms, trembling, her eyes closed. He was shaking with both passion and fear. What should he do? What step should he take? Then, as if obeying a command, with shaking hands, she unbuttoned his shirt, felt of his warm body.
Gaylord had time for breathing space, and to consider whether the course he was pursuing was wisdom or not. That it was madly exciting, he knew … but where was it leading to? What did she mean? Did she feel at all? Or was she one of the clever coquettes of her sex, a more refined Thelma White … just going to lead him on into showing his emotion for her, and then going to punish and humiliate him? He must put a firmer guard over himself, but the cruel fact remained that it was too late now.
He caught her again, brought her against him. Visions flooded his brain; he saw Blake naked and strong pressing her back before his desire, burying her under the living weight of his passion.
With a sudden impulse he unfastened his trousers and kicked them off. He caught her again and held her close. Bob, he thought … this is part of Bob. And the hand now moving over his abdomen, over the wiry hair, touching between his legs, felt rough and brownish. It grabbed at his body as it had done once before. He closed his eyes and the golden legs beneath clamped him.
The country road and the divan became one. Here, where only a faint moonbeam shone while all around them were trees and skys, they had become naked, and their desire of pooled up anguish, clothed in eager flesh, would melt into each other.
He was like a gambler who has lost his last stake, and who still means to take what joy of life he can before the black tomorrow dawns. He felt dizzy and shook his head, trying to shake it clear of the whirling sensation and the images.
He grabbed her then, hard and ferociously. Opened his eyes and looked down between their bodies. He saw her breasts and his own naked flesh rigid in her hand. For a brief instant Gaylord was frightened. Felt he was simply driven by something beyond his control. He pressed downward. Her arms went around his neck and their mouths remained together. Joy rubbed her hand over his curly head and whispered, "Gay … easy … oh … Gay."
Bob, he breathed silently, I love you.
Their discarded garments lay in a heap on the rug like a pile of drained wet clothes.