CHAPTER 13
IT WAS DUSK WHEN THE BOY AND girl got in the Buick convertible. He watched her get in and saw her face a moment, looking out at him through the glassless car door. She had tried to talk but he had remained silent. The golden bronze had vanished. The flesh had become pale and sunless and the hands smooth and soft. She was Joy Clay again, a barbarous creature who had tricked him.
She candidly studied his face as he closed the car door, waiting for some word, just one word would have been plenty. If he would have just called her by her name.
He knew this and was embarrassed because he could not speak. Every look she spoke with her eyes was an alien way of life. A life of pointed breasts and blood-red lips. Again he felt sick. Trembling, he walked to the other side of the car and silently slid behind the wheel. Automatically he started the car and backed down the driveway to the street.
He heard a dog bark. It sounded mournful and dismal. The same sound was within him, and he bit his lip hard on turning into the street. The street lights had just turned on and layers like transparent plastic, deepening red, swept across the sky, touching the dark shadows that lay close to the outlying horizon before him. A gentle breeze swayed the bushy magnolia trees, lingered on the rose colored flowers of the crepe myrtle; the fragrance of the mixed blossoms filling the air about him with a deadly stink.
He had promised himself it would never happen again … Why had he been so weak … why … A pounding in his head dizzied him and a sweet sickly fragrance clung to his clothes. It was not "Passion Rose."
Maybe it would go away if he went fast … fast …
He pressed on the gas; with a quick lunge the car raced forward but the odor remained even stronger around him.
A woman's face, bent slightly as if she were washing dishes, centered a small lighted window looking like a picture hanging on a dark and gloomy wall. He looked at the woman and his eyes hurt visualizing her laying naked in bed with a man; their bodies twisting grotesquely, their actions giving seed to a future generation. He turned away quickly. Why was the creation of life so repulsive to him: It should not be that way. All the people who had ever lived had had lovers. It was life. How else could the world continue? Even the flowers seduced each other and brought forth new and different blossoms.
Half shutting his eyes, he listened to the murmur of the wind passing through the leaves of the trees, listened to its whispering vocal reeds. Was this the riddle of life? Was this the riddle from which had sprung the beginning of time? He had a sharp clear memory of bronze. The arms were interlaced around him but there was something missing in the vision. The creation of life was as bare as the large brown feet of his vision.
They approached a large brick house and he pulled to the curb and stopped. Joy came closer and rested her head on his shoulder. There was a look of innocent guilt on her face, but her skin beamed with a new freshness under the glow of the street light. He looked at her and saw her as she used to be. And with the memory, there was no guilt or recollection of guilt. Again she had a ribbon in her hair and her hands were caked with soft dark mud. He waited. Joy extended her right hand. He pushed her hand aside, put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. Joy clung to him and started speaking. "Gay," she whispered. "What are you thinking of?"
"I don't know," he replied as if in a dilemma.
She didn't understand the kiss … Something far away drenched the eyes looking at her. They were strange; as strange as the soft lips had been.
"You're … you're not angry with me, are you?"
"Oh, no … Joy." She felt his body quiver. "Not at you. At myself."
She kissed him and his lips were still warm; did not draw away. A mad desire, a desire to feel him within her arose and filled her shaking body. She wanted to touch the naked flesh again; to feel his lips, to feel his arms around her as before. She loved him. God, how she loved him. She loved the bewildering silence about him; the mysterious look, his soft curly hair; his sensuous mouth. Oh, if he would only say he loved her … wanted her again. Something was wrong … something … but what? Blake would have said the thing she was longing to hear. He would have told her life would be empty without her … that he loved her … wanted her. Why didn't Gay say these things? Why? He must love me … he must! Why doesn't he tell me?
She had forgotten this was the first time they had been together, the first time in many years. They had been so close when they were children … they should be even closer now. He used to love her, she was certain. But what about that childish love, would it continue? He might be in love with someone else … Thelma White for instance … Thelma White? No, he couldn't love Thelma. She had given herself to him, and he had loved her then. He couldn't have kissed the way he had unless he had. She bit her lips in confusion and lowered her head. Does he love me, she asked herself. Am I going to have to ask him? Oh, no … I can't do that … He must say so himself. Must say it because he wants to … I won't ask him … I won't … I …
"Gay," she raised her head and reached for him. "You do like me a … just a little?" She whispered, "You love me?"
The air seemed filled with mist through which he saw her with puzzled distinctness. He couldn't lie to her. She was an old friend and he wasn't a noble hero.
She waited but Gaylord remained silent. Instead of speaking, he gave a brotherly kiss on the cheek.
She looked out over streets. The evening shadows half revealed, half concealed. She looked over the house roofs, uneven in height, broken once in a while by a slanting roof from a house left over from older times. The gables on the roofs … and on some, the shadowing looming of pigeon cotes … sometimes, faintly heard, the sleepy cooing of pigeons … the tall trees, remotely brooding over the dark houses … And at the end of the street, the highway traffic passed and was lost … lost …
Hours seemed to pass. Days flew by as she sat there next to him. She knew she should leave but she waited for an answer. She was afraid she was going to cry. Her eyes lowered, watching him, and her breath came and went in little wracking gasps. Again she bit her lip. She could not ask him the question again. No, she would not. He had heard her, but had not answered. He didn't love her … didn't want to lie to her. She should respect him for that. Yes, she was sure he didn't love her now … She had tried … Somehow she was like those cars on the highway … lost.
Go to your room, something dug at her. Go to your room before you throw yourself at him again. Have you no pride? He doesn't love you … Go to your room.
"I'd better go," she mumbled in a husky-throated voice. The blood in her veins that had been so warm felt like it had been diluted with ice water. She opened the car door. Said, "Good night, Gaylord."
"Good night, Joy. I'll walk to the house with you."
"No … don't bother," she said dully. "Thanks for bringing me home."
"Joy …"
He took her extended hand. It was cold and wet. For a moment he felt like an imaginary demon from the antiquity of old fairy tales.
"Joy …" he repeated … still holding her hand. "I wish I knew what to say … I know you're sorry for …"
"No," she said and smiled a tiny smile. "No, Gay … I'm not sorry for what happened. I wish it would have happened before we became strangers. I loved every moment and want you to know I did."
"I … I seem to regret everything I do …"
"No regrets, Gay. That's life. You can't help it because you don't love me, any more than I can help loving you. Oh, Gay … I guess I've loved you all my life." He started to speak. "No, dear, let me finish … please." She continued to look at him. "I'm not sorry for what happened. I'm glad it happened with you. Glad it was you and not someone else. I want you to know … you were the first … remember that … remember me." She released her hand from his. "I'll go now … no, I'm all right … Don't say anything … don't spoil it … I don't want to hate you. Bye."
She stepped quickly on the soft green grass, her mind a green pool full of moving objects. All that had surged through it a short time ago was gone. Gone like the mud pies, dolls and the freckles that used to cross the bridge of her nose. She had told him of her love but the words had fallen on deaf ears. Ears shut to her pleading and eyes that searched far away into unknown depths; too deep for her to reach out and touch their meaning. She stopped in her walk and looked around at him once. Looked at him from over her shoulder.
"Goodbye, my darling," she uttered to herself; then walked toward the dark house.
Gaylord watched and as he did so his name sprang sharply from floating mixed sounds … "Gaylord." He listened, his ears ringing from the sneering sound. "Go tell her you love her. At least tell her about Bob … Explain to her. Don't send her away like this. This is the way you've been treated all your life. Now, you're doing the same thing to her."
He turned from where the voice seemed to come and looked at Joy. She seemed tired. With each step her shoulders drooped, like those of an old woman who had spent her life over a wash tub.
I can't … I can't, he cried to the voice. I can't tell her.
He ached with the anguished awareness of the moment. Doing that to Joy was terrible. She was his friend. You didn't mess up a friend's life. God, what had he done. He could never face her again. He could never look at her or her mother in the face again.
She paused when she heard the soft low sputtering motor. She turned and watched the outline of the car. Gradually it grew fainter and then died completely away down the dark street.
"It's not your fault," she cried out aloud. "It's not your fault." Sobbing, she ran into the dark house.
Gaylord drove for an hour over the abandoned streets; past wire fences and cedar posts. Over the never ending slabs of cement, the wheels turned; turned and spun like the thoughts in his mind.
The voice sprang again at him with a demand to be heard.
"Gaylord, you can't run away. Why don't you go back and tell her you're sorry. Tell her that you think she's the sweetest girl you know. That's all she wanted to hear. After all, you were as much to blame as she … you did seduce her … and who were you thinking of all the time … you dirty, dirty, person … you evil silly boy. You're low, real low down … mean … what would Bob think of you if he knew … don't you know he loves her?" There was a witchlike creak, followed by a ghastly loud laugh. "That's how she'll get even with you … you stupid thing … Just what do you think Bob sees in you … Just because he was nice to you … played around a little with each other, do you think he's in love with you? He loves Joy … Joy … Joy … Joy …"
"No … . NO … NO …" Gaylord screamed, tears running down his cheeks. "He loves me … He's got to love me … I didn't want to do what I did … God knows I didn't … I didn't want to lie to her … I like her very much but I don't love her … I can't … Love … love … Oh, I love Bob … he can't love her … He loves me." The car echoed with his cries.
He was sobbing, clutching the wheel of his car and driving aimlessly. He listened to hear if the voice would answer, but instead, there was only the echo of vibrating moans around him.
Then, he was jealous of her. Jealous of the body she could offer Blake. What could he offer? Absolutely nothing except his love and that wouldn't be enough. He know this now, and he cried so desperately the road in front of him seemed a rippling lake.
"I must be crazy," he sobbed. "Oh, God! I'm so confused. Help me. Why am I so different … why? Why? Why? Why do I want Bob's arms around me … why do I want to feel his lips on mine … why am I so thrilled with his nearness? Why do I love him and not Joy … Don't take him from me, Joy … Please don't take him from me … I'm sorry … so sorry, Joy … forgive me … I'm so ashamed … I didn't want to hurt you … I didn't, really I didn't."
All the way home, he cried; kept seeing Blake and Joy in bed together, enlaced with their love-making.
As he turned into his driveway, the heavy stillness surrounding the dark house was gone. The lights from his car had awakened it from a restful snooze, and now it appeared alive … glad the darkness had been lifted. A parked car by the curb in front of the house meant nothing to him as he walked absentmindedly from the garage around the side and to the front of the house. A whistle, like a boy would make to a passing pretty girl, stopped him from going up the porch steps. He recognized both, the whistle and then the car.
"Bob!" he cried, and ran toward the car. Opening its door quickly, he sprang inside and with tears streaming down his cheeks, threw his arms about Blake.
"Well, for Christ sake; what's the matter with you, sweetie pie?" Blake asked in amazement. He quickly placed an arm around the shaking shoulders and with the other lifted Gaylord's fallen head. "What is it?" He looked tenderly into the tear-soaked eyes. "Has anyone hurt you?" he almost whispered. "Tell me and I'll kill 'em." As the arms went around him, a feeling of peacefulness found its way into Gaylord's body. Thoughts of love and admiration shot through his bewildered mind on studying Blake's face. It was divided between the thrill of being where he was and the misery of Joy's eyes. He wanted so much to share this painful news with Blake. He well knew that the girl had not tricked him … and that only because of himself, weak and spineless, this had happened … and yet his blood ran quick with pride. He had not lied to her. Nothing could erase that fact … It was the only decent thing he had done.
Blake said, "What happened, Gay? Tell Bob … Why, your eyes are all bloodshot. Tell Bob what's wrong."
Gaylord glanced timidly at Blake. He had a trapped look. Said wearily, "I'm all right … now." He knew he didn't want to tell what had happened, but to himself he was wondering whether he really should after all. They faced each other for a moment, and there was something in Blake's face that unaccountably reminded Gaylord of past dreams, the loving condescension perhaps, or perhaps a softness under the brightness. He felt encouraged. "I'm fine, Bob," he whispered and took out a handkerchief and wiped it across his face.
"Sure?" Blake asked. He took Gaylord's hand. "Real sure?"
"Real sure." Blake didn't take his hand away. He thought he felt a little pressure. The bronze face so close troubled him. He tried not to see it. "I'm glad you came by," he said. "Been here long?"
"About ten minutes." Blake scrutinized his face kindly. "Sure you don't want to tell me all about it … I know something's wrong."
"Guess I was just lonesome. Feeling sorry for myself. I can't explain it, Bob."
"That's no way to feel. You shouldn't be lonesome … after all, why didn't you call me. I was afraid you were sick. I saw Joy …"
Joy. A blast of lead tore into his body. His heart stopped and the afternoon occurrence flashed with lightning speed through him. Joy … The white sheer blouse; the full bright skirt; the tight brassiere and the hard time he had unfastening it; his naked body on hers; the sweating climax.
He knows. Bob knows what happened this afternoon, he thought. Joy's told him.
Gaylord's face, with quivering lips, had an imperious, tragic look; though to Blake it was hardly more than a paleness in the dark, and the eyes were pools of blood.
So this was the end of the world. The end of their short friendship. No more would the bronze arms help him. No more would they protect him from the boys in the showers. This is how Joy must have felt. The end of everything. Finished. A return to the emptiness and frustration of his former life was here again.
Through Blake he could find the answer that had eluded him for so long. Through Blake he might even learn to identify why and thus realize the dream that had plagued him ever since they had met. Suddenly, an image focused on the screen of his mind, and he saw it grow into two people. Joy and Blake standing close together, their arms linked, their compelling oneness shutting him off completely; for he saw, with a sense of intuition that he had no part of them. He did not dramatize his feelings or feel sorry for himself. Right now he felt he deserved it. For the picture of Joy and Blake together haunted him far less than the one of Joy and himself. He had acted like a common tramp; a no-good scoundrel; pressed harder even when she had uttered a little cry of pain; sucked like a hungry animal at her naked breasts; had hurt her so badly, blood had covered his own flesh with its redness and stickiness. Seeing all this had left its mark under his eyes and around his mouth. He looked tense, tired and desperately worried. The fragments of a hundred scenes lingered in his tortured mind and he wanted to run … to flee to some dark intersection and die.
"Gay, what's wrong?" Blake asked, looking into the pale face that had pictured death the only solution.
"I'm no good, Bob," he said simply. "I have no right to live. I'm always doing the wrong thing. I always have and I guess I always will."
"Now who in the hell put that in your mind?"
"It's the truth." And with this, Gaylord caressed the other's hand. "Every thing I do is wrong … It's been that way all my life." His voice made a thin, hollow echo in the car.
"That isn't so. Joy and I were talking about you at noon. She told me you didn't come to school and she was worried. Everybody likes you Gay … I know Joy does … You don't think I'd be here if I didn't like you, do you? I was afraid you were sick too, so I came by … Had a million things to do this afternoon … that's why I'm so late." His grip was firm, yet soft, and his voice strong, understanding and soothing. "You want to tell me what's wrong? No … don't … I don't want to hear it if it makes you unhappy … Forget it."
There was so much Gaylord wanted to tell Blake, and so pitifully little he could say. Their eyes met and under Blake's compassionate and intense gaze, he felt his frustrations, his pitiful egotism wash away as the innate purity of his love for him emerged, lucid and durable. How simple it would be for him to deceive Blake by admitting illness. He tried valiantly to smile.
"No, Bob, I'm not ill," he said. "I've done something I'm ashamed of … I'm so disgusted with myself."
"We all do things we're ashamed of afterwards … That's only human."
"But this was …"
"What?"
"I can't tell you …"
"Why not … I'm broadminded."
"I wish I could … you'd hate me."
"Oh, Gay … what's the matter … were you out with this fellow, Glenn? Glenn what's his name?"
"No … oh no, Bob," he almost screamed; shaken; afraid a second would be too late. Afraid the other would vanish in the mist before his eyes. "I wasn't out with Glenn … please believe me …" He didn't like Blake's air of inner calmness and strength. "Don't be mad at me … I'll die if you are."
"I'm not mad … Should I be?" Blake reached out and drew the other closer. "Come here … see … now do you think I'm mad?"
"No, Bob."
"Your car wasn't here when I drove up so I just thought I'd wait for a few minutes. Kinda felt you'd be right back. Been gone long?" He raised his head and looked into the red pools.
"The few minutes you've waited too long. I wish I'd been here when you drove up …" he sobbed.
Blake tightened his arm. "I don't like to see you cry, stinker," he announced sorrowfully. "Don't smear that pretty face with tears any more. Why, your eyes are all bloodshot now. Don't get them any redder." Blake kissed the tear-soaked cheek.
"Oh, Bob … is it wrong for me to love you?"
"I don't think so," Blake grinned. "You'd better like me or I'll," he tightened his arm, "break every rib in this torso of yours."
Gaylord was not thinking of his ribs or caring what happened to them at that moment. They moved toward each other at the same time. Blake's big hands came to meet him and were the first things that touched him. He could feel them pressing hard and big around him as Blake took him in his arms.
It was as if they were obeying unspoken orders. Their mouths met again and when they parted Gaylord began to tremble. He clung to the other as though for support. They embraced again and his trembling increased. He seemed unable to control it. He might have been afraid.
"You don't have to go in, do you Gay?"
"No," Gaylord whispered. "I don't … I want to be with you … just you …"
"You do?"
"You know I do."
"Want to take a little ride?"
"Anything you want to do … I think a ride would be wonderful … now …" He did not need to look at Blake to see him. Once he had looked at him, his image remained in his mind's eyes. It had never left him.
They drove off, leaving the Le Claires' home behind. The cold had disappeared. The moon shone strongly and it was gloriously warm again.