CHAPTER 22
THE DRIVING RAIN OF TUESDAY afternoon and night passed into a warm and sunny Wednesday. The yellow sun rose upon the water-soaked roofs of Cotton, Texas, and soon, the shingles began to give off steam. A thin gliding ghost rose from them, rose until it was lost in the vastness above. The large trees surrounding the dark soaked auditorium seemed fresh, clean. They swayed under the touch of some unknown hand that brushed them.
After a wonderful night's sleep, Gaylord lay back on his bed and pushed his hair from his forehead; a smile crossed and lingered on his face as the memory of the night before passed through his semiconscious mind. He had taken the world back on his shoulders, releasing his heroic twin, Gaylord Le Claire, who had run away from the one he loved last night. He had almost let the world slip through his fingers, or rather, he had drawn away from it, but thank God, it had been saved.
He turned on his side and sank his head deep into the soft pillow, his hand going under his cheek and then slowly over it, as if trying to feel its structure. Bob sure did hit me, he thought. He's sure strong. He smiled at the reflection, and after a coarse cough turned over on his back.
He imagined himself a woman and living with Blake; cooking and keeping their house. He saw the people who would come to see them. They were not of the normal world. They were sad-eyed boys that moved under the crust of a special and unique civilization. A world with its own special bars, nightclubs, languages and gestures. They all seemed transients to him now. Nothing seemed permanent in this particular world. It was a world without normal women; a world of continuous chases and fantastic exchanges. They were all hunting, searching, wanting. The aim of conquest was constant, for that seemed the only important thing. Maybe tomorrow, the conquest would be the right one.
Gaylord muttered to himself. I shouldn't think of things like this … I should be happier'n a lark, and I'm not. I have Bob, and he understands me better than I understand myself … That should be enough for the time … Why couldn't we have normal friends? We don't have to run around with those we don't care for … sissy ones who paint their face and talk so funny …
He brought his arms up and cradled his face between his hands. "I wonder," he murmured, "if I'll turn out to be one of them? Wonder if Bob and me will go chasing after others? Will we grow tired of each other? I know I won't, but what about him?"
The moment he voiced the thought, he wanted to cry. Maybe this would clear his mind of all the whirling and spinning questions. But he had said it and the words sank deep and couldn't be uprooted.
He thought of Blake. He was above him, and Gaylord could see his face very plain. Could see the grin, his wide soft mouth. It was moving, talking to him gently, tenderly, but he could not hear the words. Then, abruptly, in a blinding flash of clairvoyance, he knew that something was wrong, horribly wrong, for the face faded, leaving only spinning objects in front of him. He was suddenly aware he was cold, his whole body bedewed with icy sweat. He sprang from the bed.
"Bob … why didn't you say you loved me? Why didn't you?" he cried, realizing suddenly, with a misery that was bottomless, Blake had never said the words. "Why did you call me a faggot?" But there was nothing so bad about that. He had been called worse. What baffled him, what he could not explain, was this icy terror that beat about his head like invisible wings. "I'll get rid of it," he cried. "I'll wash it out of my mind. I'll drown it." And like a frightened deer he ran naked towards the bathroom.
He reached for both faucets and turned them on full force. The water shot out of the shower nozzle with a tremendous sizzling, flattening his hair, making it run down his forehead in long, straight, dripping streaks. His jaw trembled and he tried to clench his teeth to steady it. "Bob … Bob … I love you," he hysterically muttered, the roaring water drowning the words, filling his open lips. "Why," he coughed, "didn't you say you loved me? Why? … Why? …"
A feeling possessed him of the fragility of his life on the earth and of the transiency of all human habitation. The thought reminded Gaylord of the mashed squirrels he had often seen lying on the roads around Cotton on autumn mornings. It was shocking to soak in, all in an instant, the fact that people are as soft and destructible as squirrels.
He had a sensation of long absence and return, or as if he had awakened into some earlier time. Suppose he had lived in the time of Louis IV? Would things have been different? Suppose he had been a queen? He had heard somewhere that Queen Elizabeth was really a man. He wondered about it remembering Dusty. Dusty looked more like a woman than Queen Elizabeth. She certainly wasn't beautiful or feminine looking from the pictures he had seen of her.
The water chilled him and now goose bumps covered his body. I'm cold, he thought, and abruptly came back to his own. And he wondered at the miracle by which he had been spun into that era that had nothing to do with him.
"I think of the craziest things," he said, drying himself. "I guess I really am queer." He sighed deeply … "Queen … Paul said that's what the queer boys called themselves … Queen … Queen Gaylord Le Claire … I'll never call myself a Queen …"
After the shower, Gaylord wrote to Paul Boudreaux.
I wish you were here so that I could talk to you instead of writing. My words seem misplaced too, like you said yours did.
I do so want to be your friend and hope that I'll be able to see you as planned. I guess we are a lot alike and I'm so glad I met you. Something good is bound to comc from our friendship. It has to me, for just knowing you, even if it was for such a short time, has opened my eyes to facts that really do exist.
After school I'm going to try and get Bob to come to New Orleans with me. I'd love for you to meet him and I want so much for him to meet you. He's such a wonderful person. So different than I am. I only wish I were like him.
After graduation I just know I won't be able to stand it around this town. If it wasn't for Bob, I'd be tempted to leave today.
I hope that everything works out for you and that you will find someone just as wonderful as Bob. You deserve the best … I wish it were possible for it to be me, but feeling the way I do toward Bob, makes that impossible, and I'm sure you'll understand. There are so many things I'd like to say but maybe you won't want to finish this letter now that you know the way I feel. I hope you will, for I certainly don't want to hurt you. Only to be honest with you and not lie … You told me never to lie and I will do exactly that, Paul.
Write me if you find it in your heart to do so. If I don't hear from you I'll understand.
The mirror in the knotty pine frame glared back at Robert Blake as he sat up in his bed rubbing his eyes. He looked out the window and was glad to see the sunshine streaming through the blinds. He stretched his brown arms and the muscles in his biceps expanded as he bent his elbows, drawing his hands slowly down to his shoulders. He yawned deeply and raised his chest forward, stretching the skin under the brisk hair that seemed alive and springy. Then he fell back on his rumpled pillow.
"You little devil," he said to himself with a grin; his hand rubbed his cheek. "You're not as weak as I thought you were. I had no idea you had such a temper, you pretty little faggot."
Joy Clay had slapped his face once but it had felt like she hadn't really meant it. A sort of coy slap. His hands went down between his legs and rested there. Then, slowly, moved up and down … up … down … slowly. He could feel the warmth of Joy's body again … visualized the soft material that covered his fingers as they reached higher and higher until … and then the slap. He had barely felt it in his excitement.
"Please …" she had pleaded, snatching his hand away from the warmth that was beginning to burn his fingers, his mind, his body. Then she had cried and he had kissed her.
"All right, honey," he had said. "If you don't want to, we won't."
What a difference between Joy and the girl he had met in New Orleans. How utterly different and still, they were the same. He wondered how and why a girl could become so false. The large painted mouth, dark shadowed eyes, the straw-like hair … it was all false. Surely before she had become so, she had been a sweet girl like Joy … others … She was still young. Still youthful under the false veil that shrouded the sweetness that possibly could have been hers. He wondered if a man had been the cause of her downfall and was glad that Joy had protested. Glad that he had been man enough to obey her wishes even if he did feel that if he had tried a little harder he could have succeeded. There had been other girls that had given themselves to him without a struggle. Girls who had lain with men … other young boys. He thought of them and his hand shut tight around his flesh … hard, throbbing flesh … Let someone else break them in, he thought, I won't break them in but I'll take them afterwards … I don't want to be the first … They can brag about getting a cherry … to hell with that … I'll take them afterwards … after it's dropped and gone.
He thought of the time he was working in a filling station; about a certain man who had watched him as he had serviced his car; the man who had asked him to come up to his hotel room … He had liked the sensation that had gone through his body; remembered pushing away the face that had tried to kiss … afterwards … after the sensation was gone …
Yes, his maturity had come early … perhaps a little too early. The stranger had come back … and he had followed willingly up to the room … many times this had happened. In fact he had looked forward to these meetings … Had liked it as much as the acts that had occurred with girls behind trees … along the gulf coast … and other places …
He grinned to himself remembering all these past escapades.
He thought of Gaylord and a nervous tingling crept over him. It brought with it an exciting desire to have him here with him, to feel his warm body next to his. Right now his body was more desirous than Joy's and he wondered … asked himself why.
I'm not queer, he thought … I've never liked to play with dolls or girls … I can't understand it …
Words of his father's came to him now. "Bob has always been a real boy," his father had proudly told his uncle. "That boy of yours is too damn sissy, Jim …"
Blake had overheard the conversation and from that day on had avoided his cousin. He had never been too fond of him … There was just something about him that didn't click. Still, he had never mistreated him and he had been glad when they had moved to a different state.
Lying here now, Robert Blake wondered what his cousin, Frank Blake, looked like, how he acted and if he had outgrown his feminine ways. Frank was three years older than himself.
A hoarse cough shook him, followed by another and then another. "Damn, I've got a cold, I'm afraid," he uttered, "guess I did catch one last night." He withdrew his hand from his lap and reached for a tissue on a stand next to the bed. Blew his nose. He tossed it into a waste can and relaxed. His hand going back down to its old position. Dreamily he stroked his flesh … pulled and stretched it without realizing it …
Gaylord loved him. He knew that, could feel it, see it in the blue eyes. Joy liked him too … Others liked him … He was lucky to have so many friends. All these faces reflected friendship and love. They respected him … never called him names … They'd better not … Too bad Gaylord couldn't say that …
Gaylord … and again he thought of the warm body that had plunged out of the blanket. Flesh that had been so cold such a short time before now warm again and ready … ready for him he told himself …
There was no sort of warning or premonition … His tense hand stopped moving … Lay there still clutched around his body …
"You little faggot," he grinned and reached for another tissue.
Glenn Rogers was always up by six in the morning in order to milk, stake the cow out afterwards and the family usually had breakfast together at exactly six-thirty. This morning he was kissing his pillow when he opened his eyes. He yawned and then grinned at the memory of the dream that had just left him. Looking down at the softness in his arms, he grinned again and wondered if he should feel ashamed. Ashamed that he had enjoyed what had been going on in dreamland.
He threw off the light sheet, and slipped his hand under his pajamas … touched his body, the part that Gaylord's hand had just been around. Touched his body with the hand that had just touched Gaylord's.
God, what a dream, he thought. I'm glad I woke up when I did. He lay back on the bed, relaxed, his mind centered around his new friend. He was conscious of certain things he had to do but still he lay there thinking. He decided he liked Gaylord more than anyone he had ever met. There was something about this new friend that made him feel a bit uncomfortable when he was with him, and yet, he had never felt so free. He had talked about things that he had never talked to anyone else about; had confessed things about himself he wouldn't dream of confessing to anyone. "Why should he feel strange around Gaylord Le Claire," he asked himself. "You're too ignorant," he answered himself … "Too darn ignorant … you've never been around."
That was so right. He had never been anywhere. Had never seen anything worth while or met people who had. All he knew was horses, cattle and farming. Instinct again rather than reason told him that he had been shut off from the world by a barbed wire fence. Certain things which had to be done were always cropping up successively and it was up to him to do them. There had been no time or money for travel or deep subjective reading. In all his years, there was no time to think of himself or do things to improve his mind, no time to analyze his feelings about the world outside.
But since he had met Gaylord, after he had been with him, all the things he had missed came over him in dark, disorderly waves, and sometimes those moods were hard to control … He was like someone who stood on the stern of a ship, watching a vanishing shore line.
Gaylord must like him or he would not pick him up mornings or take him out to lunch. He raised his legs, bending his knees … Nervously, he brought them together and then apart. Oh, I wish I could have gone to New Orleans with Gay, he thought. Someday I'm going … with Gay, I hope …
He watched his vibrating limbs, remembering how angry he had been at his father when he had refused to let him go. Remembered taking out all his disappointment on the cattle with each jab of the needle.
"God damn it, be a little more careful there, Glenn," his father had yelled at him when he had kicked a small calf after shooting it with serum.
"To hell with you," he had muttered under his breath. "I hope these shots don't do any good."
"What are you muttering about?" his father had shot back at him.
"Nothing," he had answered … "nothing you'd understand."
It had been a discordant instant and it had broken unpleasantly into the morning. He had thought of Gaylord again, and Gaylord was suddenly more real to him than the calf in front of him.
Glenn Rogers could still recall the glow he had felt on this occasion and the sudden moment of elation. It came to him again now …
The blue eyes, the wavy hair, the soft hands … everything came together into sudden focus.
Though common sense told Rogers that he should get up, some other inner impulse made him stretch and sink his head into his pillow. He saw the sunlight hit the wings of a plane that must be on its way to Mexico City. He lay there gazing out of his window and watched the plane … I wonder where Gay was last night, he thought … his mother said she didn't even know where he was …
"Glenn," a voice rang out.
"Yes, mother."
"Six o'clock."
"All … right … I'm awake …"
He jumped out of bed onto the bare floor. He was quite happy, and hummed to himself as he dressed. He thought of his father and was sorry for the thoughts that had passed in his mind about him. His father had really needed him … the old home, the place where he was born had needed him …
"Gosh, I wish I could have gone to New Orleans," he said combing his hair, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He laid down the comb and left his room.
If a roaring storm had been raging outside instead of the warm gentle breeze, it would not have changed the expression on Joy Clay's face as she got out of bed and walked to her dresser. The air was full of earth odors, and smelt of leaves and damp wood, but it meant nothing to her. Her heart was heavy as she picked up a comb and ran it carelessly through her hair. Always before she had been happy, now it hurt to think of the future hours. She glanced into the blank mirror.
"It's my fault," she said. "I have no one to blame but myself. Only myself … Why did I do it?"
She walked about the room in her night gown, pacing the floor like a tired caged animal. Then as she sat down on the bed again, wished she could erase the memory of the afternoon disturbing her mind. You little fool, she thought. You stupid little fool … She flung herself on the bed and cried. Cried like she had never cried before.
He came to her and brought the memory back. "How about some strawberries?"
She jerked her head up, looking around the room to see who had spoken. It had been so real. There was no one. Nothing but the dreariness that filled every corner, the utter bleakness of the morning sun. She was half blinded by the brilliant reflections that leaped before her watery eyes. She saw Gaylord's naked body and cried even harder … closing her eyes so that it would vanish but it remained deep within her …
She had been a victim of a willing rape to gratify an ancient craving; and now that she had tasted the sweetness of the marriage night, the craving was still there and not to be concealed.
She had sinned, there was no doubt about it, but she didn't care. The act would surely bring him back to her for she knew that men found in this act the keenest pleasure; and even if Gaylord was effeminate, he had proven to her, he was a man. She was certain he had loved the moment as much as herself; and he would come and seek her again; and they would lose all time and garments like they had done before.
She felt a great anguish wishing again for the thrilling bodily rapture that she had experienced; that exquisite mingling of pain and ecstasy; and her mind was capable of only one explanation for it: she, Joy Clay, must be depraved.
"I don't care," she said lying there … "I'm glad … so glad," she whispered. "He'll be back … they come back …"
She looked down at her bosom that showed plainly from behind the thin silk. She suddenly felt better, with the familiar odors of the room and the morning air. She dropped her hand from her breasts and settled back peacefully on the wide bed and waited. A little laugh escaped her parted lips. "Oh … Gay," she sighed, "you must love me … you simply must, my darling. I shall make you love me."
And the brightness was all around her like a living thing. Around her and within, filling up the vast and echoing beat of her heart.
"Gay … my little Gay," Paul Boudreaux whispered in his sleep and touched the naked figure next to him.
"What did you say?" asked the masculine figure. "Hey!" He shook Paul … "You want some more loving …?"
"What …?" Paul stammered and opened his eyes.
"You've been talking in your sleep. Said … ‘Gay …' and felt of me … I'm ready, honey … but my name ain't Gay."
Paul paid no attention to the look or the words. His head ached dully and his mind worked slowly, painfully, his unhappy thoughts groping through the lingering fog of liquor and the memory of his shameful assault on his bed-mate.
"Oh!" he said in self-disgust; and only when he saw the man's face did he realize he had made the sound aloud.
"Got a hangover?" the man asked.
They stared at each other searchingly, looking deep into each other's eyes, both with different thoughts … and then Paul broke the silence by saying huskily: "I sure have … please don't … I feel terrible." He rubbed his eyes and asked, "How do you feel?"
As Paul watched him he saw him suddenly throw down the sheet to expose his body, lying naked and so close to him. The man glanced down at his own nakedness and Paul's eyes followed until they saw again what he had already seen.
"How's that?" the man grinned and tried to draw Paul close. "I'm ready again."
"I'm not," muttered Paul with disgust. "I'm going to make some coffee."
And with this he sprang out of bed, picked up a robe and put it on as he left the room.
So the night had passed in the different rooms and so the morning followed.