CHAPTER 26
NEW ORLEANS WAS A PLEASANT memory, and the Sunday morning following his return, Gaylord awoke at seven-thirty. To him, now, lying wide-eyed and motionless on his bed, he remembered Blake had not called last night as he had said he would. A frightening feeling that his perfect existence might crumble made him fidgety.
He lived through their past week … through evenings they had been together. His hand pressed against the silk pajama pants, tenderly cupped his flesh, and dreams filled his brain. He whispered, "I want you, Bob … I wish you were here in my arms now … I wish I were in your arms … why didn't you call last night like you said you would?"
He had waited for the call alone in the living room until ten-thirty. Several times he had been on the verge of calling but had put it off; then, it was too late, and he had given up and gone to bed. Hurrying up the stairs to his room last night, his heart had been heavy, his mind muddled. Was Blake peeved with him? Had he done something wrong? No, nothing he knew of. Something must have come up, but he could have at least called. He had picked up a book and gone to bed and read until twelve before he had finally turned out the light, and then sleep had come quickly.
On this beautiful Sunday morning he drew new courage, and with it came a gnawing in his stomach. I'm hungry, he decided. I should be I guess, I didn't have any supper … think I'd like a glass of milk …
He moved quietly down the stairs; not wanting to awaken his parents who always slept late Sundays. (They had gone out early Saturday evening and had not returned until early Sunday morning.) He went to the kitchen. Out of a cupboard he got a glass and tiptoed to the large refrigerator. Filling it with milk, he selected three cookies out of a pottery jar. He paused a moment, listening, wondering if he had awakened his parents, but no sound came from their rooms; except for the low snoring of his father, the house was silent.
With the glass of white liquid and cookies in his hands, he went back to his room and slumped into a chair. He turned on the radio and nibbled at the pastry. As he listened to the organ music, he couldn't help thinking of Blake. He reached over and turned up the volume. He loved organ music, and the deep mellow tones seemed to climb and intertwine in the large tropical leaves that arose from behind the bed. As he listened he felt such a sense of loss and desolation sweep down upon him that he snapped it off. Bob, he thought, where did you go last night? Did you have a date with Joy?
He was alone again and didn't like it. He wanted to be around people and again he didn't … what should he do … where could he go?
"I'll go to church," he said, biting his lip. "Church always makes me feel good." He looked at his watch … yes, he had time to make the eight o'clock mass if he hurried.
In his bathroom he took a quick shower and carefully combed his hair. He critically examined his image in the mirror and then reached for the pink powder puff. It stopped in mid-air.
"No," he snapped, "I'm not using you any more." He threw it into the waste basket.
He reached for his favorite suit behind the closet door and donned it quickly. With one last glance in the door mirror, he gave his cravat a final jerk.
"You look all right … Gaylord Le Claire," he said out loud … "you look fine without powder …" he grinned and thought of Blake again. "I'll see you after church," he said in a low voice … "and you'd better have a good excuse about last night too."
He ran a finger over each eyebrow, left the mirror and started for his car.
The sound of the mighty pipe organ, together with the chanting of voices, filled the air. Gaylord ascended the stone steps of St. Phillip's Catholic Church. His specially tuned ear caught the clear tenor voice of a classmate. How beautiful he sang and how ugly the mouth from where the sweet tones came.
He entered the outer vestibule and dipped his fingers into the Holy Water, crossed himself, and gazed down the long vista of the center aisle where the sanctuary lamp glistened in gold and crimson comfort before the marble altar. Rays of morning sun fell through circles of stained glass, they crossed and recrossed and lay rose golden upon it. Before the shrine of St. Joseph a pyramid of candles flickered, and on the main altar were more. These stood white and straight in their gold encrusted holders with flames like twinkling stars.
The church was crowded and he was almost at the altar rail before he found a vacant seat. He would have preferred one at the rear of the church; here he felt everyone's eyes upon him. Why did he have to be so self-conscious?
Inside the pew he knelt on the foot rail, crossed himself again, bowed his head and prayed. "Our Father, who art in heaven …" The organ swelled and the voices raised and mingled with his prayers.
"Dominus vobiscum," chanted the priest.
Gaylord rose from his knees. "God be with you," he whispered.
He looked at the priest. The rays of sunlight fell and gleamed on the brocaded chasuble, heavily embroidered with silver and gold threads. He watched the altar boy, surrounded with sweet smelling half circles of smoke, and wondered if he was as bored with the whole surroundings as he seemed to be. He had never been an altar boy. The priest had asked him several times but he had been afraid. Afraid he would do something wrong or trip over the long red skirt. Deep in his heart he cursed himself for being afraid … he would have loved nothing better than being an altar boy.
"Bless my mother and father," he prayed. "Don't ever let me do anything to hurt them. Make me lose these sissy ways, please, dear God. Help me do the right things and see what's right from wrong. Please help me; give me strength and courage to face people and talk without being so bashful. Make me like Bob … make me a man … please, blessed Virgin, help me. Holy Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus …
"Is it wrong for me to love Bob? Please tell me. I'm sorry for what I did to Joy … deeply sorry … forgive me and don't let her hate me … Our Father who art in heaven …"
As he sat there praying, he was perked out of his daze by a sour, stale reck of alcohol. It can't be him, he thought … it can't be that drunk who thought I was a girl. Still it could. And he breathed heavily as the hangover breath assailed his nostrils. He sat there praying it wasn't, dying to turn around and see for himself but he was afraid to. He knelt again when church was over and as he did he glanced at the man behind him who was leaving. It wasn't him and he let out a deep sigh. He wasn't in a hurry to leave … every one else seemed to be for the aisle was crowded. He knelt there and said another prayer.
The church was almost empty when he did leave.
On the front steps a loud buzzing of mixed voices greeted him as he stepped through the door. He shaded his eyes and looked over them for a quick moment. He wished he didn't have to walk past so many people. He wished he was in his car and on his way home.
A middle aged woman came up to him … smiled and spoke, "Hello, Gaylord. How nice to see you in church."
"Good morning, Mrs. James," he smiled back at her.
He walked down the steps and spoke to several more he knew among the chattering throng and then, blinking in the sunshine, he stopped because standing right in front of him stood Glenn Rogers. His face all smiles … "Hi, Gay," Rogers said cheerfully and the dimples deepened. "I didn't know you were Catholic."
"Hi, Glenn … yes … I'm one but, I don't go to church as often as I should. Don't guess you'd call me a very good Catholic."
Rogers grinned, said, "My mother makes me."
"Mine doesn't … maybe it would be a good thing if she did."
"Don't hurt you, I guess. But some Sundays I'd rather do other things." Rogers rubbed his eyes. "This sun sure is bright, isn't it."
"Sure is."
"I'll be glad to get rid of this coat."
Gaylord looked at the heavy fabric. How could he stand it, why even with his thin tropical gabardine he wore it was warm. Rogers must be roasting … "Mine's hot too," he agreed.
"I was going to call you last night and ask you to go to the show with me."
"I wish you would have … I stayed home all evening."
"I was afraid you didn't like westerns, so I went alone. Then too, I just knew you wouldn't be home on Saturday night. I've called during the week and you're never at home … do you ever stay home?"
"I have been running around a lot lately." He looked at Rogers but saw a deep bronze face. Blake's face was as plain as if it was before him. "I'll call you tonight," it said. "We'll go places … just you and I."
He felt like someone peering through the keyhole of a locked door. A door that had no key or even a knob for him to turn and enter. Footsteps echoed in his mind, whispers, and memories, and he wished the vision was less remote; and himself anything but the creature that he was in his soft coat and shirt, his creased trousers.
Tillie Rogers, neat and trim, broke Gaylord's vision. "I bet you're Gaylord," she said and the dimples in her cheeks deepened.
"Yes, ma'am, I am … and I bet you're Mrs. Rogers."
She extended her gloved hand. "It's nice to meet you, Gaylord. Glenn has talked and talked about you. It's about time we met."
"Thanks, Mrs. Rogers," said Gaylord. He liked the way she spoke. He looked at Rogers and then back at her. "I hope it's been good things you've been hearing."
"They certainly have been." She turned from one boy to the other. "Glenn doesn't make friends easily but he certainly has taken to you."
"Mother," blushed Rogers.
"Well, you have, haven't you?"
"Well …"
"I think a lot of Glenn too," put in Gaylord. He liked Mrs. Rogers very much. She made you feel so at ease.
"Why, Gaylord Le Claire," a woman cried in a fish peddler's voice. "Ain't seen thu likes of ya fer near on a couple years." She reached out and hugged him vigorously right there in front of everybody.
Gaylord blushed at his mother's ex-housekeeper's actions. She was crude but she had been so good to him. He had been sorry when she left them to get married.
"Hello, Selma," Gaylord said. He tried to smile.
"Ya sure growing … look more like your paw than ever, durn if you don't." She scratched under her arm. "How's yer folks?"
They were all watching and he felt embarrassed. Why should he feel that way? Even if her hat was outdated or the rouge on her cheeks smeared, what did it matter?
"Selma," he began, "this is Mrs. Rogers and Glenn Rogers."
"Please to meet ya." She held out her rough naked hand.
Mrs. Rogers and her son knew this farm woman type. They held out their hands to her and she squeezed each with a tight, warm grip.
They talked for awhile and then Selma left. Gaylord breathed a sigh of relief. He waved back at her and kept remembering the birthday cake she had made for him.
They talked of Selma and then Mrs. Rogers asked, "Why don't you come and have breakfast with Glenn, Gaylord?"
"Yeah," broke in Rogers. "Come and have breakfast with me, Gay."
How could he refuse? It was still early; probably Blake was still in bed. He wouldn't stay long and he could call from Glenn's and let his mother know where he was. He'd call after they had eaten because his parents were probably in bed too.
"Well … I …"
"Come on, Gay," pleaded Rogers.
"All right. I've got my car. I'll meet you at your house."
Rogers said, "I'll ride with you and make sure you do." He grinned and the dimples grew deep.
"That'll be fine," beamed Mrs. Rogers. "You two boys run along."
"Won't you come with us, Mrs. Rogers?" he asked.
"Thanks, but I have a way home … a neighbor brought us to church and she'd wonder where I was. I'll see you at the house."
"We'll see you … bye …" And Gaylord and Rogers walked away.
After the old fashioned breakfast, Gaylord was so pleasantly aware of the overstuffed chair's comfort he never noticed the upholstery of pressed plush; flowered rug; cheap oak table, flanked with family portraits; or even the plain electric bulb hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. But it was Mrs. Rogers who did affect him. She had served them calmly on a table covered with oilcloth, and her hands, unornamented except for a wide wedding band, had been busy moving over the stove, dishes and table.
"I never want to see any more food," he said, rubbing his stomach.
Rogers looked at the relaxed figure. Said, "I don't either."
"I had a glass of milk and some cookies too before I went to church. Then those hot cakes and eggs and grits … I bet your mother thinks I'm awful … she should, the way I ate."
"She would have if you wouldn't have eaten anything," grinned Rogers.
Gaylord was glad Mr. Rogers wasn't there and he never asked about him. The telephone rang and though Rogers arose to answer it, his mother had already done so.
"Phone would get me out of my chair, think that's about the only thing that would." He smiled and slumped in his old position.
"I'd better call Mother," Gaylord said, realizing he had forgotten to call home. "May I? She doesn't know where I am."
"Sure, go ahead. Mother's through. It's in the hall, Gay. I'll show you." He started to arise.
"Don't move," Gaylord said. "I'll find it."
There was an instantaneous response to his call. His mother was up and wondering about his whereabouts. Did he want to go to the country with them to see Aunt Emma? … No, he didn't want to go. Had anyone called? No, no one had called. In fact the phone had not rung all morning. Damn, Bob hasn't called yet, he thought, not listening to his mother … No, he didn't know what he was going to do today … Maybe he and Glenn would go for a drive … yes, he'd be careful …
He hung up the receiver and went back into the Rogers' living room.
Rogers had turned on the radio and was reading the funny paper. He laid this down when he saw Gaylord enter the room. Said … "Everything all right?"
"Yes … they're going out in the country to see an aunt of mine … wanted me to go."
"Oh?" Rogers sounded dejected. "Now you'll leave."
"I told them I didn't want to go. Let's take a spin or something. Maybe it will settle our breakfast."
"Ok …" Rogers was up, willing to do anything his companion suggested. "I've got to go to the bathroom first, do you?"
"No … I'll wait for you …"
Rogers started to leave but a brilliant idea stopped him. "Say," he began, "let's go out to the farm, Gay. I think you'd like it … we could fish in the creek, take a swim or just mess around … I'd like for you to see it." His eyes beamed as he thought of his beloved woods.
So Blake didn't call after all, thought Gaylord. Well, he wouldn't be home if he did call. I'll get even with him … He's a little jealous of Glenn, anyway … He looked at Rogers all smiles, and said, "Sure … let's do … I think that would be fun."
They walked into Rogers' room and he had already ripped off his tie. "Got to change these clothes," Rogers said, "and then we can go by your house and you can change yours … won't take me long."
And it wasn't long before Rogers stood disrobed. He left on his shorts and Gaylord watched him as he put on a pair of khakis. Hard work had made his arms and legs strong and muscular. His chest was broad under the undershirt of cotton, and a few hairs were visible, at its neckline. He put on other socks and slipped on his old boots.
"Glenn," Gaylord exclaimed, "I haven't any cowboy boots. Are shoes all right?"
"Sure … but they sure get scratched. Do you have some old ones …?
"These are old."
Rogers looked at the polished shoes … "Don't look old to me … they look brand new." He reached under the bed. "Here wear these," he said handing Gaylord his good boots. "Try these on."
"I couldn't wear your good ones."
"They're not new … just polished them," grinned Rogers. "Try them on, Gay."
He tried them on and they fit perfect. They felt good to him maybe just because they belonged to Rogers, maybe because he had never had on a pair before … "I hate to wear your good boots, Glenn. I might get them scratched."
"So what? I can shine them again," said Rogers. "Better take some shoes too. In case your feet get tired."
Shortly thereafter, Gaylord, equipped with cowboy boots, and accompanied by Rogers, departed for his home. Rogers was already in a gay mood over the anticipated outing. His mood increased still further when he learned that Gaylord was anxious to see his old haunts; and it made him feel good that his friend wore his boots. His joy was so obvious and overflowing, it seemed to rub off to Gaylord, for he too looked happy.
Blake was forgotten. For the first time he was wearing cowboy boots and going fishing. Maybe this was the turning point of his life. He was doing what other boys did. He had never been privileged to enjoy such a friendship before, and he found it fun to be going fishing. His father had tried to arouse his interest in sports and hunting, but somehow this was different. His mother had always discouraged such things with the pretext that it was, "unsafe, and dangerous," for Gaylord to "shoot" or "cast" … "Why he might get shot, or have an eye put out."
Though Carol Le Claire had been sincere in deploring these, she had unknowingly blundered. She never once realized how unhappy her son actually was.
But this morning he was a real boy and there was no question of unsuitability, of getting shot or blinded. He had thrown the powder puff away and now wore a good shiny skin. And he was actually going fishing.
"Do you have a reel for me, Glenn … I don't have any."
"No, but I've got some poles … you can't use a rod and reel where we're going."
"That's fine."
"Don't you worry about any of that stuff. Just leave it all to me."
"Okay …"
It seemed the night had descended again on entering the Le Claires' living room. Gaylord immediately drew the drapes and opened the blinds.
"Kinda dark, wasn't it," he said. "Let's go to my room and I'll change."
Rogers followed him up the stairs. He liked the feel of the carpet under his boots. "This rug's as soft as cow …" he stopped and laughed.
Gaylord grinned at him … "Did you mean cow shit?"
"How'd you know?"
"That's what you were going to say, wasn't it?"
"Well … yes …"
"Say it then … it is soft, isn't it?"
"They both are," grinned Rogers.
It was an odd comparison, but it struck Gaylord as being rather clever.
In his room, Gaylord bade Rogers to make himself at home and that he would hurry. Rogers glanced from the drapes to the large nude picture. He was impressed by everything. "Durn, this is a pretty room," he said and meant every word.
"Like it, Glenn? I did it myself."
"You did?"
"Sure did."
"I didn't know you could paint and paper. Mother does, but I didn't think you could. I can't worth a darn. I help her paste though. I can do that."
"Oh I didn't do the actual work. I just chose the colors and things."
"You sure did a good job … it sure is pretty."
"Let's see," Gaylord began, opening his clothes closet and looking back at Rogers, "what in the world should I wear." He wished he would have said, "Hell."
"Anything old. There's lots of brush so don't wear anything good because you might ruin it."
Gaylord pulled out a pair of light blue gabardine slacks, said, "Guess these'll do."
"Hell, Gay," Rogers cried. "Those look brand new. Don't you have some jeans or khakis?"
"They're not new and I'm tired of them anyway." He wasn't going to confess he had neither one suggested. He sat down and tried to pull off the boots but couldn't. He laughed and followed instructions as Rogers came to his rescue.
"You've got a high instep," Rogers grinned. He took hold of the boot with both hands and grinned again. "Now push."
Gaylord pushed and stretched his free toes … "Boy what a fit, think I can get them back on?"
"Sure, you can get them back on."
Gaylord undressed leaving on his silk shorts. He wore no undershirt. The shorts kept Rogers' gaze. His mother had some of the same material. He had seen them on the clothes line. 'Course they were made different and were not white. Funny, he thought, I didn't know men wore silk underwear. He picked up a magazine and looked, uninterested at the pictures.
"Do you know …" spoke Gaylord, "this is the first time I've ever been fishing?" He didn't mind confessing this horrible secret to Glenn Rogers.
"It is?" said Rogers and laid down the magazine. "That's about all I used to do on Sundays."
Gaylord answered eagerly, that he just knew it was going to be fun but that he was dumb … that Rogers was going to have to be his teacher. As far as he was concerned, he didn't even know how to bait a hook.
The sun was rising between the tree branches which veiled it without hiding it. It shone through the celanese glass curtains and fell across the bed. There were a few sounds; a rooster crowed; a bird chirped in the window tree; a truck passed on the street which lay beyond the alley.
Yes, it was a perfect day for anything. All his perplexities, all his worries, were relegated to another sphere. He forgot that he had wondered why Blake hadn't called. He had even forgotten to deepen the waves in his hair, or care that one button was off the sport shirt he had just slipped on. Things like that were far away and so unimportant, here and now. As Rogers said: "It was unimportant how you looked or dressed when you went fishing."
He slipped on the boots again. It was fun to be wearing something that belonged to Rogers. He grinned at Rogers then, and said, "They go on a lot easier than they come off, don't they?"
"I told you they would."
"That's right … you did, didn't you?"
"Uh … huh … ready?"
"All ready … watch out fish … here we come. Oh I almost forgot … you said I'd better take some shoes, didn't you, Glenn?"
"I think it would be a good idea."
"So do I. I don't know how long I'll be able to walk in these … I'm not a very good cowboy I'm afraid, but I'll try." And he walked bow-legged to the clothes closet.
They went downstairs and Gaylord suggested some sandwiches. Just in case they didn't catch any fish, he grinned.
"May be a good idea," Rogers said slowly, sorry he had not suggested it himself.
Gaylord talked disjointedly as he buttered the bread, and ran to the refrigerator where he brought out sliced ham, cheese, pickles and sliced salami.
"Can't I help," put in Rogers.
"I've just about got everything under control. Like salami: Oh, yeah, in that drawer are some luncheon cloths, Glenn. You can get one of those out if you will."
"We don't need one."
"We might."
"It'll get dirty."
"So what; it can be washed. We'll have a picnic too. If we catch some fish we can fry them over the fire like they do in the movies. I'll take a skillet and some lard too."
"That would be fun."
"I think it will be too." Gaylord's voice sounded excited.
"How do you know you're going to like fishing, Gay?"
"That's just it," he answered pushing the cloth over the top of the box he had packed. "I don't really know, but at last I'm going to have a chance to find out whether or not I like it … thanks to you."
They left the house and were off to adventure.