His need to be made whole, to be valued by one man, to light his cigarettes from the flame of a match, to sew his buttons onto his shirts … to be saved from the fatigue and humiliation of successive Blakes … all these were in his eyes and voice as he pleaded, "What is it, Bob? What's wrong? Are you in trouble?"
"Hell, no." Blake's jaws grit feverishly. "Nothing's wrong. I want to talk to you." For the first time he looked at Gaylord. "Can you go for a short ride? It won't take long, or do you have someone else coming over?"
For a mad instant Gaylord felt as though he must throw his arms about the other; here, without thought or sense, was all security, all the answer that he needed to the poignant confusion he had always felt; but he couldn't. He could not then any more than he could fly. He knew it in a flash, and knowing it, recognizing its inevitability; forced his hand away and looked up. "You know I can go for a ride, Bob," he said, "you know better than to ask me that. You know there's no one else coming over."
Again he wanted to break the tenseness between them; speaking so formally and meaninglessly there alone. Words that said nothing, and yet words that uttered a whole wild torrent of meaning. I wonder if people know about us, he thought. Wonder if they've told Bob. But I can't ask him … I don't … And because he would not, it thundered through his mind as they drove away. Suppose people know what I am … what I've done, thought Gaylord. They'd never understand. I'd have to leave … run … run … run … And he knew once more that he would be running all his life.
They drove in silence; passed the long, shivering edges of corrugated porches fronting the one-story buildings. The glare picked up shiny spots on them, spots free of the rust that almost totally covered them. Gaylord spelled out the peeled lettering, neon signs, his lips never moving. His hand moved up slowly and brushed across his throbbing forehead.
They passed the large and stately Stevens' home and the branches of its surrounding trees spread over them like bat wings and bad omens. He felt enclosed in ice as the landscape, unrecognizable and meaningless, drifted by. Drifted by in a series of frame houses. They
