that held him to that small back bedroom, where they had to strip to their undershorts in the thick, wet heat of the Oregon summer nights, the hunger with which his eyes feasted on the smooth, brown-skinned body of the boy who was his friend. What he felt was half pain and half delight. Almost as much as it pleased him to be with Mark, it tormented him.

And it went on all summer. Until that Sunday when he made his mistake. I won't miss church, he'd sworn to himself. I'll keep that up like always, and then she'll have no cause for complaint. But he was young, and not good at keeping resolutions. After all, his mother still woke him each morning so that he could get to work on time. That he earned a meager living, had savings in the bank, were not marks of manhood and judgment; they were acquiescenses to his mother's will. So that, when Mark proposed one night that they picnic up the river all day Sunday, Floyd could tell himself in all innocence, One Sunday won't matter. Just one.

It was September, and the leaves on the riverside trees and bushes were gaudy as gipsy rags. When a breeze blew, they drifted down, scarlet and yellow, as if the sun were moulting feathers of flame. They crunched under the boys' shoes. The boys hiked miles up the river, miles into wild country, miles from the highway Sunday drivers used. They went where no one came. And it was then, after eating the lunch Mark had wheedled Anna, the Mexican cook at the Acme Cafe, into packing for him Saturday night, it was then, stretched out replete, side by side on heaps of leaves rich with the smell of summer dying, it was then Floyd learned what all his bewildering emotions of the summer had been about.

Lying there, their hands touched. And suddenly their words, of which they had so many, such a fount, had stopped. Floyd's mouth went dry, his heart began to beat quickly. He turned his head to look at his friend and Mark's brown eyes were wide, staring into his. And Mark's hand gripped his, and there was a low cry from him, and then their mouths met, and there was a low cry from Floyd. And clothes were torn at, kicked and flung aside, and they were naked together, and fiercely rejoicing in their nakedness, while the leaves fell whispering upon them, the red leaves, and the dappled September sunlight.

It was late, very late, when they reached Stone River that night. They had stretched the afternoon out careless of everything but their own bodies and the fond astonishments they could bring from them. Floyd had meant to be at church that night, but it was nearly service time, it was past sunset when they started back. Anyway, he couldn't have gone: his shirt was torn, and he couldn't find his necktie in the dusk among the leaves. The church, when they passed it, was shut up and dark, the steeple thrusting blackly at the stars.. They parted at the gate of Jacob Pincus' house, dark also, the old man in bedparted with a clumsy kiss and soft laughter.

On his own front porch, Floyd thought, I'll catch it now. He pressed the rattly latch and stepped into the dark hall. Shutting the door behind him, he sucked in his breath, ready to meet her attack. But she did not come. He tiptoed for the stairs. For a second, something he couldn't quite name caught at a corner of his attention. Then he realized what it was, and grinned. It was the smell of leaves, red leaves. He guessed that smell would never leave his

memory.

He slept tired through, dreamless, content.

But he woke early and afraid. Even if she hadn't waited for him last night, he would have to face her now, at breakfast, and explain why he hadn't met

one

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