"Good morning," she said. "You must be Thomas. Come in." Her hands held back the screen door as the figure made its way into the small back foyer and waited. "You don't know how thrilled I am to have you. So glad my friend told me about you." The voice continued. "Just perfectly thrilled."

That was how it began. On that morning, a clear spring day, Thomas started working for the Graham family. Five years ago he thought as he watched the huge van backing into the driveway. This was his last day of employment with them. He had refused to go with them south. He wanted no part of the South. Had enough of it during his time in the army. The van stopped at the back entrance. Heavy footsteps and voices filled the hallway as the moving men went about their task of emptying the house.

He dreaded this moving day. Not because it meant that he would be in search of another job or that the jumble and rushing had come about, but because it meant there would be no more. No more Bobby.

Bobby was the son. He was fifteen when Thomas started working for the family. Bobby had dashed in from school, his blond hair tussled, the youthful body strained from running, ran through the kitchen with a hurried "Hi" and at the demand of his mother returned and was introduced to Thomas.

Thomas sat in the alcove facing the neatly cut lawn. There wasn't anything for him to do but wait until the movers had finished and then close up the house. The Negro houseman wasn't looking at the spacious lawn or the neatly trimmed hedge, but was deeply engrossed in memories that went with the house. The years that melted into one another and the changes they brought about, especially in Bobby. He wondered if his servitude far beyond the limits of his household duties were fully understood and knew that Bobby appreciated the extra things that were done for him, but did he understand why? The parents were away many months out of the years, allowing an uninterrupted trust in each other. He had become Bobby's confidant, advisor and self-appointed guardian.

A chuckle came from the bronze figure curled in the alcove as he amusingly called himself a mammy and thought of his lil white chile whom he had protected as a mother hen her chicks.

He remembered the day Bobby came in. He was eighteen then.

6

"Thomas," he asked, "why do men

like to dress in women's clothes?" It startled Thomas. He lied and said he didn't know, but asked why?

"Well, Jock, myself and a couple o' others faked our age and got a few drinks in a joint and Jock said the waitress that waited on us was a guy."

"How did he know?"

"Jock had been in there b'fore," answered Bobby, "and saw the guy showing some of his pals the falsies he was wearing." Thomas knew of the joint-the bar; he had slipped in there many times on his nights off and also knew the waitress or the guy.

He walked down the hall and saw the movers were only half through and thought of the coffee that was left. The pot boiled softly as he sat on the stool, lost again in the memories of the echoing house.

He thought of the time he was in Bobby's room. Bobby came in, towel around his waist, the youthful flesh brightly glistening from a shower. He pushed Thomas gently on the bed, his laugh filling the room as the springs gave way to the weight upon it. Thomas didn't sit up but drank in the beauty of the form before him. He wanted to touch the well-developed shoulders, clasp the youthful exhuberant body to him. and tell of the strong impulse that was surging through him.

"Going out with the girls?" he asked.

"Naw," Bobby answered, "the boys." A laugh came from him as he sat in the chair and began putting on his socks. "The boys." He laughed again.

"Big joke," Thomas said, wondering if it was true.

"No joke, Thomas, really . . ." One sock on, he busied himself with the other.

what "Don't think you know you're saying," Thomas said, trying not to show jealousy in his voice.

THOMAS by Richard F. Hall

"Oh, but I do . . ." cooed Bobby, putting on one shoe, "and since you're my private confidant, Thomas, my man, I will tell you." A chuckle came from the bended form. "Jock 'n' I met a couple o' queers and made a date w' them.

A bolt of lightning shot through Thomas. He sat upright on the bed. "And, what are your intentions?" he blurted out.

"Don't know," answered Bobby, slipping into a cool summer shirt. A pair of gabardine trousers covered the muscled legs as he tightened the belt. "Anything for the first time. A night's fun 'n' a lil extra dough."

"The lil virgin goes out," cracked Thomas, sarcasm in his voice, lighting a cigarette, leaned on the dresser, watched smoke rings form.

"What the hell," laughed Bobby, "half of 'em are nuts . . . all screwed up."

"What a way to talk," Thomas said. He wasn't startled by the opinion he had just heard. It would. have been wishful thinking to expect anything different. Bobby, the same as so many others had been caught in the web of thought. He dared not look at the blond figure for fear his eyes would give him away.

"Hell, Thomas. Don't tell me you're a queer sympathizer."

"I try to think the best of everyone," Thomas said calmly. His hand shook with the cigarette and he gently put it on the edge of the tray.

"But, why them?" asked Bobby, stretching on the bed, his long legs. dangling and looking at the colored man leaning against the dresser in his spotless white coat and dark trousers.

"It's quite a story," began Thomas, "but I'll try to make it brief." He puffed on his cigarette and continued. "Maybe it's because I am colored. What one would call one of the minority. Suppose I just feel