At one point Horace shifted his position, and to his embarrassment noticed a tension in his pants. Terror clutched at his heart: What if the house caught on fire? What if my grandfather calls? What if Gideon asks me to another room? He could see images of Viola Honeyblue Stone throwing an entire car engine after him, her face contorted into a mask of hatred, yelling, Faggot!, the other men busting guts from laughing. The more he worried the greater the tension protested, and he thought of ploys he should have tried on Miss Hedgeson, scandals he could have dragged to his grandfather that would have kept him away from this room, this day, this boy.

The embarrassment had subsided by the time he had to leave, but the desire had not. He felt ashamed and wanted to tell Gideon, to ask him if he felt anything too. But knew he dared not. What if Gideon isn’t a faggot? What if what we’ve thought all these years is wrong? What if I’m the queer and he’s straight as an arrow?

Gideon rose, a look on his face unlike the one before, calculating, devilish, and sly. Had he seen it?

“I’m glad you could come by, Horace. We got a lot of work done.”

He stood there, Gideon, with that efficient, choirboy look on his face, and Horace could not think of what to say, to do.

Gideon put his hand on Horace’s shoulder, winked and said: “I’ll see you later.” He squatted and began putting away supplies. Nothing more.

That night Horace dreamed. Not that he had never dreamed of men and boys before, but that night he dreamed of a particular boy and was filled with a warm and tender feeling. There was also the terror, the familiar question he had refused to acknowledge. It was a horrible voice saying: You must cease this sinful thinking! Are you mad? Do you realize what will happen? But he could not help it, he was not willing to part with this strange new feeling. And as for the danger, the real danger, it only made his obsession seem all the more worthwhile.