Comfort and Joy (10 page)

When Ford went on duty in the Pediatric Emergency Clinic, he focused his concentration. The work absorbed him completely through the day. Near evening, realizing the time, he hurried upstairs for a shower and change of clothes. Dorothy Ballard joined his downward elevator ride, entering on the thirteenth floor and greeted Ford with the carefully casual tone used by medical students when addressing their hierarchical elders.

"Yes," Dorothy flexed her shoulders, "I'm going to spend the eveningwithmylover for a change."
The elevator stopped, bounced a little, and the doors opened.
The elevator stopped, bounced a little, and the doors opened. The two looked around the cab as if it had suddenly become precarious, thenlaughed.
He found Mr. Franken still in his office, the partly open door revealing several other men in dark suits as well. Dan looked up from a large, bound report and set down his yellow highlighter after carefully capping it. He tried to move casually and to mask his delight, but Ford could see the changes in his face. Ford asked, as a greeting, "Did your secretary tell you I stopped by this morning?"
"She spelled your name McKenzie but I figured out who you were. She said youjust came to sayhello, but I was a little afraid somethinghad come up."
"McKenzie,"Ford said, laughingsoftly. "That's prettygood."
"Ms. Vaughn's eyes aren't that good,"Dansaid.
"She sure scared me to death this morning."Gesturing toward Franken's office, Ford asked, "Canyougo?"
In the dim, quiet parking garage, Ford felt Dan's physical presence acutely. Dan seemed calmly aware of this, but his face betrayed little. "Nice car. I like the smell."
"The smell?"
"Leather seats."
"It's a good car. Mydad drives one."
"Is your dad inAtlanta?"
"No. My folks are from Savannah. So am I, I guess. Though after this Christmas I don't know. You?"
"North Carolina. Fromthe backwater, way down east, where theygrow tobacco."
"You must have lived in Atlanta for a while. You've been around Gradysince I've beenthere."
"Sometimes it feels like I've been at Grady forever,"Dan said, witha slight scowl. "But it's just five years. That's about how long I've lived inAtlanta. I like it here, I guess."
Ford had maneuvered to the down ramp and drove through the open gate. "So do I. Better than Savannah, I think. But that's not supposed to happen."
"Savannah boys grow up to be Savannah men, don't they? Somethingto do withevolutionofa higher order ofbeing."
"Do youknow muchabout Savannah?"Ford asked.
"I was there for a while, once. A couple of months. I was in New Orleans longer. It's the same waythere."
"I was in New Orleans once, when I was a kid. Before I was old enough to remember much about it. We went on a steamboat ride. And we ate seafood I didn't like. And I didn't like the French Quarter because there weren't any rides. That should give yousome idea how old I was."
He navigated toward the expressway. Dannested inhis winter coat, surrounded by the dim of winter evening, by Ford's lowslung coupe and by the highway monuments of downtown Atlanta. Enormous bridges, loops and rivers of prestressed concrete, dressed steelbeams, and arcs and torrents of masonry dropped shadows across the windshield. Dan's awareness moved fromshadow to shadow; he leaned forward to look up at the sky, his face catching the low light. Ford found himself watching, at odd moments.
"Youdrive well. Do youlike this car a lot?"
"What do youmean, a lot?"
"Do you drive it a lot, do you take it out in the country? Does it meanas muchto youas a horse to a cowboy?"
"No," Ford chuckled. "I like to drive it but I hardly ever get to. Why are you making fun of my car? Do you think it's ostentatious?"
"It's certainly conspicuously consumptive." Dan crossed his arms and inspected the interior once again. "But I don't think it's offensive. Maybe it's just the smell of the leather, maybe that's what reminds me ofcowboys."
"I don't think I ever reminded anybody of cowboys before,"
"I don't think I ever reminded anybody of cowboys before," Ford said.
"I bet youhave, it's just that nobodyever told youabout it."
Ford steered through traffic, and Dan smiled faintly. Ford said, "It's a flattering image, anyway. Are you at all curious as to where we're going?"
Easy silence followed as the automobile cruised past buildings too new to have either name or reputation. Into a side street the car turned, and Ford parked.
The restaurant, a converted bungalow, nested behind twin cedars, each tall and full based. A brick path led them to the dwarfed house. In summer the patio in front, shaded by an old pecan tree, housed outdoor tables, but these were cleared since the winter cold rendered them useless. Leaves beat across the red tile, tumbled bysharp wind. Ford found himselfremembering his last date here with Haviland Barrows, which had taken place at a table in a bay window in what had once served as the parlor of the bungalow. His restlessness that night had been evident to Haviland, and when she asked him about it, the whole long conversation leading to their breakup began. Tonight, standing in the smallfoyer waitingfor the owner, a polite Frenchman, to seat them, Ford wondered if this gesture, this dinner, were truly the end ofthat cycle.
As they were about to be seated, Ford stood, blankly eyeing the neat arrangement of china and silver, then turned to the owner. "Could we have the window table in the parlor? I'd prefer that one, now that I think about it."
The owner assured him the table was available and led them through low-ceilinged rooms to the front of the house. Dan walked ahead of Ford to the table, Ford watching him. The man moved with a precision that approached grace; but also with undeniable softness, a trace ofeffeminacy.
Ford savored newness. He sipped a drink and studied the menu while Dan cradled a tall wine glass in one hand. They ordered from a small, neat, mustachioed man. Dan accepted Ford's recommendations on most items, folding the menu. He Ford's recommendations on most items, folding the menu. He considered the wine. "I can't drink more than this. Unfortunately. If I'm going to rehearse tonight. I'm having trouble remembering the words to mysongs. I do three songs inthis show."
"Yousingother places too? Other theaters?"
"Sometimes. I also act sometimes, but I'mnot very good at it. It's somethingto do besides pushpaper at Grady.
I grew up singing in the choir. At least I joined the choir once my family started going to church. One of the times when my parents were tryingto save themselves."
The tinge of sarcasm in the tone and the sudden hardness of Dan's expression surprised Ford. He asked what Dan meant by saving themselves, and Dan answered, coolly and with that same distance, that his mother and father had spent eighteen years fighting, with time out to regroup every couple of years. During time-out they attended church passionately, prayed on their knees in their bedroom every night before going to bed, taught Sunday school classes and Baptist Training Union sections, and generally pursued a path toward whatever salvation they could thus earn. Dan told the story easily, not as information that was difficult to give, but articulated quickly, in an offhand way. As if he had beenmerelyanobserver allthose years.
Throughout, Ford was struck by the ease with which Dan spoke, no matter what the subject, and by the liveliness of his mind. Surrounded bythe fluxofDan's charm, Ford found himself free to talk as well, and he told, without any forethought, the story of Christmas and the coming Atlanta summit during which he and his parents would hashout the subject ofhis marriage. He talked about his mother's coolness at the altar of family photographs and the sudden return of her kinder self at the moment of his departure. "The whole visit was like an essay on why I should marry well," Ford said, "and there I was, very quietlytryingto tellthemthat I'mnot the marryingkind."
The words dropped into space before he heard them in his head. But he knew as soon as he spoke that he must have had a plan. He watched Dancarefullyfor response.
Dan met his eye and said, "My mother and I got through that
Dan met his eye and said, "My mother and I got through that stage. I finally told her I was gay a few years back, and she stopped askingabout mygirlfriends."
"I hate that word,"Ford said.
Danshrugged. "There isn't another one."
Ford conceded the point, though with an inner resistance that puzzled him. "How did your mother react?"
Dan's face filled withgentleness. "She had beenworried about me, because she knew I was keeping a secret from her. So I finally got up the guts to tell her I was gay, and she shrugged. She still doesn't like to talk about it. She hates the word 'gay' too, but I make her say it every now and then, to get her used to the idea."
"What about your father?"
"He's dead,"Dansaid.
Something in Dan's tone warned Ford to ask no questions. Ford waited till the chill passed from Dan's features, a visible change. "I don't think my parents willreact very well,"Ford said. "My sister was fine. But Courtenay's just like that. We've always had to take care ofeachother."
"My sister was fine about it too, when I told her," Dan said, "but she always hates it whenI have a boyfriend."
Ford laughed. Framing his next question with careful casualness. "Eventhe current ones?"
Danmet his eye again. "There aren't anyright now."
Silence. After whichFord asked, "Are yousure about that?"
Dan flushed slightly, abandoning the dinner, turning to the window. Deep emotion stirred in his face, and he spoke as if to the cedars beyond the glass. "I hope you mean that. Because I really like you. And I don't want this to be the last time I see you."
"I feelthe same way,"Ford said, suddenlybreathless.
Having accomplished this much, they sat in silence, each flushed. They were jointly aware of the need to shelter this intimacy from the other couples in the restaurant. With his composure once again secure, Dan turned from the window to sip wine. "I'mgoingto be a wreck at rehearsal, I cantell."
"You've onlyhad one glass."
Dan looked at him evenly. But the face had changed again, illuminated from within by what must be joy. All hardness had fled fromhim, and the mask was no longer a mask. Ford said, "I could pick youup after rehearsal."
"You'llbe asleep."
"I could wake up. For that."Swallowing.
The moment receded, Dan touching his fork again, and Ford realized clearly that Dan controlled the distance between them, that he had closed a gate which had stood open a moment before. "Not yet."Dan seemed momentarily afraid. "I'd be a fool to sayyes. Untilwe've had more chance to talk."
"I can wait," Ford said, heart sinking at little. "I don't mind. But I promise I won't hurt you."
"It isn't you." The mask returned, secure and implacable. "It's me."
"What about you?"
"Let's leave it at that for right, now." Voice uncertain. Brows knit together.
"I don't want to leave it at that. I want you to tell me what's wrong."
Dan froze with the fork nearly to his lips. A slight shudder passed through him, and he set the fork at rest at the side of his plate.
As suddenly as the space of that small gesture the gentle man vanished and a mocker inhabited his face. "All right. I may as well say it. This has probably gone on long enough, anyway." Danwas no longer able to look Ford inthe eye, and trembled. "I have hemophilia. Youknow what that is."
"Of course I do." Ford was numbed. "I've treated hemophiliacs before. Type A?" Trying to keep his voice even and calm, tryingto betraynone ofthe fear that gripped himinthe pit ofthe stomach.
Dan's smile was heartless. "Yes. Less than one percent activity." Taking a long breath. "You know why I'm telling you that, don't you? Youknow what that means?"
"No," Ford said, looking out the window, hardly able to see the cedars inthe dark. "No, I don't."
"Allright. I'llspellit out for you. I'mHIV positive. I have been for years." Voice trembling. "It's really funny. I guess 'funny' is the right word. I've had two lovers in my life. Two. But I've had blood from thousands of men. In my veins."Silence. Senseless noise from wherever they were, whatever place this was. Dan's voice, softer. "I'msorry, Ford."

The next moments passed in a jumble, and Ford was never sure exactly how they got out of the restaurant and into his car. He drove through the clean, well-kept Buckhead neighborhoods with Dan rigid beside him. Ford had never seen anyone under such terrible self-control, as if at the least move Dan would shatter into shards. Hardlya word passed betweenthem.