Comfort and Joy (20 page)

Times of awkwardness alternated with times of harmony, when it seemed to both of them that they had always been together and always would be. Their sex was like a signpost for all the rest: sometimes their bodies blended as easily as on the first night; at other times theymet like blunt objects, collidingwith graceless thuds and thumps. At such times, Dan's questions about Ford came to the fore.

"Younever kiss me,"Dansaid, one dayinlate spring. "Whyis that?"

"I do so kiss yousometimes."
"No, youdon't."
Theywere lyingonFord's bed, the windows open, listeningto

warblers in the yard. Dan's question drifted outward and dissipated to the point that he wondered whether he had asked it at all. "Are yougoingto answer me?"

Anger settled as a stillness over Ford's features. "This is stupid, I don't want to talk about it."

"Do youthink it's not safe or something?"
"Dan, please." Rolling over to face the window, throwing an arm over his eyes. Soon, as happened so often, his breathing deepened, and he was gone.
He fell asleep; he was tired. He worked long hours at the hospital, sometimes two days without stopping, or evenmore. At home, he slept. In the middle of a conversation, he lay his head on a pillow, and, as long as Dan was close by, he drifted away. Without a thought or a care, complacent, he slept hours and hours, and Dan sat there, maddened by the regular rhythm of Ford's breathing, wishing he understood why Ford wanted him there at all.
"Are youcomfortable havingsexwithme?"Danasked. "I was prettysure youwere, at first. But are younow?"
Groggy, irritable, Ford shook his head, not as if in answer but as ifthe questionshould not have beenasked at all. He lumbered to the bedroomand laydownagain.
"I need to know," Dan said, but his voice echoed and no one answered.
They talked about spending more time alone, each of them. Dan said, "What difference would it make? You're never awake when I'mhere. Why do you want me with you if you're going to sleep all the time?" And he would go home for the evening instead of sitting in Ford's house, with Ford exhausted, snoring on the couch or on the bed. Dan would sit with his cats and a book and stare at the wall above the book and hold the thought of Ford in his mind, the sweetness of Ford without any verbs, anyaction; and late inthe night there would come a knock onthe door, the turningofa key, and Ford would slide beside himinhis narrower bed and say, "I couldn't rest."
On Dan's couch, with the cats curled above himon the back, Ford layhis head onhis arms and dreamed. The dreams became a kind of conversation; he dreamed Dan had died and his parents would not let himgo to the funeral; he dreamed Dan had another boyfriend whom he liked better, who lived in a room in Ford's house that Ford had never seen before; he dreamed of a younger Danny bleeding in a hospitalbed, and Courtenay stayed with himday and night but she would never let Ford in the room at all. He dreamed of Danny dead or dying in a hundred ways, and from this he might have understood something of his own fears; but instead he slept, and when he woke he worked to forget the dreams, to ignore them, to burythemout ofsight.
"Do you think if you finish your residency you'll ever get enoughsleep that we cantalk again?"Danasked.
Ford laughed and answered, "No, I don't think it's possible. I think I'll have to sleep for a hundred years or so, if I want to catchup."
"That's what I figured."
"Is it reallythat bad?"
"Well, you've been home for ten minutes and you're already nodding. I expect you'll be asleep in my lap in another ten minutes or so."
Ford stretched and tried to sit up in a more alert posture. "Is there somethingyouwant to talk about?"
"There's lots of things. The future. You and me. Whether or not you're happy. What to do about your parents. What to do about myparents."
"None of that sounds very interesting." Ford yawned and settled his head against Dan's shoulder. "Except maybe the future. WhenI won't be so sleepyanymore."
And settled his head into Dan's lap, a weight that increased as Ford's breathing deepened.And slept. While Dan waited and watched, loving the shape ofhis head, the curlofhis hair. Loving the close weight, the near warmth.
Loving Ford became simple in the quiet, when Ford breathed in and out like regular tides, when his eyelids fluttered over his eyes, when his brow smoothed out like a child's. Lying beside him, or holding him in his lap or against his shoulders, or even him, or holding him in his lap or against his shoulders, or even watching him across a room, Dan could love him easily and without effort, as long as he was resting. In the stillness of Ford's house, in the closeness of Dan's, the feeling that was so precious to them both unfolded like a flower blooming, and the simplicity of their togetherness rose from the feeling like sweet scent. At moments, if he could have remembered it, Dan understood that their best place was this silence. Ford could love himmore easily without words, merely with his presence. Words created the future, exacerbated problems, raised barriers between them. But in the silence of Ford's sleep, Ford could love Dan easily; in the stillness of Ford's rest, Dan could adore himwithout question or fear.
"I wish you would get tested," Dan said, in June as their first summer was approaching. "For the virus, I mean."
Their nights together had increased by then, till they were nearly always sleeping side by side. Their sex had increased as well, and some of the harmony Dan felt, in order to make the request, came fromthat.
Ford roused himself and blinked in a drowsy way. "Why? Do youthink you've givenit to me?"
Dan blushed. "No, I don't think I've given it to you. But it would be nice to know."
"You hardly ever let yourself ejaculate within ten miles of me, Danny. Where do you think I'm going to get the virus from? From kissing you? All you ever do is complain I don't kiss you enough."
"I would just like to know for sure."
"I think youshould forget about it."
"Oh, sure."Pause. "It's just a blood test."
"Drop it."
"But why? What's wrongwithmyasking?"
"It's none ofyour business, that's what's wrong."
"Don't be silly—"
"Don't be silly—"
Ford gave him a warning look, and a clear note of belligerence crept into his voice. "I said, drop it. I don't want to talk about it." Then added, "For all you know I've been tested every month. If I get the test, and I think I need to tell you somethingabout it, I'lllet youknow."
And turned his face toward Dan's stomach. And he slept, his warmbreathfillingDan's T-shirt.
Ford could stay awake for sex, even after the longest hospital shift. He might fall asleep immediately afterward, but during, he had great stamina and attention to detail. They came to agreements. For oral sex, Ford never wore a condom; for anal sex he always carefully sheathed himself. Dan wore a condom whenever Ford touched his cock, unless Ford worked him by hand, in which circumstance Dan relished the touch of skin on skin. Ford, who hated the taste of rubbers, gave Dan fewer and fewer blow jobs as time went by, and Dan never asked why, since it was easy enough to guess. Dan was never the active partner in analsex for the same reason:the risk was too great, in his mind. If they did not have sex before Ford fell asleep, they had it after. Sometimes Ford woke after a few hours of sleep, in the early morning or near dawn, and simply pressed himself against Dan till Dan felt the warmth and woke up. In spite of the danger, their bodies learned and remembered. Dan became adept at taking Ford's cock inside him, at moving his hips in a rhythm that could bring Ford close to orgasm or delay it in a maddening, electrifying way. Ford grew expert in touching Dan at certain points, drawing his nails along the sides of Dan's thighs or rubbing fingertips along Dan's exposed glans, and his reward was the shivering intake of Dan's breath, the sudden thrusting of his hips and a helpless collapse oforgasmthat Ford was allowed to witness. In spite of the poisonous fluid, in spite of Dan's reticence and fear.
It was safe sex because they agreed that it was so. Yet it never quite felt safe. So theyclosed their eyes to anydanger, and never, or rarely, spoke about it.

"I don't see what the problem is." Exasperated, Dan pulled away from Ford's bare shoulder, then felt the absence and hovered. "You're hardly ever here anyway. What's wrong with me goingto some rehearsals?"
"We'll never see each other if you get yourself in another play."
"Sure we will."
"When? You'll be gone every night for weeks, you'll start hanging around with the actors, you'll be drunk when you do come home."
"I begyour pardon."
"Danny, youknow I'mtellingthe truth."
"No, I'm talking about the coming home part. This is not my home."
Ford sighed. "Don't change the subject." He spoke using his tenderest tones, repeating what he had said before. "If you do this, I'llnever see you. I don't like that."
"I can't sit in this house forever waiting for you to show up. Youjust fallasleep as soonas youget here."
"That's not true."
"It's true more thanhalfthe time."
But the idea had agitated Ford. "Please don't do this. Not this time."
Dan waited long enough to let Ford know he had heard and that he was considering. "Whyis this so important right now?"
"I'm getting used to having you around. I don't want to get used to anythingelse."
It seemed to Dan there was a threat implied in this, or a fear that was larger than the subject at hand. "I don't want to stop beinginshows forever."
"Just now,"Ford repeated. "Just for right now."

At the hospital they had developed the habit of keeping their paths separate when Ford was scheduled to do his Grady rotations; so Dan was surprised one day when, after he had found a quiet corner ofthe cafeteria, Ford crossed the roomwith his lunch tray and sat at his table. He eyed Dan in a tentative way, withlittle boyeyes, wide and round. "I saw youand missed you,"he said, his tone hushed.

A dozen sarcastic replies formed and died on Dan's lips. He found he could say nothing at all. They looked at each other and then away. "You look sleepy," Dan said, after a silence. "You were restless last night."

"Bad dreams,"Ford answered.
"What?"
He shook his head, and they ate without speaking. But he had

dreamed that he woke up and their bed was empty, and then he had gone lookingfor Dan but Dan was nowhere to be found:not in Ford's house, not in his apartment, not anywhere; and then Ford roamed the halls of the hospital looking for Dan, and all Ford's friends, Russell and Dorothy and everyone else, were trying to help; and soon he was close enough to see Dan disappearing ahead of himdown long corridors, around corners, into stairwells. He remained certain he would find Dan, but he never did. When he woke, realizing with relief that the absence was only a dream, he nevertheless felt as if something had been taken from him. He found himself more tired than before he slept.

Finally Ford said, "I had one good dream, though. I dreamed Finally Ford said, "I had one good dream, though. I dreamed yougot rid ofyour cats and moved into myhouse."

 

This was a lie; he remembered no suchdream. But the thought had come to himrecentlyand had persisted.

"There's nobody in the world who would want my cats," Dan answered, and that was the end of the conversation. Though later, alone at his desk, Dan realized what Ford had suggested, that it was momentous, really; and all the more momentous for his havingmade the suggestionat the hospital.