Comfort and Joy (21 page)

Ford leaned back onto Dan's couch, satisfied with himself. In Dan's apartment he always felt vaguely uncomfortable, the small rooms squeezing against his ribs so that it was hard to breathe. Dan eased against him, and Ford was struck again by the fact that he felt so easy with Dan today. Some days even the sound of Dan's voice came at him like a pressure, so that when Dan spoke Ford wanted himto stop speaking, and when Dan looked at himFord wanted himto stop looking.

"Dinner was Dorothy's idea," Ford explained. "She's been talkingto me at the hospitala lot."
"I was pretty amazed." His smile was warm and satisfied and made Ford ache, a little. "It's nice to be out withother people."
"Dorothy told me everybody at the hospital knows what's goingonwithyouand me."
"I told youtheywould."
The thought still gave Ford a cold spot of fear in his stomach. But he closed his mouthonit. "She says we should live together," But he closed his mouthonit. "She says we should live together," Ford added, carefully. "She thinks everybody should be like she is withEva."
"She's like a little husband withEva, isn't she?"
"It's prettyfunny."
The conversation eased into silence. Soon they packed a bag withfreshclothes for Danand headed to Ford's house again. But they were both aware that Ford had made the suggestion for the second time. Dan should move into Ford's house and they should live together.

Dan thought about leaving Ford. Not going anywhere, but leaving. Saying, I don't want to see you anymore. We've taken this as far as we can, but I think it's time to stop.

Ford thought about leaving Dan. Going somewhere to get away from Dan, someplace like San Francisco or Sheridan, Wyoming. Saying, I don't think we can work this out. I don't think I'msexual, really, I don't think I know how to be.

Dan became cold to Ford. Not in behavior but in his mind, in his wayofthinkingabout Ford. He said, in his thoughts:You're a self-centered rich prick, and I don't need any more of you in my life. I don't need your glances of disapproval at my language, your contempt for my cheap clothes, your bad attitude about my apartment. What I need is a manwho isn't afraid to love me, and you're afraid of me nearly all the time, in nearly every way that one man can fear another. He said, in his thoughts: You really aren't as bright as I am and that's a problem, and it isn't going away; it's a problem that will get bigger as time goes by, as you age and become uninteresting to me, except in the physical way, and I could possibly even tire of that. Tire of watching you take offyour shirt, tire ofthe swellofyour arms as youcurldumbbells inthe bedroom. Tire evenofthat.
inthe bedroom. Tire evenofthat.

Ford became honest with Dan. In his mind, without words, he told Dan the brutal truth. He said: You're a killer and you're killing me. You have a poison in you that is eating me, too, and you know it and you don't care, you smile at me and ask me, why don't I kiss you? Why don't I want you? And I have to close my mouth when we kiss. And I have to wonder whether you will want to make love tonight, or whether there will be a poison in your ass when I stick my cock inside, or whether the condom will be all right this time, or whether I will squeeze you too hard and you will start to bleed, and then I will have to feel bad because you are so delicate. You really aren't as bright as I amand that's a problem; you don't see the world as clearly as I do, and sometimes your breath smells good to me and sometimes the exact same smell repulses me. And I could possibly get tired of that. Of your fine-boned shoulders and your collarbone like two wings.

And they would wonder, without words, without sound: Why do men stay together? It is easy to understand why they fuck, but why do they stay together, what is the answer? Why do they live in the same house, share meals together, argue about money and parents, why do they have pets, plant begonias, bring home birthday cakes? Where are the children, where is the sense of permanence, what is the tie that binds?

Yet they slept peacefully, side by side, and the body of one became adjusted to the rhythmof the other, and the breathing of one slowed the breathing of the other, and they dreamed in tandem and shared fragments of each other's dreams, and they grew more like each other day by day, not in personality but in the fissures of the brain, because, seeing the same things every day, day after day, they laid down crevices in themselves that were the same shape, that were the same events written into memory, and this was enough, without words, to keep them silent about the fact of their hates and their fears, their deep concerns about each other, and the certainty that one of them would die first and neither of themknew which one it would be. The certainty that one of themwould leave first, and that only by waitingcould theylearnwhichofthe two.
waitingcould theylearnwhichofthe two.

In September they planned a trip to the beach but, days before the trip, Dan struck his elbow against the corner of a metal filing cabinet. The impact caused him to bleed in the joint, the first time he had a bleeding episode in which Ford became involved. The effusion of blood was more severe than Dan at first judged, and the joint swelled badly and its range of motion diminished. Fearing the needed wait in the emergency clinic, Dan hurried home to his own supply of medicine, which he stored in his apartment's refrigerator.

It happened that Ford stopped by the Blue Ridge Avenue apartment building and knocked on the door in the somewhat dilapidated hallway, just as Dan removed the butterfly needle fromhis arm. Dan answered the door still holding a cotton swab over the venous puncture, and Ford noted the unusual pose. "What happened?"

Ford stepped to the center ofthe apartment's living room, late sundapplinghis arms. He had come straight fromthe hospital, as he usuallydid these days, and seemed to Danonce againgrumpy and in need of sleep. "I can't believe you did this yourself and didn't callme."

Ford watched him, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I'm tired, I didn't mean to snap." Looking around the rooms, stretching his shoulders. "Could we go to my house? I need room to move. Maybe I won't be so grouchythen."

A moment's tension. We
never stay here.
At home, Ford led Dan into the kitchen where the light was strong, sat him on a stool and carefully removed his shirt. Ford touched the bruised joint carefully and looked at Dan, the edge of anger returning, along with a glimpse of another feeling, a kind of anguish. "This has been bleeding a lot longer than an hour or two,"he said harshly. "Look at this. It must hurt like hell."

Ford headed to his bedroom still muttering aloud, "I can't believe youlet this happenwhenallyouhad to do was make one telephone call,"returningwitha medicine bottle that he was inthe act ofuncappingas he walked. "Take two ofthese. You're going to bed whentheyhit. Do youwant your armwrapped?"

The careful tending was new for Dan and eased something deep in him, beyond the reach of pain or painkiller. He found himself suddenly allowing rest. Leaning against Ford, letting the arm relax. The narcotics soon took effect. The painkiller tinged the pleasant moments with a lace of surreality; the ache in Dan's armdulled and became unmomentous. After a while, Ford said, "Allright, bedtime boy, let's go."

Ford laughed softly. "Where else? My room." After a moment, "Whendo youneed to take another shot?"
"Tomorrow."
"Youhave the stuffat your apartment?"
Dan nodded against his chest, drowsy and vaguely rising. Ford led him to the bedroom, pulled down the bedcovers. "Get in, before youfalldown."
Warmth settled round him, a hand resting on his brow, and then the weight of Ford on the bed. Watching. "This is better thanbeingsick byyourself, right?"
"Yes."Danturned his face into the feather pillow. "I'msorry."
"Don't be," hand along the edge of the blankets. "You'll get used to lettingme help youone ofthese days."
Toward morning, the bleeding started again. Dan awoke to the certainty, a telltale ache burning along his arm. In the moment the certainty, a telltale ache burning along his arm. In the moment before waking, he could not tell where he was, whether he was in his own bed in his apartment,
whether he was in the Circle House, walking in the field with the sound of his father's voice behind him, and his shoulder was aching and he kept it a secret from everyone. He had awakened in the dark and his shoulder was aching and he was afraid to call out—his father would wake up and be angry and nothing would happen anyway, Dan would go on hurting, and if he moved too much, Allen would mutter in his sleep,
but it was Ford who slept, deeply, beside him, lost in accumulated exhaustion, legs tossed over Dan's, makingDanafraid to stir and, because of that, evenmore uncomfortable.
When the pain no longer allowed him to lie still, he sat up in bed with the blankets around his waist, holding his arm against his side, searching out the clock, which let him know dawn was close.
Ford stirred and Dan tried to settle back into bed, but his arm coursed with pain from the motion and he failed to restore himselfbeneath the blankets. Ford murmured and rose partly out of bed himself. Eyes opening, seeing Dan, suddenly his face flooded with consciousness. "What's the matter?"he asked, with effort to make words so soon out of sleep. He pulled himself closer to Dan. "Has it started bleedingagain?"
He nodded. Ford moved toward him, kissing his forehead softly. The press of the body eased Dan's panic. From Ford he felt no anger. "I'm sorry to wake you up," he whispered, and Ford pulled himclose, ina caress.
Ford headed to the bathroom. Light flooded the doorway and spilled across polished hardwood. Returning in jeans, he proffered a cup of water and more painkiller, sitting on the bed, light along bare shoulders and arms. "Tell me what I need to get whenI go to your apartment."
Taking the pills, Dan asked, "Do you want me to go with you?"
"I wouldn't be giving you narcotics if I wanted you to go with me."Listening to Dan's descriptions, most ofwhich Ford already me."Listening to Dan's descriptions, most ofwhich Ford already knew. "I'llfeed the cats. I'mkeepingyouhere today."
"I thought youwere oncall."
"No, I'moffthe whole day."
He rose, dressed, found Dan's keys inDan's pants. "Lie down and rest. Don't get up and try walking around, you'll fall flat on your face. I'llbe back ina few minutes."
When Dan was alone in the dark house, he could feel the current ofthe painkiller rising. Dullness returned to the bursting in his elbow, the edge of pain vanishing; and dread returned, too, that he would drift into sleep and dream about his father again. He laystilland breathed deeply.
"Dan, I hate to wake you up, but I can't give you this shot in here."
Sitting up suddenly, blinking, he noted vague daylight smeared on the windows as Ford steadied his shoulder. Dizzy, the painkiller rushing in his head. Ford slid a loose robe over his shoulders, and theyheaded to the kitchen.
Whenhe saw the large syringe and its familiar murkycontents, he felt the slight panic again. Ford touched Dan's bare arm, seeking a vein. "Do you trust me to do this? I'm pretty good at it."
"I'lltry."
The sight of the syringe in Ford's hands made him want to jump out ofthe chair.
"Calmdown. It's allright."
"I know it is. I don't know whyI'mbeinglike this."
"There's two of you sometimes," Ford said, evenly. Through the painkiller, Dan felt distant surprise to hear his own thoughts echoed. "That's why."He chuckled briefly. "What would you do if you were by yourself? You can't give yourself a shot, not with your armlike it is."
"I probablywouldn't give myselfone."
Ford nodded. "That's what I thought." This time there was no anger in his voice. The transfusion lasted till light seeped up the panes of the kitchen windows, the sounds of morning birdcalls reachingthemfromthe yard.
"You're not using your armtillI say you're using your arm. I'm going to make you a bed in the den and you're staying there. You're going to let me take care of you. We can fight about it if you want to. But I've thought about it, and I know how you are, and I might as wellstart this fight sooner as later. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Do youwant some coffee whenI make it?"
"Yes."
By the end of the day he understood, again, how much his life had changed. All day he lay in peace, tended by the careful hands of the doctor, surrounded by the spacious, comfortable rooms. Dan bore it without protest. In the evening, Ford prepared another infusion of antihemophilic factor and administered the injection again, without objection from Dan. With, infact, relief. "Residents aren't supposed to be anygood at that. How come youare?"
"I'mgood at a lot ofthings I'mnot supposed to be good at."