Comfort and Joy (25 page)
Dan looked himin the eye and lay his hand along the back of Ford's neck, into Ford's hair. The sudden tenderness was more terrifying than any amount of anger could have been. "I don't want to go. It's Christmas and I want to stayhere."
Christmas. Music drifted through the car, played from the radio of someone passing by outside the car. They sat until the sound faded. "I don't want you to go either. Why didn't we think about this?"
Cars passed in a steady stream. Dan's hand soothed his neck, tucked beneath the collar of his shirt. "I guess it's too late to do anythingabout it now."
Even in that tenderness, Ford hesitated to kiss. They joined the crowds heading into the glass doors. Ford handled the luggage, led Danto the gate.
"I'llcallyouonChristmas."
"After midnight? I won't be home tillthen."
Danshrugged. "It's not like I'llhave anythingelse to do." "Things will be slow at the hospital. I may be able to get to a
phone duringthe day. Did youwrite downyour mom's number?" "Onthe bulletinboard inthe kitchen,"Dansaid.
Ford sighed. Again afraid, in that public space, to do more than embrace Dan in a brotherly way. Dan vanished into the jetway.
At home, Ford wandered the rooms like a bachelor. It's Christmas Eve, he thought, poured himself a drink, and sat in the den by himself. He was glad when Dan called fromthe Charlotte airport to say he was lonely. Glad again when Dan called from home to say he had arrived. After that, properly narcotized, Ford went to bed, the bedroomfeeling hollow, the bed suddenly enormous. Ford wakened often to the shadows of branches silhouetted bystreetlight, swayinginbursts ofwinter wind against the frame of the window. The quiet house unnerved him and he was relieved whenthe alarmclock rang, before dawn.
On Christmas Day, froma telephone in the doctor's room on the ninth floor of Grady, Ford dialed the number for Dan's home inNorthCarolina.
"Yes, ma'am. I finally got to a phone." Ford suddenly felt awkwardness, wondering what she knew. He proceeded uneasily. "Sounds like youfolks are havinga good Christmas."
"Oh, we're doing all right," she replied. "Danny's nephew is crawlingallover himwitha truck and a robot.
He got a new robot for Christmas."She spoke easily, as ifshe had been talking to Ford on Christmas afternoons for decades. With a slight change of tone. "Danny acts like you're really a good friend to him."
"I'mglad to hear that."
"I guess you wish I would go on and get him, don't you?"She laughed and called to someone at that end ofthe line.
Warmth shot through Ford as he waited. Dan asked, "Were youtalkingto mymother? I think she's curious about you."
"Is she?" Ford paused, adding weight to the question that followed. "Youtold her everything?"
"Yes."
Danny acts like you're a really good friend.
They talked a while, about Christmas, about the hospital. Relief underlay the whole talk; whatever had happened, they were together, anyway. Finally a nurse came to the door looking for Ford and the hospital returned to his foreground. "I can't stay on the phone."
"I miss you,"Dansaid. Almost a whisper.
"I miss youtoo."
"You're the one who said youhave to go. I'mnot hangingup."
Ford laughed, eyeing the clock over the doorway. "All right. I'll see you in a couple of days." He rested the phone in the cradle. Suddenly exhausted, as if he had run for miles. And promptly forgot to call his family. He phoned from his car, headed home.
This evening, he dreaded the empty house. Rounding the oak tree, he sat in the swing and let his heels drift above the grass. Tangled in the memory of his mother's voice, he let the familiar tones play in his head.
We certainly have a right to an opinion about someone your sister wants to marry.
He waited in the living room for the phone to ring. Hoping Dan would call. But they had already talked. The phone was silent all night. Heading to bed, he curled into the bedclothes on Dan's side, as ifhe could find himthere.
The visit to Savannah became a decathlon of wills from the moment Ford's father and mother met him at the airport. That they both found time to greet the plane set him on his guard. In the car, the parents exchanged pleasantries with the son. "You need a haircut." Mother ran manicured nails over the nape of Ford's neck. "I always have to remind you. You need somebody to take care ofyou, Ford."
"Aman needs something like that," Father agreed, "otherwise who'd put up withbeingmarried?"
Mother hit at Father's shoulder playfully, and scolded, "You would. You'd put up withalmost anythingfor me."
Sheepishly Father admitted that this was so. They still loved each other, after all this time. Ford let the thought sink in. He said, "I take care of myself pretty well." Heart thudding, he said, "I take care of myself pretty well." Heart thudding, he added, "Danhelps out too."
Father asked, "Dan? Your roommate?"
Mother said, "Aroommate can't take care of you the way I'm talking about." Then, brightly and pleasantly, she changed the subject. "You need to visit your Uncle Paul while you're here, Ford. He's awfully sick, and your father says he could die at any time."
"Well, that's not exactly what I said, Jeanine." Glancing at Ford in the rearview mirror, Father spoke doctor to doctor. "He's got liver cancer. On top ofeverything else. You should see himifyoucan."
"Uncle Reuben is really upset about it,"Mother added. "Uncle Paul couldn't get to the Christmas party last night, and Uncle Reubendidn't have anybodyto fight with."
"Uncle Reuben sat in the corner all night and wouldn't talk to anybody," Father's well-tended face showed hints of its age in the corners of his eyes, the whitening of his hair. Father continued, "Reuben's healthy, not a thing wrong with himexcept he's old. He could last another twentyyears."
Early morning over Savannah reminded Ford of other mornings, the road on the way to Country Day School, or the look of the backyard fromhis bedroomwhen he first leaned out of bed. The familiarity of the streets echoed with his past, the expectations of it, and all that he was supposed to have been: a part of this city, heir to its upper tiers, guardian of a way of being. The thought had power over himevenwhenhe refused it.
Courtenay and her husband, Mike, arrived at the house soon after Ford stored his overnight bag in his old bedroom. Mike set about making breakfast in the kitchen, with Courtenay's help; coffee brewed, drinks poured, the familybeganits second dayof holiday. For distraction Ford studied Mike, the carpenter Courtenay had lived with and then suddenly married. Ford had met himonlybriefly, but he liked the burly, brown-haired manby instinct. Mike had managed, from his first contact with the McKinneys, to maintain a wall of oblivion to the little insults with McKinneys, to maintain a wall of oblivion to the little insults with which Mother greeted him. He adapted to the family by action: this morning he chopped onions and potatoes, mixing egg and cheese, his strong carpenter's arms moving sinuously as he worked. Ford found himself oddly attracted to the wire-muscled arms, a feelingthat frightened hima little.
Mother said, "Mike cooks better than most women I know, Ford. It's amazing. He's almost as good as your grandmother's Millie, at least at breakfast."
"Mother's always amazed whenMike cando anythingbesides grunt,"Courtenaysaid, and Mike laughed.
"Please, Courtenay, yousaythe most awfulthings."
Mike spoke with a slight New England accent. "Courtenay's got no manners." Courtenay stood close to himas he diced ham into fine pieces. "She believes she's entitled to tell her friends exactlywhat she thinks, whenever she wants to."
Mother purred, "Well, she had everychance to learnmanners. We tried to teach her how to behave around civilized people." Speaking brightly, hardly conscious of the edge to her voice, Mother drifted throughthe kitchen.
Courtenay winked at Ford over the edge of Father's dayafter-Christmas newspaper. "Mom's going to start talking about mydebut again, anysecond now. Or mywedding. Youwatch."
Father chuckled and whispered, "I bet you're right."
From the breakfast room, Mother uttered in her most silken cocktail-party voice, "Of course, I knew we had failed somewhere when she refused to debut with her class. Keith says we stayed a year too long inAtlanta when she was a child. But Ford was evenolder, and he turned out fine."
"So far, anyway."Courtenayeyed Ford withlowered head.
Mother returned to the kitchen with her glass. "Exactly what is that supposed to mean?"
"Be careful,"warned Mike fromthe stove, "Courtenay's trying to get somethingstarted."
"I'm not trying to do anything," Courtenay said. "I simply
"I'm not trying to do anything," Courtenay said. "I simply wanted to point out that Ford might turn out to be as uncouth as I am. One ofthese days."
"He'd have to work at it." Father swatted Courtenay with folded newsprint. "Even if he did, he'd need years to catch up withyou."
Her skirtingso close to revelationunnerved Ford, and he gave her a warninglook. He said, for the benefit ofthe others present, "Courtenayknows allmysecrets."
The remark created a great deal more discomfort in Ford's parents than he had anticipated. Mother said, "She certainly guards them well," and gave Courtenay a significant glance. Father changed the subject, asking Ford details concerning his second year in the residency program. Ford followed with the expected combination of complaints, enthusiasm, and anecdotes; he emphasized the difficulty of the residency schedule in order to set up his father's usual comparisons to his own residency, back in the days when conditions were even more arduous. This conversation, which provided familiar terrain for all the McKinneys, relaxed them.
Breakfast passed in that easy manner and following it, the family held another gift-exchanging ceremony for Ford's benefit. Mother gave hima new silk suit that was certainto fit since it had been tailored by Mr. Charles, who kept Ford's measurements in his book. The suit, chosen with her usual exquisite sense of what would set off her son's good looks, proved to be the catalyst for further conversation.
"You'll look handsome in that," Courtenay said. "That's your color."
"I knew that fabric was what I wanted the minute I saw it," purred Mother, touching Ford's collar affectionately. "My son certainlydoes look attractive, doesn't he?"
"I like it. But I don't have time to wear a suit anywhere these days. Not withmyschedule."
"Well, surelyyoucould at least find the time to take some nice girl to dinner," Mother continued. "Even one of those women girl to dinner," Mother continued. "Even one of those women doctors. I think that would be good for you."
"There are a lot of good-looking women going into medicine, nowadays,"Father remarked, "judging fromwhat I saw last time I was in Atlanta. Jeanine, I need another drink. I hardly had a thingto drink yesterday. I need to do better thanthat today."
The family nested in the back of the house, the casual rooms, as Mother called them, to spend the morningwatchingmovies on Father's new stereo four-head VCR, which had the ability to inset a picture from live television into the same screen as the movie. "I can watch a movie and a football game at the same time," Father said. "This is a terrific machine. I'm even going to learn how to program this one. Listen to that sound. I can tape concerts off Channel 8 and the orchestra will sound just like that."
Mike had read the instructions. "It should be pretty easy to program. Do youwant me to set the clock?"
"Sure. Let me watchso I can learn how."They headed for the video box, where Mike demonstrated the various buttons.
Courtenay, brieflyintimate withFord, asked, "How's Dan?"
"Fine. I talked to him yesterday. He's coming back home to Atlanta today. He said he had a good Christmas."
"He lives with you now."Courtenay seemed at odds with that thought.
Ford was aware of his father's increased attention. Feeling more uncomfortable as each second passed, he nevertheless found himself unable to steer conversation in any other direction. "We're stillgettingused to eachother."
"Getting used to what?" Father asked, turning from the VCR lesson.
"Myroommate,"Ford said.
"What about your roommate?" Mother entered with Father's freshdrink.
Father said, "Ford was complainingabout his roommate." Father said, "Ford was complainingabout his roommate."
"He wasn't complaining," Courtenay said. "I asked him how theywere gettingalongnow that theylive together."
The phrasing struck Ford as a dead giveaway. "I wasn't saying anything bad about Dan. I said we're still getting used to eachother."
"Well, what's there to get used to?"Mother asked, pitch rising slightly.
For a moment he had an impulse to answer the question. Really answer it. But he swallowed the notion and reached for a little lie. "Nothing, really."As Courtenaywatched.
Mike, on the excuse that he had left his drink in the other room, escaped through the doorway. Mother handed Father his drink, and they posed together in the usual arrangement, Mother sheltered near Father's shoulder. Mother gave Ford her raised eyebrow as preface to admonition. "Ford's too old to be having roommates anyway."
"He's frugal," Father offered. "He wants to keep that house payment down."
Courtenay watched Ford. He remembered the suddenness with which he had confessed to Courtenay a year before and felt the sense of waiting from his parents. The moment had arrived, or so it seemed. He might have deflected the remark, easily. Any of a dozen answers might have defused the obvious question; and Ford was mightily tempted to do just that. But he said, finally, with the first flush of morning alcohol pulsing through him, "Whenare yougoingto figure this out?"
Father's glance sharpened instantly. "Who? Us? Figure what out?"
"Dan doesn't live at my house because I want to have a roommate. I've told you that before. At least I've told Mom that."
She sipped her own drink and refused to respond. Father glanced at her, and asked, "Ford, what onearthare youtryingto say?"
He shook his head, his throat closed withfear.
Courtenay snapped, "How many more clues does he need to give you, Dad?"
"Courtenay, now you stay out of this," Mother began, but Father silenced Mother bywrappinghis hand over hers.
"Maybe this is one of those secrets Courtenay was talking about,"Father said.
Courtenay said, "It wouldn't have to be a secret if we weren't afraid the two ofyouwould freak out—"
Ford paled. "Be quiet, Courtenay, please." Taking a deep breath. Turning to his parents again. "Dan is not my roommate. He's something else completely." Hardly recognizing his own voice. "He sleeps in my room. With me. His clothes are in my closet. I care about him. Do youget it yet?"
"Ford,"Mother began, stricken.
"Don't say anything to him," Father ordered. Looking around the room as if all the objects in it had become foreign to him within the last few seconds. "I can't believe this." Directed to Ford again, vicious, "Do you mean what you're telling me? This manis a homosexual, and youhave himinyour house?"
"Yes, sir. That's what I mean."
To Courtenay, Father's voice was no less cold. "And you knew about this? And youdidn't tellme?"
"Ofcourse I didn't tellyou."Courtenaymatched his tone.
"Be quiet!" Shaking with rage. Father looked from son to daughter. "Youare no childrenofmine."
Following this pronouncement, he stalked to the door and vanished.
Mother, stunned, drifted after his awesome departure. Face breaking, losing the coldness Ford had expected, she asked, in a tone reeking of pain, "Ford, how could you? How could you tell your father this?"
Wordless, he stood without defense in front of her. Moments
Wordless, he stood without defense in front of her. Moments later she followed her husband. Courtenay embraced Ford, saying something in his ear, saying,
Don't worry, don't worry, it's going to be all right now,
as he stood there, in the house and yard where he had ranged as the perfect boy in boyhood. Hearing his mother's distant voice calling, down the stairs, "Keith? Keith, are youdownthere?"
