Comfort and Joy (7 page)

But Ford found Dr. Milliken at the juncture of corridors near the first-floor lobby, standing in a large crowd, and as Ford approached Dr. Milliken signaled him. Ford smiled the crisp smile of the proper young medical resident, heading toward his chief of service. "I want you to hear this," Dr. Milliken said, and a piano struck soft notes as across the crowded lobby Dan Crell mounted a dais and prepared to sing.
"Let's see if we can't get closer," Dr. Milliken whispered. "He has a wonderfulvoice."
Ford muffled his panic and followed, entrapped. Dan began a lullabyto the Christ child, a songFord had heard inhis childhood but not since. At the first full notes, a ripple of response passed through the gathering as the song was recognized; then rapt silence fell as the voice swelled to fill the lobby, to permeate every corner. "Lo, lay thou little tiny child," the young man sang, and the mournful tones sent a chill through Ford. He lost himself in listening. His eyes followed every movement, tracing the slim figure of the singer as the song poured fromhim, the radiance of the sound matched by the luminescence of his face, his wholeness. While Dan sang, he remained oblivious to everything around him, motionless but for the throbbing of his tender, touchable throat. Again his singing told those who listened that the joy ofthe saved is the sorrow ofthe savior, that the tiny child might wish another fate. Again in minor keys and throbbing tones he undercut the merry decorations of the lobby, and fromwithin Ford responded withthe same deep sadness.
The song ended, the last pulse vanishing, and the room exploded into applause, far greater than Ford's memory of the year before. Dan received this quietly, with a look of deliberate containment. The stillness of his features burned an image into Ford. Before descending from the dais, with an air of perfect peace, he surveyed the crowd as the applause continued.
He could hardly help but find Ford, who stood inches above every other occupant of the room. Their eyes locked, and suddenly Dan's moment of perfect beauty fled. He froze on the dais, broke off the eye contact by act of will, took a breath and gathered himself together, each phase of the change visible to Ford. His flesh went ashen, his eyes dimmed. When he could move again, he let the crowd take him.
"He's wasting his time at Grady," Dr. Milliken said, "anybody who cansinglike that."
Ford said, allhollow, "I heard himinthe conceit last year."
Only the sickness of his patients kept Ford intact through the remainder ofhis shift. He moved through the clinic corridors with perfect whiteness of mind, obliterating every thought but that of his next action, the counting of a heartbeat, the proper curve of sinus rhythm on an EKG strip, the correct test to order for the white blood cell count of a child one week past strep throat. Once, in his empty exam room, before summoning his next Once, in his empty exam room, before summoning his next patient, he dialed Dan Crell's hospitalextension; closing his eyes, holding his breath, he told himselfhe would think ofsomething to say. A crisp-voiced secretary informed him that Mr. Crell had left for the day and would not return to the hospital till after Christmas; would there be anymessage?
His shift ended, and he drove to Clifton Heights. The iron controlwith which he had braved the long day refused to release him now, and he could hardly feel his own heartbeat. Pouring himself a large glass of gin, disdaining all lights, all television, all music, he wandered from room to room, his brain a burned-out blank. When he recalled the events of the day, he could hardly believe any moment of it after Dr. Milliken's voice in the lobby,
I want you to hear this.
He had heard. He had also remembered, past his fear.
When the telephone rang he rushed to answer. But this voice was without resonance, was his mother asking about his plans for arrival in Savannah, would he drive or would he fly? Her mellow, cool questions returned him to the kitchen, facing wooden shelves, studying his grandmother's colanders and the telephone directory. He reached for the directory, saying to his mother, "I only have about thirty-six hours, if I drive I'll do nothingat home except sleep."
"I agree that flying is sensible, Ford, but ifyou haven't booked a flight bynow you'llnever get a seat."
"That's not what I told you, Mother, I said I hadn't decided which flight to take because I wasn't sure of my schedule. I have seats on two different flights and I'll know tomorrow which one I'llbe on. Mytravelagent has everythingunder control."
"I don't mean to be a bore about it, dear, but you know what Christmas means to all of us." She laughed electronically across the scores of miles. "We want to make sure you get here in time for your grandmother's party."
"I get there Christmas Eve night,"Ford said, "and I'llprobably make it to the party, but I won't make dinner. ThenI flyout early the morning ofthe twenty-sixth, just about dawn. That's the most the morning ofthe twenty-sixth, just about dawn. That's the most likelyschedule at the moment."
"Do you have any shopping I can do for you, or have you managed it all?"
Ford rubbed his brows, biting back impatience. Reaching for the telephone book, he said, "Why don't I call you about that sometime Sunday. I need some help, but I don't have myself organized about it right this minute."
"That's fine, son, but please don't push this off to Christmas Eve. Youknow how muchI have to do this time ofyear."
Shortly afterward they said good-bye and hung up, and Ford looked up Dan Crell in the telephone book. There was only one listingunder that name, onBlue Ridge
Avenue near North Highland. Standing in the dark, taking deep breaths, Ford lifted the phone receiver again.
After a dozen rings he gave up. Dan had indeed gone home early, or he had decided to do something else for the evening, or he refused to answer the phone. Leaning against the countertop, watching moon-cast tree shadows moving against the windows, Ford gave up for the night.

Christmas in Savannah followed the course of every Christmas he remembered, as far as the family was concerned. But the change in him was evident to his family at once. His sister, Courtenay, picked himup at the airport, fullofnews about Smith College and warnings about Dad and Mom. "Sounds to me like they want to start matchmaking for you as soon as you get in the door. They've invited the oldest Stillwell girl to Grandmother Strachn's for eggnog."

"Chin up, Fordie. She's so shy she won't say a word. And she's only tall enough to come up to your ribcage, you can always pretend youdon't see her."

Courtenay, nearly six feet tall herself, reached across the car to pat his forearm tenderly. "As far as they're concerned, Ford, your marriage is their business. Family business. Just like mine willbe, whenever I get around to it."

"Oh, yes. The same guy I told you about, the carpenter. Mom willlove it whenI finallytellher about that one."
Ford laughed. Courtenay turned down Abercorn Street and finally onto East Gordon, where Grandmother Strachn's wellkept mansion occupied the corner off Calhoun Square. Ford convinced Courtenay to park on the other side of the square, and they walked slowly through the moss-hung trees, arms around eachother's waists.
"Cheer up, big brother,"Courtenay said, sensing trouble in his silence. "You've always got me. Frankly, it suits me if you wait a long time to get married. As long as the prince of the house is single, the pressure is offthe princess."
"I doubt I ever will."
"Willwhat?"
"Find a wife. Raise a family."
She let the statements stand for a moment. "You sound as if you've got a good reasonfor sayingthat. Do youwant to share it withyour sister?"
He shrugged, affecting nonchalance, but feeling the flutter of tension in his stomach. "I'mnot seeing anybody at allright now. I haven't dated since Haviland."
"Is something wrong, Ford? Is there something you need to talk about?"
They looked each other in the eye. Ford smiled wryly. "Are you asking for direct communication, in the McKinney family?" you asking for direct communication, in the McKinney family?" They remained beneath the draping of Spanish moss. Ford reached for another joke but stopped himself. Without a plan for this moment, he had managed to engineer it anyway. "There is somebodyI want to start seeing. A manat the hospital."
Courtenay accepted this in silence, gently drawing himagainst her side. From Grandmother Strachn's parlor drifted the sound ofrecorded Christmas carols. "Have you talked to Momor Dad about anyofthis?"
"Sort of.To Dad. He deflected the whole thing, and I wasn't verydirect."
"How longhave youknown?"
"About this guy? Not long. About me? I don't know. I'm just now getting around to facing facts." Remembering the Christmas concert, the empty Friday evening, now a week past but fresh and achingnonetheless. "I haven't beenverygood at it, so far."
He told her the story of the last few months, including his therapy sessions with Shaun, and his pattern of more-or-less anonymous sex. Her lack ofsurprise gave himto understand that the news neither surprised nor shocked her particularly, and she listened as ifthere were allthe time in the world. Finally she said, "I guess I knew something was going on. You're too goodlookingto be havingtrouble findinga woman."
"How do I dealwithMomand Dad?"
She blew out misty breath, turning to the imposing house that overshadowed them both. "I don't know. Let's think about it." She ran a hand through his hair and pulled him against her side. "But I wouldn't rushinto anything."
"If they're planning to parade half of Savannah's finest in front ofme, I don't know ifI canstand it."
"You're not here that long; hold your breath and drink a lot of eggnog."She kissed his forehead and they wandered toward the parlor lights. "Wait till you get yourself straightened out with this man. Or till you get somebody else you care about. You need a little support before you take on the whole twenty-nine generations ofMcKinneys and Strachns."
generations ofMcKinneys and Strachns."
Christmas Eve at Grandmother Strachn's followed a script written before either Ford or Courtenay was born, beginning with the formal dinner Ford had missed, ending with gift exchanges and half-hearted carolingaround the antique Steinway in the middle parlor. As at most Savannah social occasions, everyone drank throughout the evening, and when Ford entered, still arm-in-arm with his sister, the room glowed with flushed faces and bulbous noses etched with broken capillaries. Ford greeted Grandmother Strachnat once, seated inher high-backed chair at the center of her family. He kissed the delicate old skin of her cheeks. Aunt Rose had just seated herself at the piano and, after Ford had kissed his mother and the other aunts and had shaken hands with his father and the men, Aunt Rose struck up the first chords of "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Glass in hand, Ford joined the circle of voices. His mother contrived to have Lisa Stillwellstand next to him. Theyhad rounded their way through "Joy to the World" and into "While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night."Flushed with his success (and with what he considered to be his rather good baritone), Ford managed to speak politely to Lisa as Aunt Rose flipped the pages of her yellowed music book. He caught his mother watching with a look of private satisfaction as he complimented Lisa's singing. Aunt Rose reached her destination and struck up the opening chords of"God Rest Ye, MerryGentlemen."
The song catapulted him back to Atlanta. He tried to control himself, but after the conversation with Courtenay, his heart refused control and he knew he could not stand here. Not with this sinking in his gut. He excused himself quickly. He shut himself in the downstairs bathroomand locked the door, leaning against the wallout ofsight ofthe mirror.
He could still hear the song, but not as sung by his family's ragged choir. The voice in his head, rich and full, filled him with loneliness. But he played the memory through, beginning to end, the sadness and beauty of the voice, and at its end he looked himselfinthe eye inthe mirror. Takinga deep breath, he let go of the ache and willed it to subside. "I will take care of this," he said, "I promise," though he himself did not know for whom the said, "I promise," though he himself did not know for whom the promise was made.
After that, even the most superficial conversation with Lisa pained him, and he avoided her presence. Once his mother whispered, "You've hardly spoken to poor Lisa, and she was so happy when she found out you were going to be here tonight. Why don't you ask her about her internship? She's working for Senator Nunnthis summer, youknow."
"She's so much shorter than I am, I have to shout at her to get her to hear me, Mother. It's just no use."
She laughed, her strand ofpearls tremblingagainst her bosom. "Ford, how awful. She's reallynot so bad."
"Don't start, Mother. I'll pick my own conversation partners, even at Grandmother's Christmas party." To forestall any heightening of the argument, he kissed his mother's powdered brow and sat onthe floor beside Grandmother Strachn's chair.
"There's my Ford," Grandmother said in her dry voice, pressing her feathery hand against his cheek. "Merry Christmas. Do youknow what yougave me this year?"
The questionreflected a standingjoke betweenthem, begunin his first year of medical school when Ford's mother bought a diamond brooch for Ford's gift to Grandmother Strachn, and Ford failed to recognize the gemwhen she wore it for Christmas morning service. He laughed. "No, I don't. But I hope you liked it, whatever it is."
She joined his laughter. "You gave me a lovely silk shawl. Just what anold ladyneeds for draftynights inher parlor."
"Is it a good color?"
"Oh, yes, a lovely cream color with robin's-egg-blue embroidery. Your mother has good taste." She leaned closer, whispering. "She invited the Stillwellgirlfor you, did youguess?"
"I didn't have to guess,"Ford said, "Mother made it very clear that I was neglectingLisa. How old is she, anyway?"
"She's in graduate school, poor thing." In her own day, Grandmother Strachn had disdained any notion of college as Grandmother Strachn had disdained any notion of college as training for a career; college had been viewed as a social obligation for well-brought-up women. Marrying Charles Strachn had proven to be career enough, one that she had not always relished, as she liked to let people know, now that Charles was dead. "How old are you now? I should know, of course, but at myage everythingis beginningto blur."
"Twenty-seven. Not yet goingontwenty-eight."
"High time you were married, then. That's what I'msupposed to tellyou."
"Have youallbeenrehearsingthis?"
"Of course we have." Grandmother sipped her trembling cup of eggnog. Her voice was firm. "Your mother is the tactician, but I understand it's your father who's really frantic about the whole thing. He can't help it, I suppose. You were already bomby the time he was your age." Delighted at her own wit, she gave out her heartiest laugh, her thin bosom shaking beneath the staid white collar ofher dress. Asudden, brilliant smile lit her features. She kissed his cheek. "Don't take it to heart. You'll find a wife in good time."
"Or something like that," he said. She smiled, pretending to understand him, and kissed his cheek again.
When he looked up from the kiss, he caught his father watching the whole exchange. The two men had hardly spoken all evening but acknowledged each other silently now. His father raised his glass to him, face clouded bya slight scowlthat knit his heavybrows together.
The party ended, as always, with Aunt Rose leading Grandmother to the stairway, where the departing guests lined up to bid her good night. Grandmother's two maids brought coats and hats to the gathered family, and soon everyone bundled up. Ford helped Lisa into her white wooljacket withthe sprig of mistletoe at the lapel, and as he did, Mother called out, "Oh, and Ford. Borrow Courtenay's car and drive Lisa home, willyou? Courtenaycanride home withyour Father and me."
Lisa looked at him hopefully, and Ford tried to smile.
Lisa looked at him hopefully, and Ford tried to smile. Courtenay gathered herself into her own coat. "Mother, for heaven's sake, I'lldrive Lisa home, and Ford can ride along with me if he wants. But I'm not about to turn him loose in my car whenhe's fallingover asleep."
Ford adjusted the white collar of Lisa's coat frombehind. "I'd probablydrive across the square, tired as I am."
"Whatever you do, don't be out all night," said Father, pulling onhis drivinggloves.
To appease his mother, Ford carefully held the door for Lisa and walked with her down the stone steps. "It was lovely of Mrs. McKinney to invite me,"Lisa said. "My parents are abroad this year, and I had no idea what to do with myself on Christmas Eve."
"Mother's so crazy about the holidays, she can't stand the thought of anyone being alone." Ford casually looked over his shoulder to find Courtenay.
She appeared, heels click-clacking on the tabby sidewalk behind them. She deftly allowed momentum to insert her betweenFord and Lisa, takingboththeir arms.
"Don't you just love holidays," she said brightly, turning from one to the other. "I used to think December was cold here, too, before I went to Smith."
She and Lisa chatted about Smith as they crossed the square. Ford let himself be pulled along in their wake, playing the familiar, acceptable part of the silent male in female company. Courtenay handed the car keys to Ford, assuring him that she wouldn't let him drift at the wheel, and he and Lisa arranged themselves in the front seat for the short drive to the house on East Gaston. Courtenay maintained a wall of chatter during the drive. At the large, well-lit house, Ford parked in the porte cochere and rounded the car, walking her to the steps and shaking her hand. From the car, Courtenay called, "Call us sometime, Lisa, it was trulywonderfulto talk withyou."
Into the house she vanished, casting one lingering glance in Ford's direction.
Ford's direction.
Courtenay took over the front seat, and Ford drove home. "Mother's very pissed that I didn't let you do this little duty yourself."
"Whereas I've never been so grateful to anybody in my life," Ford said.
At home, Father and Mother awaited theminthe familyroom. Father knelt in front of the fireplace, stoking the new flames of the fire he had lit. Ford took the smallbrandy his mother offered, settling himself into the easy chair that faced the Christmas tree. Mother always insisted on two Christmas trees, the large one at the front of the house, for the neighbors, as she said, and the small one in the family room. As Ford sat down, his father said, "Well, I think Grandmother Strachn and Millie outdid themselves this year. Did youhave anyofthe caviar, Ford?"
"Yes, wonderful,"Ford yawned.
"I'msure Mother had it flown in," his mother said. "She takes care ofthis whole occasionherself, youknow. Rose likes to take credit for it, but Mother's the one who makes the arrangements. I liked those cheese straws too. Millie makes those so well."
"I'd like to hire Millie awayfromher,"Father said.
Mother laughed, patting her hair with studied irony. "When Mother dies, God forbid, the biggest fight we'llhave willbe over who gets Millie."
"Rose will keep her," Father said. "Don't you think Millie will want to staywiththe house?"
"Rose isn't getting that house," Mother said. "What would she do withit? A maidenladywitha house that size? It's ridiculous."
"Please, dears, let's not start this." Courtenay rounded the sofa, barefoot, to nest on the floor beside Ford. "It's Christmas, and Grandma isn't anywhere near dead yet."
"She certainly isn't," said Father. "She's as sharp as she ever was. Don't you agree, Ford?" Father unknotted his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Gray chest hair curled over the fabric. Soft firelight rendered himyounger, though every over the fabric. Soft firelight rendered himyounger, though every bit as stately as usual. "What's wrong, son? You're awfully quiet tonight."
"I'm tired from the flight, I guess. I got a good night's sleep, the hospitalis prettyslow this time ofyear."
"I hear good things about you from Carter Thompson. He says your facultyis prettyimpressed."
"That's good to know. I don't see much ofDr. Thompson. He spends most ofhis time at Emory."
"Well, that's easy to understand. He gets at least ten thousand dollars everytime he walks into the operatingroomover there."
"I figured he was doingprettywell."
"I think it's disgustinghow muchmoneya personcanmake for dippinghis fingers inblood,"Courtenaysaid.
Mother leaned forward and said, firmly, "Stop that. You and your father are not going to start that fight on Christmas Eve. Your father works veryhard for what he makes."
"Don't worry, Jeanine," Father said. "The little strumpet can't get me goingtonight. I'mtoo muchinthe Christmas spirit."
"As longas youdon't get paged,"Courtenaysaid.
"You don't let up, do you? Well, Missy, there won't be any interruptions this Christmas. We've got a new junior man to take night calls."
"What's his name?"Ford asked.
"Elman. He's a Harvard man. Mike Neighbors brought himin. I think Mike was gettingtired ofmypushingEmorypeople down his throat."
"Mike's not fromHarvard, is he?"Ford asked.
"No. He's just very impressed with anybody who is." Heat from the fire pressed Ford's face, close as a mask, and the varieties of alcohol he had ingested began to sing in his brain. Mother hummed softly, scattered bars of "O Little Town of Bethlehem."Father said, "It's good to have our childrenhome for Christmas."