Comfort and Joy

by Jim Grimsley

  They looked each other in the eye. Ford smiled wryly. "Are 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 somebody I want to start seeing. A man at the hospital."

  Courtenay accepted this in silence, gently drawing him against her side. From Grandmother Strachn's parlor drifted the sound of recorded Christmas carols. "Have you talked to Mom or Dad about any of this?"

  "Sort of.To Dad. He deflected the whole thing, and I wasn't very direct."

  "How long have you known?"

  "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 aching nonetheless. "I haven't been very good 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 of surprise gave him to understand that the news neither surprised nor shocked her particularly, and she listened as if there were all the time in the world. Finally she said, "I guess I knew something was going on. You're too good-looking to be having trouble finding a woman."

  "How do I deal with Mom and 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 rush into anything."

  "If they're planning to parade half of Savannah's finest in front of me, I don't know if I can stand 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 of McKinneys 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 caroling around 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 Strachn at once, seated in her 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 Stillwell stand next to him. They had 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, Merry Gentlemen."

  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 bathroom and locked the door, leaning against the wall out of sight of the 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 himself in the eye in the mirror. Taking a 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 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 Nunn this summer, you know."

  "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 of pearls trembling against her bosom. "Ford, how awful. She's really not 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 on the 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 you know what you gave me this year?"

  The question reflected a standing joke between them, begun in 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 gem when 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 an old lady needs for drafty nights in her 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 Stillwell girl for you, did you guess?"

  "I didn't have to guess," Ford said, "Mother made it very clear that I was neglecting Lisa. 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 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 my age everything is beginning to blur."

  "Twenty-seven. Not yet going on twenty-eight."

  "High time you were married, then. That's what I'm supposed to tell you."

  "Have you all been rehearsing this?"

  "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 bom by 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 of her dress. A sudden, 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 by a slight scowl that knit his heavy brows 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 wool jacket with the sprig of mistletoe at the lapel, and as he did, Mother called out, "Oh, and Ford. Borrow Courtenay's car and drive Lisa home, will you? Courtenay can ride home with your Father and me."

  Lisa looked at him hopefully, and Ford tried to smile. Courtenay gathered herself into her own coat. "Mother, for heaven's sake, I'll drive Lisa home, and Ford can ride along with me if he wants. But I'm not about to turn him loose in my car when he's falling over asleep."

  Ford adju
sted the white collar of Lisa's coat from behind. "I'd probably drive across the square, tired as I am."

  "Whatever you do, don't be out all night," said Father, pulling on his driving gloves.

  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 between Ford and Lisa, taking both their 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 truly wonderful to talk with you."

  Into the house she vanished, casting one lingering glance in 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 them in the family room. Father knelt in front of the fireplace, stoking the new flames of the fire he had lit. Ford took the small brandy 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 you have any of the caviar, Ford?"

  "Yes, wonderful," Ford yawned.

  "I'm sure Mother had it flown in," his mother said. "She takes care of this whole occasion herself, you know. 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 away from her," Father said.

  Mother laughed, patting her hair with studied irony. "When Mother dies, God forbid, the biggest fight we'll have will be over who gets Millie."

  "Rose will keep her," Father said. "Don't you think Millie will want to stay with the house?"

  "Rose isn't getting that house," Mother said. "What would she do with it? A maiden lady with a 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 him younger, 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 hospital is pretty slow this time of year."

  "I hear good things about you from Carter Thompson. He says your faculty is pretty impressed."

  "That's good to know. I don't see much of Dr. Thompson. He spends most of his time at Emory."

  "Well, that's easy to understand. He gets at least ten thousand dollars every time he walks into the operating room over there."

  "I figured he was doing pretty well."

  "I think it's disgusting how much money a person can make for dipping his fingers in blood," Courtenay said.

  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 very hard for what he makes."

  "Don't worry, Jeanine," Father said. "The little strumpet can't get me going tonight. I'm too much in the Christmas spirit."

  "As long as you don't get paged," Courtenay said.

  "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 him in. I think Mike was getting tired of my pushing Emory people down his throat."

  "Mike's not from Harvard, 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 children home for Christmas."

  "How long are you home for, Courtenay?" Ford asked.

  "New Year's Eve. Classes don't start for another week, but I'm moving to a new apartment."

  "I don't particularly like the idea of your living alone," Mother said.

  "Please, Mother, let's talk about this after Christmas, all right? Ford's home, and I don't want to argue."

  "As long as you remember that we do have to talk about it." Mother's polite voice concealed a well-known blade.

  Father eyed him from above the glass. "I thought Lisa Stillwell looked just lovely tonight."

  "She has the sweetest little figure," Mother agreed.

  "She certainly thinks the world of you, Ford," Father added, weighting each word. "She was quite excited when she found out you would be at the party."

  Suddenly Ford remembered the careful telephone interrogations conducted by his mother, each pointedly reminding him of the vital need to arrive on time. A small knot of anger rose in his throat.

  Courtenay said, "Lisa certainly does have big front teeth."

  "Courtenay!"

  "I didn't notice anything about her teeth," Father said.

  "You didn't? They're as big as a beaver's."

  "Courtenay, that certainly isn't a very kind way to talk about the poor girl. Do you remember how terrible you used to feel when the boys made fun of you for being tall?"

  "Yes, mother, I certainly do. But now I'm six feet tall and drop-dead gorgeous, and Lisa Stillwell's teeth are still too big."

  Father laughed in spite of himself, setting down the glass on the sideboard. Mother said, "Keith, don't encourage her."

  "I'll be perfectly happy to be quiet, Mother," Courtenay said, drumming fingertips on Ford's knee, "if we can just stop talking about that dwarf."

  Ford said, "She's a perfectly nice girl. I just don't want to marry her."

  The fire hissed. The top of the brandy decanter chimed. Otherwise the whole house fell silent. Father sipped, swirled the glass, looked at it. "What brought that on?"

  "I was trying to be funny."

  Mother said, mildly, "I don't see the humor."

  Father crossed his arms and faced Ford with his legs spread slightly. "Tell me, son, who do you want to marry?"

  "Nobody," Ford said. "Right at this moment."

  "Well," Mother said brightly, "I'd like a Christmas cookie. Would anyone else care for one?" She glided from the room before anyone could answer, calling, "Courtenay, come help me, please."

  When Courtenay refused to move, Father said sternly, "Courtenay, go and help your Mother with the cookies."

  "Mother doesn't need any help with a plate of cookies, Dad, and I'm not going to leave here just so you and Ford can go at it."

  "Ford and I are not going at it." Father spat the phrase, which he considered to
be inelegant. "Ford and I are simply talking and that's all. Now be a good houseguest, young lady, which you certainly are by now, and help your mother."

  "Go ahead," Ford said, patting her head. "I'm fine."

  In the uncertain world of gesture, one never knew what would anger Father most. Tonight, that touch on Courtenay's head was it. "That's right, Courtenay," he snapped. "You have your brother's permission to leave."

  She stalked out silently. Father faced the curling flames, took a deep breath and waited till his flush had faded. "Now, Ford, your mother and I had the best intentions in the world when we invited Lisa to the party. I don't want to hear any more unkindness about that. But let me say this. If she won't do, look for somebody who will. You're too old to be single. When I was your age, I had two children, I had settled down, I was living my life. Even in the middle of a residency, I was living my life. That's all I want for you. That's all your mother and I are trying to achieve."

  "Maybe what I need to do is stop coming home." Ford set down the snifter beside the chair.

  "Don't make childish threats."

  When he stood, he towered over his father, and the realization came to him that Father had more to fear, right now, than he did. He spoke as calmly as he could. "This is no threat, Dad, and I'm not a child. I don't need this. No, listen for a minute." Ford took a deep breath. "Now, you and mother need to face facts. I might not ever get married. I might marry somebody you don't like. One way or the other, it's going to be me who picks and me who decides." He lifted his overcoat from the couch. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning. Tell Mother I said good night."

  Retrieving his overnight bag from Courtenay's car, he lingered in the small garden behind the house, standing beneath the broad mimosa. At this hour of Christmas Eve, the city lay in silence, occasionally interrupted by a whisper of traffic. He walked to the wooden fence that separated the yard from the service lane. Wishing for his own bed, his own house, he studied the few stars bright enough to pierce the haze of streetlight. Wind had begun to shift, and he smelled the first dingy scent of the paper plant blowing into the city.