Comfort and Joy

by Jim Grimsley

  "My daddy's not good-looking," Jason announced. "He's fat."

  For a moment.The juxtaposition of Ford's presence with theirs. The faces of his family swelling out of the past. A fist formed in his solar plexus.

  Ford entered the kitchen and their eyes met. Dan forced a smile and introduced them. Amy had snuffed out her most recent cigarette and offered her hand. Her smile tensed.

  Amy reached for her coffee. "Jason. This is Ford. He's a friend of your Uncle Dan's."

  Jason looked up. Ford said, "Hello, Jason."

  "Say hello."

  Jason opened his mouth but could not speak at first. Ford knelt behind Ray, bringing his face a little closer. "Did I hear you say something about toys?" Ford asked.

  Dan wandered into the room where Ray sat, bathed in lamplight and basking in the voice from the television. Jason appeared at the side of Dan's chair and watched his uncle. "Plug in the Christmas tree, Uncle Dan." So he knelt along the paneled wall and fumbled for the end of the extension cord that powered the Christmas lights. He slid the plug neatly into the wall, and the tree glowed.

  When Dan was a child, his mother's Christmas tree had always been a spruce, but nowadays Mom preferred the plastic variety, perfectly shaped, simulating the real tree in every way but texture and smell. On plastic branches hung strings of small colored lights, each of the strings blinking in sequence, the lights illuminating wooden and plastic Christmas ornaments. Plastic snow completed the picture, sprinkled over the tree and its ornaments as well as over the packages and fleecy cotton beneath the tree. Jason knelt beneath the tree and pointed to packages, saying, "This one is mine, Uncle Dan. But I'm not supposed to touch it."

  The blinking Christmas lights, the wrapped gifts, even the plastic tree, opened Dan to the fullness of the past, the fact of Christmas. Once a year, like clockwork, the holiday revisited him with dread. What he remembered, the image he could never refuse, was himself, was his brothers and sisters on the Christmas Eves of the past, a receding parade of cramped living rooms in small houses, of open-flame gas heaters hissing dryly, heating their ceramic bricks red hot. Each year, on Christmas Eve, breathless, five anxious children facing the shrine of a Christmas tree, strung with large, hot lights, glass ornaments, and strands of silver tinsel.

  Jason's voice, lilting, singing the fragments of a Christmas hymn, startled Dan—was it Jason singing or was it Grove, from a long time ago? Dan closed his eyes, and his brother Grove was there, lying on the couch in pajamas during one of the intervals when he couldn't walk. Grove watched the colored lights of the tree and sang at the top of his lungs, happy at the thought of toys. The exact image flooded Dan, and he himself stood in that former room over his brother, changing the bag of ice on Grove's swollen knee, watching a television newscaster present the inevitable holiday announcement, a mysterious unidentified flying object sighted crossing south from the Arctic circle....

  Uneasy, Dan stood. Focusing with effort on the present, the nephew, the Christmas tree, Ray in the recliner. Dan listened for sounds from the kitchen.

  He lifted the half-melted, hardly cold ice bag from Grove's swollen knee, gently, as Grove watched him. The newly filled bag of ice awaited, surface stiff and hard, in Dan's other hand. He gave the fresh ice to Grove, to place on the tender, ballooned flesh. New ice caused pain because the ice bag remained stiff until the ice had partly melted, and the stiffness made the swollen joint ache; but partly melted ice wasn't cold enough to numb the nerves. Grove's face was damp with sweat, the lights of the Christmas tree glittering. "Thank you," he said, settling the ice bag gingerly against the blue-veined skin, and lying back with his arm across his eyes.

  Jason sat on the arm of Ray's chair, hands on his knees, watching television with a serious expression. Tonight's weather woman, whose mass of auburn hair nearly filled the width of the weather map, announced with wide-eyed wonder at the end of the five-day forecast that a mysterious radar blip had just been sighted in the north and was thought to resemble a sleigh pulled by reindeer....

  Sound fading to silence, then a roaring in his head.Grove's face burst into a smile of pure radiance. Jason shrieked, and whirled to Ray. "Did you hear that?" Jason asked, and Ray laughed.

  Jason turned to Uncle Dan. "They saw Santa Claus in the sky." He slid down from the arm of the recliner and ran to tell his mother.

  Dan went to the bedroom, stood there with the door closed and took deep breaths. Dim lamplight brought the walls close; he kept his back to the mirror, facing the window. Bare dirt in the side yard, gray under the arc light. Headlights from a car cruising the loop road gave him a start.The sound of his father's truck pulling into the yard, light splashing the chaineyball tree. The sound of his footsteps on the stoop, his hand on the door. The door to the bedroom opened and Ford said, "Where are you?"

  Dan turned. Faced with Ford's large body, he felt a need to shut off the memories, to return to the room. As if he were leaning against the strong shoulders and chest. "I'm getting ready for dinner."

  "Oh." Ford nodded. Closing the door behind him, closing the door to the bathroom as well, and crossing to Dan. The two stood together watching the car exit through the gate, red lights receding. Wind resounded. "This is peaceful."

  "Is it?"

  He could feel Ford's nod. "I like everybody. Your sister is fine. And Jason's great."

  "He's so solemn. He acts like a little old man."

  Ford laughed. "He's like you. Your mom showed me a picture when you were that age."

  Muffled, the sound of Ellen's voice from beyond the door. "No, Jason, don't go in there."

  Ford leaned momentarily close to Dan, saying, "We probably better quit hiding. Are you all right?"

  "Yes," Dan said. "But I wouldn't be, if you weren't here."

  As always in Dan's house, the business of eating was conducted quickly, in near silence. The thought of Ford during his family's mealtime had provided Dan one of his chief dreads, but Ford simply joined the general quiet and spoke when addressed. Dan momentarily sank into his fear of his family, into a flash of unreasonable anger at some coarseness in Amy's voice, or at Ray's noisy way of drinking tea or the drone of the television behind the meal, and suddenly Ford moved into his field of vision, serving himself seconds from the plate of chicken, ready with a compliment on Mom's cooking. That face, that voice, at this table.

  Following supper came the trip to the mall. Dan found Ford in the bedroom, gazing vacantly at the window. Underneath his stillness waited an unspoken ache. Dan could see it in the face, the softness of the gray eyes, the boyish hunger of the mouth. Ford lifted the sweater over his head. "I feel a little lost."

  The collapse began at the center of his face, spread outward. He sat on the bed, and Dan quietly pulled Ford's head into his lap, gathering the boy against him. "What is your family doing tonight?"

  "Grandmother's party. They'll be arriving right about now."

  "Do you think Courtenay and her husband went home?"

  "I'm sure they did. And I'm sure she's giving Mom and Dad fits." Pausing. "She really does like you, you know."

  Dan laughed, softly. "Yes, I know. Except when she's around me."

  "I mean it."

  "I mean it, too. She likes me fine. She's just not sure if she likes anybody with you." Hearing the sounds of preparation rising to a peak, he added, "But she's getting used to the idea. Come on. You're the pilot for this expedition."

  Ford laughed, said yes, but lingered. "I love you, Danny."

  Closing his eyes at the unexpected declaration, Dan took a deep breath. A strong hand pressed his face. "You're calling me Danny a lot these days."

  "I like it." Pause. Then, small voiced, "Say you love me, too."

  Dan sighed, leaning down to the man's ear, whispering, "I love you, too."

  Through the holiday night along darkened roads; through the quiet hamlet of Wickham, where the Main Street telephone poles had been transformed to large candy canes; through the countryside to the four-lane highway and
along the highway to Foxbriar Mall they traveled, not quite a family, yet not quite anything else. Ray, Ellen, and Amy squeezed into the back seat, placing Jason between

  Ford and Dan, where he chanted the few words he could recall of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

  In the mall, Ray and Ellen quickly vanished beyond an island of concrete swans swimming through a lake of carefully tended ferns. The others moved more slowly through the broad space, showered from above with holiday music and stunned by the glitter of the shops. Voices washed over them; young women with large hairdos discussed the varieties of aftershave their boyfriends fancied; older women in pantsuits opened their bags to allow snaggle toothed daughters to peep at Daddy's Christmas present. In the toy store Jason dashed from aisle to aisle and pointed out, largely to Ford, all the toys he would be receiving from Santa Claus. Then Amy and Dan took Jason to an empty booth at a hamburger place while Ford quietly vanished.

  Amy, watching him go, pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it. Eyeing Dan. "You won't yell at me as long as I don't smoke around Ford, will you?"

  "I wasn't fussing at you because of him," Dan said, though something sank in his gut. "I just wish you wouldn't smoke."

  "I figured maybe Ford thinks it's common to smoke, or something." She lit the cigarette and inhaled selfconsciously, glancing at the other shoppers and blowing her smoke across a low planter full of plastic snake plant. "Mama had me so worried about him being here, telling me how rich he is and how old his family is and all that stuff."

  "She was worried?" Dan asked.

  "You know she was. It was all she would talk about. I guess she thought he was going to walk in the house with his nose up in the air, or something." Pausing to wipe Jason's chin. He went on chewing contentedly.

  "What do you think now?"

  "I think he's nice." Amy spoke with self-conscious brightness. "He doesn't act like he's better than us at all."

  "He's not better than us."

  "You know what I mean." Amy reached for the ashtray. "He doesn't act like he thinks he is. What is his family like?"

  "I've only met his sister. Her name is Courtenay. She's fine. We don't get along all that well when we're together, but I like her."

  "She doesn't think you're good enough for him?"

  Dan shook his head, "Not so much that. They're close, Ford and her. They looked after each other when they were growing up, sort of like you and me. I think she feels like I'm taking him away from her. And she worries about him." He sipped his sweet, flat Coke. "We get along better than we used to."

  Amy snuffed out the cigarette. She was thinking about something else now. "I went to see Papa's grave last week. I took him a poinsettia. I figured nobody else would do it—his brothers and sisters don't pay him any mind."

  "Did anybody ever get him a gravestone?"

  "No. Allen won't spend any money on it. And I don't have it to spend."

  "He was my real granddaddy," Jason announced, following the conversation with great seriousness. "But I like Granddaddy Ray."

  "So do I," Dan said.

  Amy pulled the child against her side and lay her head atop his. "You went with me to that graveyard, didn't you, sweet boy? And you carried the flower for me so I wouldn't have to."

  "It was heavy," Jason said, sighing.

  "Do you ever miss him?" Amy asked.

  The cold hand closed on Dan's throat. "No."

  "I do. I know it's stupid."

  "I went to the Circle House today. With Ford. Do you remember which one that was?"

  She paled slightly. "Why?"

  "We were close to it. I wondered if it was still there."

  "Was it?"

  He nodded. "It's falling down. Nobody lives there. Our bedroom is off the foundation, and there's a big hole in the floor in Mama and Papa's room."

  "I'm glad of it." Unable to look Dan in the eye. She embraced Jason again. "I wish you could forget about that place."

  Dan sipped his Coke in silence. Returning to the moment at the window, the image of Mama in the red dress, the fear in Ford's eyes. "I wish I could too."

  "What did Ford say? About the house?"

  "It scared him. I had told him we were poor, but I don't think he realized what I meant till he saw where we lived."

  Amy laughed. "You should've told him that was one of the nice places."

  "I did."

  She worried the cigarette pack with her fingertip. "Did you tell him what happened there?"

  "No."

  "Why did we name that one the Circle House?"

  "Don't you remember?" Dan asked. "You came up with it. Because the rooms opened into a circle and there weren't any dead ends in the house. So when Papa chased Mama there, she could always get away from him."

  With jarring suddenness, Ford loomed over the table and the present reasserted itself. Amy shoved the ashtray to the side, and Ford slid into the booth beside Dan. "Did you find what you wanted?" Amy asked, instantly public.

  "Oh, yes. It was right there."

  Ford asked Amy to help him pick out a gift for Mrs. Burley.

  Jason accompanied Ford this time, the child's hand small within the clasp of the maris. "Mama, now you walk behind me and him. Okay?"

  At a shop called Elan, Ford and Jason paused to review various flowing scarves, wool jackets, alligator purses, and other items in the window, Ford requesting Jason's five-year-old opinion on which of the displayed wares would please Jason's nanna. Jason selected a large, wide gold-plated belt and Ford pretended to consider it, rubbing chin with forefinger and kneeling next to Jason for a serious discussion of the belt's merits. "Your Nanna might think it's too heavy," Ford said. "It looks like to me it could be."

  Jason considered, tucked in his lower lip and nodded. "Probably," he said, "because it's gold."

  Amy knelt on his other side. "She might like a scarf."

  Jason shook his head wisely. "No, she wouldn't. Nanna don't like scarfs like that one." He sighed and threw up his hands. "We better go in the store and look at some other stuff."

  They wandered from there to another shop, Helene's, moving slowly through the shifting crowd. Overhearing conversations, Mom won't like that, she looks awful in that color. That's too high, I can't pay that. Can you believe how precious this is, just the most darling little outfit? Dan's attention strayed somewhat, and when he turned to find Ford already paying for a long-waisted red wool jacket, he eyed the obviously expensive item with some surprise. Stepping toward the cashier, he touched the price label, read it and looked at Ford. Eyebrows raised. "Too much," he said.

  Ford's jaw set in a line. "Jason likes it, and I like it."

  Jason said, "It's red, Uncle Dan, and Nanna likes red. And it makes her look pretty."

  Dan shook his head slowly, backing away. Ford watched the retreat, and Dan felt his hurt. But his jaw was set, and he completed the purchase quickly. The cashier pointed the way to gift wrap and Ford headed there without a backward glance.

  "How much does it cost?" Amy asked, and Dan answered. She blew out breath in slight surprise. "That's more than I spent on her."

  Dan felt a sinking in his middle. "That's more than you and me both spent on her."

  Jason said, "It's from me and Ford. And Nanna will like it a whole lot."

  Amy quipped, "I sure hope he buys me a present." Watching Dan's clear disapproval with amusement. "You're mad, aren't you? Can't he afford it?"

  "Oh, he can afford it, all right." More than mad. He controlled himself. "I better hush. The one thing we fight about is money."

  "That's what me and Hank fought about most of the time," Amy said. "You better be careful. You don't want to end up like I did."

  From across the crowded sales floor, Ford glanced at Dan carefully, brows knit together. Prepared, with stubbornness, for argument. Dan met his glance, unable to soften his expression.

  At home again, after a mostly silent drive, they parted ways quickly. Ford and Jason arranged Ford's packages under the tree. Ford
used the phone to call the hospital, learned his patient had lived through surgery and was recovering, then said good night. Amy and Jason drove home to make a bologna sandwich for Santa Claus. Ray and Mom went to bed.

  Dan sat up alone in the living room, staring into the plastic tree. No clear line of thought carried him. On the floor lay the offending Christmas package, the expensive gift. Watching it, he remembered the moment in the mall, his coldness at the thought of Ford's unnecessary, irritating extravagance. Now, distant from his own sudden harshness, he saw only Ford's fear in its aftermath. What does it matter how much money he spends on my mother? Why do I fight him about money? What am I defending?

  He flicked off the television and knelt to unplug the Christmas lights. He closed his eyes and imagined the rooms of the house on Clifton Heights opening round him one by one. He set the thermostat for its night duty and returned to the living room, switching off lamps. He stood at the window in the dark and waited till he could identify all the sounds in the house, the ticking of the electric clock, the drone of the refrigerator's compressor, the slow drip of water into the stainless steel sink. The click of the furnace as the thermostat cycled. He stood there waiting for something; he could almost name it. Then the feeling ebbed, and he faced the bedroom. He undressed and slipped between the sheets. Ford was already asleep.

  Late in the night he felt Ford leave the bed, head to the other room, make a phone call. He was away only a little while. When he came back, Dan settled against him, and, after a moment, Ford turned and they lay across one another in the dark.

  "He's all right."

  "Yes. Sorry, I didn't mean for you to wake up."

  "It's okay." Tasting salt on Ford's skin. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk. About the present."

  Ford never answered, but turned on top of Dan and murmured against his neck. As soon as that, asleep again.

  Ellen Burley rose early on the fifty-fifth Christmas morning of her life. She washed her face in the large bathroom at the end of the trailer, removing the two strips of tape which she placed on the side curls of her hairdo before sleep each evening. As always, she was careful to close the door to keep from waking Ray. Once upon a time in their marriage Ray had risen with her, but since his second heart attack he had begun to lay abed longer than she, sometimes an hour or more.