Comfort and Joy

by Jim Grimsley

  On Dan's couch, with the cats curled above him on the back, Ford lay his head on his arms and dreamed. The dreams became a kind of conversation; he dreamed Dan had died and his parents would not let him go to the funeral; he dreamed Dan had another boyfriend whom he liked better, who lived in a room in Ford's house that Ford had never seen before; he dreamed of a younger Danny bleeding in a hospital bed, and Courtenay stayed with him day and night but she would never let Ford in the room at all. He dreamed of Danny dead or dying in a hundred ways, and from this he might have understood something of his own fears; but instead he slept, and when he woke he worked to forget the dreams, to ignore them, to bury them out of sight.

  "Do you think if you finish your residency you'll ever get enough sleep that we can talk again?" Dan asked.

  Ford laughed and answered, "No, I don't think it's possible. I think I'll have to sleep for a hundred years or so, if I want to catch up."

  "That's what I figured."

  "Is it really that bad?"

  "Well, you've been home for ten minutes and you're already nodding. I expect you'll be asleep in my lap in another ten minutes or so."

  Ford stretched and tried to sit up in a more alert posture. "Is there something you want to talk about?"

  "There's lots of things. The future. You and me. Whether or not you're happy. What to do about your parents. What to do about my parents."

  "None of that sounds very interesting." Ford yawned and settled his head against Dan's shoulder. "Except maybe the future. When I won't be so sleepy anymore."

  And settled his head into Dan's lap, a weight that increased as Ford's breathing deepened.And slept. While Dan waited and watched, loving the shape of his head, the curl of his hair. Loving the close weight, the near warmth.

  Loving Ford became simple in the quiet, when Ford breathed in and out like regular tides, when his eyelids fluttered over his eyes, when his brow smoothed out like a child's. Lying beside him, or holding him in his lap or against his shoulders, or even watching him across a room, Dan could love him easily and without effort, as long as he was resting. In the stillness of Ford's house, in the closeness of Dan's, the feeling that was so precious to them both unfolded like a flower blooming, and the simplicity of their togetherness rose from the feeling like sweet scent. At moments, if he could have remembered it, Dan understood that their best place was this silence. Ford could love him more easily without words, merely with his presence. Words created the future, exacerbated problems, raised barriers between them. But in the silence of Ford's sleep, Ford could love Dan easily; in the stillness of Ford's rest, Dan could adore him without question or fear.

  "I wish you would get tested," Dan said, in June as their first summer was approaching. "For the virus, I mean."

  Their nights together had increased by then, till they were nearly always sleeping side by side. Their sex had increased as well, and some of the harmony Dan felt, in order to make the request, came from that.

  Ford roused himself and blinked in a drowsy way. "Why? Do you think you've given it to me?"

  Dan blushed. "No, I don't think I've given it to you. But it would be nice to know."

  "You hardly ever let yourself ejaculate within ten miles of me, Danny. Where do you think I'm going to get the virus from? From kissing you? All you ever do is complain I don't kiss you enough."

  "I would just like to know for sure."

  "I think you should forget about it."

  "Oh, sure." Pause. "It's just a blood test."

  "Drop it."

  "But why? What's wrong with my asking?"

  "It's none of your business, that's what's wrong."

  "Don't be silly—"

  Ford gave him a warning look, and a clear note of belligerence crept into his voice. "I said, drop it. I don't want to talk about it." Then added, "For all you know I've been tested every month. If I get the test, and I think I need to tell you something about it, I'll let you know."

  And turned his face toward Dan's stomach. And he slept, his warm breath filling Dan's T-shirt.

  Ford could stay awake for sex, even after the longest hospital shift. He might fall asleep immediately afterward, but during, he had great stamina and attention to detail. They came to agreements. For oral sex, Ford never wore a condom; for anal sex he always carefully sheathed himself. Dan wore a condom whenever Ford touched his cock, unless Ford worked him by hand, in which circumstance Dan relished the touch of skin on skin. Ford, who hated the taste of rubbers, gave Dan fewer and fewer blow jobs as time went by, and Dan never asked why, since it was easy enough to guess. Dan was never the active partner in anal sex for the same reason: the risk was too great, in his mind. If they did not have sex before Ford fell asleep, they had it after. Sometimes Ford woke after a few hours of sleep, in the early morning or near dawn, and simply pressed himself against Dan till Dan felt the warmth and woke up. In spite of the danger, their bodies learned and remembered. Dan became adept at taking Ford's cock inside him, at moving his hips in a rhythm that could bring Ford close to orgasm or delay it in a maddening, electrifying way. Ford grew expert in touching Dan at certain points, drawing his nails along the sides of Dan's thighs or rubbing fingertips along Dan's exposed glans, and his reward was the shivering intake of Dan's breath, the sudden thrusting of his hips and a helpless collapse of orgasm that Ford was allowed to witness. In spite of the poisonous fluid, in spite of Dan's reticence and fear.

  It was safe sex because they agreed that it was so. Yet it never quite felt safe. So they closed their eyes to any danger, and never, or rarely, spoke about it.

  "I don't see what the problem is." Exasperated, Dan pulled away from Ford's bare shoulder, then felt the absence and hovered. "You're hardly ever here anyway. What's wrong with me going to some rehearsals?"

  "We'll never see each other if you get yourself in another play."

  "Sure we will."

  "When? You'll be gone every night for weeks, you'll start hanging around with the actors, you'll be drunk when you do come home."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Danny, you know I'm telling the truth."

  "No, I'm talking about the coming home part. This is not my home."

  Ford sighed. "Don't change the subject." He spoke using his tenderest tones, repeating what he had said before. "If you do this, I'll never see you. I don't like that."

  "I can't sit in this house forever waiting for you to show up. You just fall asleep as soon as you get here."

  "That's not true."

  "It's true more than half the time."

  But the idea had agitated Ford. "Please don't do this. Not this time."

  Dan waited long enough to let Ford know he had heard and that he was considering. "Why is this so important right now?"

  "I'm getting used to having you around. I don't want to get used to anything else."

  It seemed to Dan there was a threat implied in this, or a fear that was larger than the subject at hand. "I don't want to stop being in shows forever."

  "Just now," Ford repeated. "Just for right now."

  At the hospital they had developed the habit of keeping their paths separate when Ford was scheduled to do his Grady rotations; so Dan was surprised one day when, after he had found a quiet corner of the cafeteria, Ford crossed the room with his lunch tray and sat at his table. He eyed Dan in a tentative way, with little boy eyes, wide and round. "I saw you and missed you," he said, his tone hushed.

  A dozen sarcastic replies formed and died on Dan's lips. He found he could say nothing at all. They looked at each other and then away. "You look sleepy," Dan said, after a silence. "You were restless last night."

  "Bad dreams," Ford answered.

  "What?"

  He shook his head, and they ate without speaking. But he had dreamed that he woke up and their bed was empty, and then he had gone looking for Dan but Dan was nowhere to be found: not in Ford's house, not in his apartment, not anywhere; and then Ford roamed the halls of the hospital looking for Dan, and all Fo
rd's friends, Russell and Dorothy and everyone else, were trying to help; and soon he was close enough to see Dan disappearing ahead of him down long corridors, around corners, into stairwells. He remained certain he would find Dan, but he never did. When he woke, realizing with relief that the absence was only a dream, he nevertheless felt as if something had been taken from him. He found himself more tired than before he slept.

  Finally Ford said, "I had one good dream, though. I dreamed you got rid of your cats and moved into my house."

  This was a lie; he remembered no such dream. But the thought had come to him recently and had persisted.

  "There's nobody in the world who would want my cats," Dan answered, and that was the end of the conversation. Though later, alone at his desk, Dan realized what Ford had suggested, that it was momentous, really; and all the more momentous for his having made the suggestion at the hospital.

  "I like Dorothy fine," Dan said, "and Eva is fun. We're going to a movie next week."

  "I know. I heard you ask her." "Well, I need something to do all that time you're at the hospital."

  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 him to stop speaking, and when Dan looked at him Ford wanted him to stop looking.

  "Dinner was Dorothy's idea," Ford explained. "She's been talking to me at the hospital a lot."

  "I was pretty amazed." His smile was warm and satisfied and made Ford ache, a little. "It's nice to be out with other people."

  "Dorothy told me everybody at the hospital knows what's going on with you and me."

  "I told you they would."

  The thought still gave Ford a cold spot of fear in his stomach. But he closed his mouth on it. "She says we should live together," Ford added, carefully. "She thinks everybody should be like she is with Eva."

  "She's like a little husband with Eva, isn't she?"

  "It's pretty funny."

  The conversation eased into silence. Soon they packed a bag with fresh clothes for Dan and 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'm sexual, really, I don't think I know how to be.

  Dan became cold to Ford. Not in behavior but in his mind, in his way of thinking about 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 man who 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 off your shirt, tire of the swell of your arms as you curl dumbbells in the bedroom. Tire even of that.

  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 am and 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 rhythm of 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 them knew which one it would be. The certainty that one of them would leave first, and that only by waiting could they learn which of the 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 from his arm. Dan answered the door still holding a cotton swab over the venous puncture, and Ford noted the unusual pose. "What happened?"

  "I have a bleed in my elbow," Dan answered. "I just gave myself medicine."

  Ford stepped to the center of the apartment's living room, late sun dappling his arms. He had come straight from the hospital, as he usually did these days, and seemed to Dan once again grumpy and in need of sleep. "I can't believe you did this yourself and didn't call me."

  "I always do this myself."

  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 grouchy then."

  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."

  "It hurts some," Dan said.

  Ford headed to his bedroom still muttering aloud, "I can't believe you let this happen when all you had to do was make one telephone call," returning with a medicine bottle that he was in the act of uncapping as he walked. "Take two of these. You're going to bed when they hit. Do you want your arm wrapped?"

  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. T
he painkiller tinged the pleasant moments with a lace of surreality; the ache in Dan's arm dulled and became unmomentous. After a while, Ford said, "All right, bedtime boy, let's go."

  "Where?" voice fuzzy with the drug.

  Ford laughed softly. "Where else? My room." After a moment, "When do you need to take another shot?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "You have the stuff at your apartment?"

  Dan nodded against his chest, drowsy and vaguely rising. Ford led him to the bedroom, pulled down the bedcovers. "Get in, before you fall down."

  Warmth settled round him, a hand resting on his brow, and then the weight of Ford on the bed. Watching. "This is better than being sick by yourself, right?"

  "Yes." Dan turned his face into the feather pillow. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," hand along the edge of the blankets. "You'll get used to letting me help you one of these days."

  Toward morning, the bleeding started again. Dan awoke to 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, making Dan afraid to stir and, because of that, even more 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.