by Jim Grimsley
"You called him today. He told me so."
"I have never talked to that creature. Never." Then, in a low, dangerous voice, "Did you call him from here? Did you call that man from my telephone?"
"No. I called when I was visiting Grandmother."
Nearly shrieking in his face, she hissed, "How dare you! How dare you call that man from my mother's house, how dare you!"
She came so close to hysterical screams that Courtenay appeared and hovered in the door. Ford turned to her and said, "Take me to the airport. All right?"
"Where are you going?" Mother asked. "Ford, where are you going?"
"I'm going home, Mother." He refused to face her. Afraid his own face would melt. His tie to her felt ruptured, irreparable. "Home," he repeated.
"You can't leave." Half-hearted, like a reflex.
"Yes, I can."
In the end, when there proved to be no seats on any flights, Courtenay and Mike drove him to Atlanta, borrowing Grandmother's Lincoln. Mike steered along the mundane Jim Ellis Freeway through miles of swamp. Ford sprawled in the backseat as if in a wasteland. Holding on to the thought that he would be at home tonight, that he would sleep in his own bed, next to Dan.
Near Clifton Heights, he realized he had never called Dan to say he was coming. No lights shone in the front of the house, except the front porch lamp. Mike steered to the backyard, and Ford guided him to the parking spot under the trees.
The back door opened, light flooded the side yard. Dan appeared. Ford slid from the car eagerly, and Dan called his name, descending the brick steps.
He hesitated a few feet from Ford. He stepped into the orbit of Ford's shoulders and took them in his hands. For a moment, along with sympathy and concern, desire hovered as well. Between them both.
Courtenay and Mike got out of the car, and Ford thought he ought to move. But Dan's hands held him firmly pinioned, with hardly any pressure at all. Ford stood there and breathed the air of his home, the comforting scent of Dan.
"Was it that bad?"
"Worse." His voice surprised him with its calm.
A moment later, he introduced Courtenay and Mike. Dan had talked to Courtenay a couple of times on the phone and they embraced as near-family members were expected to do, though stiffly. Mike shook Dan's hand with a mildly bemused expression. They sat in the den for a while. Ford and Courtenay told the story of the day. Dan kept his eye on Ford throughout.
Oddly, it was Courtenay who seemed uncomfortable. She spoke to Dan politely, and kept her end of the conversation freely moving; she told the story of Ford's coming out deftly and with enough passion that Ford believed she wanted to accept him as the kind of man he had described. But in Dan's presence, the relationship between Dan and Ford was no longer theoretical. In front of her now was the man with whom Ford slept. Courtenay disguised the feeling easily and with McKinney skill. Ford noticed it all the same, and apparently Mike did as well. He joined the conversation at points, describing the various encounters he had endured with the McKinney parents.
Ford settled Courtenay and Mike into the guest room and said good night. Courtenay kissed Dan's cheek dutifully before going to bed, and they watched each other for a moment with careful scrutiny; Dan vanished soon after. Mike said, in the doorway, "I like him. He's a good guy."
"Yeah." Ford yawned and scratched the back of his head. "I like him too."
"It shows," Courtenay waved good night, adding, almost convincingly, "I'm happy we finally met him."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He found Dan standing in the doorway to the sunroom. Again, Ford sensed the desire that underlay Dan's tenderness. Sliding his hands up the broad planes of Ford's back, Dan said, "I'm sorry it went so badly."
"At least it's done. I'm home."
"I know. I can't believe it. What time do you go to the hospital tomorrow?"
"Noon. Then I'm on call for three days straight."
Dan blew out breath and shook his head. Ford kept Dan against him. Dan asked, "You're on call New Year's Eve, too, aren't you?"
"Yes." Remembering this house a year ago, this body coming within reach for the first time. Ford waited for his own body to unfold. After a time, with a touch of gruffness, he asked, "How's your leg?"
"Fine," Dan answered, "want to see?"
They headed to the bedroom. Ford found the necessary condom in the table by the side of the bed and laid it in plain sight, as a declaration.
Silence settled over the link between Ford and his father. When Ford telephoned, his mother invariably answered. After her single outburst on the day after Christmas, she continued to talk to Ford as reasonably as ever, with her usual awesome cool. When Ford asked, Will Dad speak to me today? she answered, Why no, son, he's not here right now. He'll be back in a little bit. When Ford said, Tell Dad to call me, she answered, Well, son, you know he probably won't do that right now. When Ford asked, How much longer can this go on? she answered, Now Ford, you've disappointed your father, you know you have. You've disappointed both of us. And you have to live with that.
She would proceed to discuss the family, its concerns, the news from Savannah, the health of his elder uncles, aunts, and grandparents. She spoke without any hint of mocking, and she betrayed no bitterness. Except, if he dared mention Dan, she would say, in her chilliest tones, I had as soon not discuss your roommate.
From his father, never a word, neither protest, threat, nor anger. No phone calls to Emory to get Dan fired, no ultimatums. Silence. Stretching over months. Till one day when Ford dialed the familiar number, his father answered.
"Hello, Dad," Ford said.
Silence at the other end of the line, then, "Hello, Ford. How nice that you're calling."
"It's good to talk to you, I'm glad you answered. How have you been?"
"Fine. How have you been?"
"Fine." Ford's voice shook a little, and he fought to
control himself. "Seems like you're never there when I call, these days. Does Mom give you my messages?"
"Well, of course she does, Ford. But I stay pretty busy."
"I know you do." A knot in his throat, intense. "How's the practice?"
"Doing pretty well. Would you like me to get your mother?"
"No, sir, I'd like to talk to you." Putting every ounce of feeling he had into the request.
"Well, son, I don't really feel like talking right now. Let me get your mother for you." Setting down the receiver softly. Ford felt himself nearly strangled. After a few sentences of talk with his mother, he excused himself from the conversation and hung up.
Time passed. Every day, Ford heard the echo of the conversation with his parents, like a song playing over and over in his head. Every day, he saw the change wrought in Dan by the fact of it.
One day, Ford answered the phone and a gentle voice said, "Hello, is Danny there? This is his mother."
"Hello, Mrs. Crell, this is Ford. Danny's not here right now."
In the moment's pause he heard her confusion, and then heard it pass. "Hello Ford. Now listen. I'm Mrs. Burley, not Mrs. Crell, thank God. My first husband's been dead a long time, and I say a little prayer of thanks about it every day."
They laughed in a perfect blend. "Danny's at some weekend meeting the hospital sent him to. He gets back tomorrow."
"How is he doing?"
"Fine, as far as I can tell."
She hesitated a moment, then made her question plain. "I mean, how is his health? Those T-cell things and all. Do you know?"
"He's fine," Ford said, "he really is. He went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago."
"Do you know his doctor? Is he a good one?"
"Yes, ma'am. You can bet I'm not going to let him go to some quack. Dr. Barnes is the best."
She sighed. "You're a doctor, too, right? So I guess you would know."
"Yes, ma'am, I do."
"I worry sometimes." The hesitation in her voice grew less. "Danny used to get sick and not tell me. I don't want him to be like that
now."
The ache of tenderness that rose up in Ford made it hard for him to speak. "Don't even think about it," he managed. "If there's something you need to know, I'll call you myself. Okay? But he's as healthy as he can be, right now. His leg has healed up from that bleed he had, and he's been back at work since Christmas."
"That's good to hear."
They talked a while longer, pleasantly, and when he hung up the phone Ford savored the warmth. When Dan came back, Ford told him about the conversation, and the story brought pleasure to them both. It was a pleasure that deepened with time, as, from then on, whenever Dan called his mother or she called him, she spent a few moments talking to Ford. He found himself wishing his own mother had ever been so warm and easy on the phone.
Summer brought the beginning of the last year of Ford's residency, a promotion for Dan, a new car. They fought about money, the house, Courtenay; they went to gay bars, and Ford got all the attention; Dan came home jealous, and threw plates. They had a dinner party for Ford's friends and then one for Dan's. At the hospital, their relationship became common knowledge, to the point that one day Dr. Milliken asked Ford to use his influence with Dan to get a new ventilator for the neonatal intensive care unit. As if the request should seem perfectly ordinary.
But with Christmas approaching, the anxiety of what to do for the holidays haunted their thinking. They wakened early one Sunday morning in late autumn and made breakfast. Ford liked to see Dan in their kitchen, moving through the familiar routine in his house robe and soft slippers. His pale handsomeness shone. Ford, seated on a stool, yawned. "This is peaceful. I could get used to waking up with you at home."
"I could get used to having you around in the morning, too. Rough night?"
"Oh, yes." Sighing. "We had a kid come in with bruises all over his skull. His dad claims he fell off a toilet. But we all knew better. The nurses were really upset about it. They wanted to drop the dad on his head a few times."
"The kid all right? Are they going to send him home?"
"We don't know. The social workers were trying to figure it out when I was leaving."
Dan stared fixedly out the window. "Was the mother there?"
"Not while I was on duty."
The fragrance of coffee filled the room. From the back door came the scratching of cats asking to be let in. Ford opened the door, and they rushed to their food. "Did I tell you my mother called yesterday?"
"No. She actually dialed the phone herself? Did she say what she wanted?"
"Oh, yes. She wants to know when I'm coming home for Christmas. I guess Thanksgiving, too. As if nothing had happened." He let the silence lengthen for a moment, then said, "I'm not going home for Thanksgiving. I'm on call."
"What about Christmas?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
Dan shook his head. "I need to make plane reservations myself, but I don't know when to do it." He busied himself slicing fruit, washing grapes and cherries. "To tell you the truth, I don't want to go home. I want to stay here with you."
The clear, simple statement cut right to the bone. Ford stepped to Dan's side and stood close. "You think we should do that?"
"I think it will hurt my mother's feelings pretty bad if I don't come home." Dan hesitated, putting the knife down. "But I don't see why we should be separated. Do you remember taking me to the airport last year?"
"I didn't want to let you go, I remember that."
Dan lowered his voice to a whisper, a sure sign of uncertainty. "I think my mother would let me bring you. If you could come."
The thought startled Ford. "Have you talked to her about it?"
"No. I wanted to talk to you first." Dan, perhaps to conceal his own nervousness, returned to his labors with fruit and yogurt.
"What about my parents? What do I tell them?"
He expected hesitation, but Dan answered at once. "Tell them what I'm going to tell my mom. I don't come home unless you come with me."
Ford sighed, touching fingertips to wispy curls at the back of Dan's neck. "And I don't go home unless you come with me. Ask me for something easy."
"I wish I could."
Ford pictured his mother's face, replayed her silken voice, smooth and false. "You know what my parents' reaction will be."
"Yes."
"But you think I should say it anyway. Then what?"
Their tenuous peace wavered. "You tell me."
"All right. I say to my mother, Mom, I won't come home unless Dan comes with me. Mom says, Fine, don't come home. And then I have to decide what to do."
Within Dan, palpable to Ford, more tension rose. They were learning to endure such moments; Dan refused to pull away from Ford, and Ford refused to let him. Ford suggested, "Maybe we should both stay here. Have Christmas together here. We can put up a tree and do all that holiday stuff for ourselves. And forget our families."
"I don't think either of us will feel better then. If I could forget my family, I would have done it a long time ago."
Ford had often joked about meeting Dan's mother, getting her blessing. But he still resisted. "We're a family, Dan. You and me. Aren't we?"
Dan thought for a moment. "We could put it off if you want to. I can't stay here for Christmas. It would break my mother's heart. But I can go home by myself one more year. If you want to put it off."
After hesitation of his own, Ford shook his head. "I don't want to be by myself in this house on Christmas Eve, not again."
Dan slipped his arms around Ford's waist, and they stood together in the quiet morning. Ford chuckled. "So I call Mom and tell her. And she tells me to stay home. This is going to be fun."
Half-joking, Dan said, "Maybe we should go, anyway. Show up on their doorstep and make them deal with us."
"I can just see the look on their faces." Ford laughed; and that suggestion was quickly forgotten.
So events had unfolded, and Ford had come home with Dan, to the Gardens of Calvary, where he sat with the telltale box in his hands. He lifted it from the wrapping in which it had been hidden. He already knew what it was, his heart was pounding. "I don't have one for you."
Dan shrugged. "It's not like I warned you." He was starting to smile. "I was afraid to give this to you. I was afraid you wouldn't want it. But I showed it to my mom, and she wrapped it for me."
He opened the box at last. A gold band rested in satin bedding. "It's your size, or it's supposed to be. I had it matched to your class ring."
Ford studied the gleaming surface. "I like it." Struggling. "I never thought you would do anything like this."
"It's no good if you don't put it on your finger."
Ford studied the edge of the circle as if it were the brink of a precipice. He wanted words but all he could say was, "All right."
"Does it fit?" Dan asked, his voice trembling.
"Oh, yes. It fits fine." A dense weight on his finger, a bright fire. They sat side by side, in silence, deep into the quiet night.
Dan drifted toward day under the weight of Ford's arm. Gray light crept into the trailer bedroom, and Dan remembered where he was. The day after Christmas, at home in the graveyard.
Ford's breath heated his shoulder. The small bed crushed them together pleasantly. Soon they would have to get up, since they needed to leave early for their flight back to Atlanta. But for a few more moments Dan relished the comfort of the bed in the lap of his family, and the sheltering heat of Ford. The gold ring rested comfortably where Dan had dreamed of placing it, more out of instinct than out of any faith in the gesture. But he found he liked seeing it on Ford's hand.
From beyond the closed bedroom door floated soft morning sounds, Mom starting a pot of coffee before waking them. Maybe the sounds penetrated Ford's sleep as well; he murmured, reflexively drawing Dan against him as he came to consciousness.
Ford pulled Dan's face beside his own, their rough cheeks brushing. "Your mom's awake,"
"I hear."
Ford's hands pressed along Dan's lower back. "She'll h
ear us, won't she?"
"These walls are pretty thin."
"How's your shoulder?" Lips so close to Dan's ear, he could feel them move when Ford spoke.
"Aches a little. I guess I better get a shot before we leave."
Still, for whole minutes, they lay together, their hearts pounding, until finally they slid naked out of the knotted sheets. Ford held his hand aloft, displaying the unfamiliar ring. Shaking his head with a laugh.
Dan's mother called from beyond the doorway. Dan showered, favoring his shoulder but hardly noticing the pain, and emerged, freshly shaven and immaculate, from the tiny bathroom. He kissed his mother's cheek and accepted the cup of coffee as Ford prepared the medicine.
"Good morning," Mom said. "How's your shoulder?"
"Better," Dan answered.
Ford added, in a doctor's tone, "And now I want to make sure it stays that way."
"That's a good idea."
She studied the ring on his hand. Her expression wavered from one uncertain emotion to another.
Dan prepared the medicine himself while Ford showered. He rocked the bottle in his hands as his mother watched him. Finally Dan said, "Well, I guess you're satisfied."
"I saw." Mom was trying to smile. "Seeing it makes me feel a little funny."
An edge of his joy escaped him. "It's just a ring."
She lay her hand on his shoulder. "You know that's not true." Unable to say more. But she leaned to kiss his cheek. "I know what it is. I want him to stay with you, too."
Ford returned then, seating himself beside Dan and beginning the injection. Dan hid the catch of happiness inside himself. The subject could submerge into silence now.
The silent transfusion and Ellen's fragrant breakfast made odd partners in the small kitchen. Ford cleaned the table when the injection was done, and, in the midst of the traditional country ham, eggs, and potatoes, they heard stirrings in the distant bedroom. "That's my husband shuffling around in there." Ellen sipped her coffee. "He'll be out here in a minute with that television going." Something in her manner warned Dan that this was a preamble. She took this opportunity as her last to speak to them alone. "I'm glad you two boys spent the holiday with us."
