Comfort and Joy

by Jim Grimsley

  A Brunswick stew recipe from her mother-in-law, Mrs. Crell, two pages of close, faded writing on yellowed paper, neat letters not very well practiced, recorded either by the mother-in-law herself or by one of her daughters, and gravely handed to Ellen in the first year of her marriage, almost as a trust. Icebox fruitcake, made of graham cracker softened with egg and sugar, raisins, coconut, candied fruits, and pecans gathered from the yard. A confection like candy, and Ellen always remembered to say, "Danny likes this as much as I do. Allen likes it pretty good too, but Danny really likes it." While she made the cake, shaped it with her hands, to something that would fit the refrigerator, where it would set until Christmas Day.

  At some point, she also said, "When I was little, I swore my children would have better Christmases than I did." The audience for this one did not matter as much. But she said it.

  After she had been cooking for a while, she sat on the sofa next to Amy and closed her eyes. A feeling of peace rose in her like a tide, the sounds of her children, the gentleness of the day.

  "Poor Mama, all she ever does is cook," Amy said.

  "I'm all right." Then she drifted again, feeling Amy pass by, her voice added to those in the inner room, hearing something like Nanna and Grandpa are asleep out there, don't make too much noise, and the low muttering of the television, the distant calls of birds.

  Her inner clock notified her when the rest must end. The kitchen awaited her as she had left it, oven ablaze, cooking utensils laid out on the counters, chopping block carefully cleaned. From the television in the outer room came the music of the holiday. Ellen sang along with the carol in a low tone, occasionally studying the highway to determine whether Allen was on it. The kitchen brightened with the lengthening of day. The angle of light, the image of the cemetery beyond the window, and the vision of her hands, preparing food as she had done all her life; all was peaceful, as far as she could tell. The boys built their tower of plastic blocks; Amy smoked and daydreamed; Ray absorbed television. Whatever Danny felt, he kept hidden, as he had always done. Soon Allen and Cherise arrived, and the house felt full and noisy. Allen Crell was the handsomest of her sons, with his father's strong build and square-boned face; his hair was lighter and finer than Danny's, his body thicker, his skin coarsened by golf-course sun. As a branch manager for a bank, he carried himself with the air of a squire. Cherise was a perfect match for him, fresh and pretty. Once introductions were made, Allen asked, in his booming voice, "Mama, are you cooking? You better be."

  Amy and Cherise set the table. The good Lenox china she had bought herself was handed out of the cabinet carefully. The pair had set her table before and did a fair job, using cloth napkins and good stainless flatware, and when she inspected their work she thought the table looked pretty, even though the dinner plates were a trifle large.

  "There's plenty of room," Cherise said, using her sweetest voice. "We're all family." Though she said this with a hair of hesitation.

  "That's right, we're all family," Amy agreed. "We'll sit on top of each other."

  Meanwhile Ellen brewed tea, checked the progress of the dressing, transferred food to serving dishes and, when all was ready, retrieved the last items baking in the oven. At the last moment she scanned the kitchen, which was soon to become a dining room, and with that in mind she covered the stove burners with their metal covers, changed dirty kitchen towels for clean ones, fluffed the curtains at the windows, and, briefly, opened the back door to clear the air.

  The arrangement of bodies at the table became, with the addition of Allen and Cherise, even more ludicrous than the night before. Serving would have deteriorated into a total comedy except that Ellen had already anticipated the difficulty and simply served everyone herself.

  The men finished their meal first and departed from the table, while the women lingered over smidgens of collards and stuffing with gravy. Danny appeared at a loss as to where he fit, and drifted somewhere between. Finally he came to rest leaning in the doorway beside the refrigerator.

  He had the look on his face which she remembered most clearly from his boyhood—a layer of calm over a layer of fear, and the sense that even when motionless he was attempting to recede. She stood beside him and slipped her arm around his waist. He acknowledged her presence, but his attention remained focused on his brother, Allen, beside Ford in the living room.

  "Seems odd." He spoke in a tone meant to reach only as far as her hearing. "Doesn't it?"

  "It's what you wanted," she said.

  "Oh, yes. I know that."

  From the couch, Allen said, "What are you two talking about up there?"

  "None of your business, I have secrets with Danny just like I have secrets with you."

  "Well I guess it's all right then." Allen smoothed hair that had strayed over his forward bald spot. "At least you finally got out of that kitchen."

  Ford said, "My mother doesn't cook on Christmas, but that's probably just as well."

  Allen laughed. Ellen said, "Ford, you shouldn't talk about your mother like that."

  "Oh, it's true. I love her to death, but the only meal she cooks is Christmas breakfast, and that's enough."

  "Do you have somebody who cooks for you?" Allen asked, then grimaced and amended, "I mean, does your mama have somebody who cooks for her?"

  "Yes, she does, thank God." General laughter.

  "Is that true?" Allen asked, turning to Danny, "Does she really cook that bad?"

  The question hovered in all innocence through the silence that followed. "I don't know." Danny's air, as he spoke, communicated much more.

  Ford said, "They've never met," in a small voice.

  The awkward moment passed. Ford and Allen returned to a discussion of golf, and Allen, who always traveled with his clubs, offered to show the set to Ford. They piled on coats and stepped outside and soon could be seen through the front blinds, Ford testing the swing of a club, Allen standing to one side, cigarette behind his ear. Ellen settled the blinds back into place. Cherise appeared in the doorway, asking where Ellen kept her little plastic containers, for what was left of the collards. Then she looked around. "Where's Allen?"

  "Showing Ford his golf clubs."

  Cherise eyed the doorway suspiciously. "Showing Ford?"

  She found the kitchen mostly set to rights. The collards were hardly worth saving so she got a fork and finished them, solving the problem of the plastic container. Amy and Cherise leaned against the countertops.

  "It just seems odd," Cherise was saying. "That's all I meant."

  "He's a really nice guy." Amy looked vaguely irritated.

  "Who, Ford?" Ellen asked.

  "Yes, ma'am. I was just telling Amy that it sure seems odd having him here for Christmas. When it's usually just family, I mean."

  Amy started to speak but held her tongue. Ellen studied Cherise. "You don't think there's anything wrong with it, do you?"

  "Well, it's not in the Bible." She stopped there, abruptly. Amy and Ellen watched and waited, forcing her to continue. "It's Danny's business what he does with his life, I guess."

  Ellen lowered her voice slightly. "I don't exactly know what you mean. We all got used to you when you were new."

  "Yes, ma'am." Cherise swallowed.

  Afterward Ellen rinsed dishes in the sink, stacking them neatly in the drainer. Suddenly the rooms had the feeling of imminent parting, as Cherise, maybe angry at what Ellen had said, asked about the time and reminded Allen that they would need to be leaving soon, if they were going to get to her parents' house by dark. Amy noted that she should go home soon too, since Jason's dad was coming to pick him up. "I'm glad he's sleeping a little bit, I don't think he got a whole lot of rest last night."

  Silence, rest, peace among the family and good will on earth, like a moment of carol. Only the slight irritation of the conversation with Cherise, and soon she would be gone. Ellen was satisfied. The rest was beyond anyone's control, as far as she could see.

  Dan stood at the edge of the graves. Wind li
fted treetops, leaves, and petals of flowers; wind tossed apple branches beyond the ditch; wind rushed over the length of the trailer. The long day nearly over, sun slanted from the western line of trees. Amy and Jason, Allen and Cherise had driven away, the family gathered in the yard to say good-bye. Mom still waited in the doorway, and Ford stood behind her, watching uneasily, as if Dan might explode. But he went on surveying the graves.

  An ache in his shoulder grew fierce as wind poured through his jacket. The pain had begun in the joint early in the afternoon, for no reason Dan could think of. Some force had torn a tiny blood vessel somewhere in his shoulder. At first he had wondered whether the hurt was real or whether it would go away, but by now Dan could be certain he was bleeding. The muscle blew itself up like a balloon one blood cell at a time. The process would not stop until Dan took the medicine that enabled his blood to clot. Dan understood this as a fact.

  But all day he had kept the pain secret, had even ignored it himself. Now, near sunset, it increased. But instead of heading into the house and asking for what he needed, he headed away from the trailer and the figures in the doorway.

  He was numb inside. Hours at home, in the midst of his family, always wiped him clean of feeling. Today, with Ford, the process had become distorted and terrifying, leaving Dan no retreat except the coldness and distance that were like trademarks.

  Kneeling at the edge of the mausoleum with his hand along the marble, spelling his brother's name with his fingertips, G-r-o-v-e-r. His brother inside the mausoleum, embalmed and silent, dressed in the blue suit that seemed somehow pathetic in Dan's memory, the country child in the country suit, broken and gone.

  "I am not going to talk to you," Dan said. "You're dead."

  His mother had told him the story of the miniature Christmas tree and the sight of it, poised in the bronze vase on the front of the mausoleum, made him heavy and sad. He touched Grove's name again, moving carefully. The cold of the marble raced through his fingertips and flowered in his shoulder, the pain from the hemorrhage cutting sharp and deep. He must return to the trailer, gather up the boxes of his medicine, mix it into the proper form and transfuse it into his veins. He must take care of himself. He had performed the procedure a hundred times but he could not bring himself to picture it today.

  You should let somebody help you, Grove said. That's all you have to do. You already know it but you're a chickenshit, that's why you're putting words in my mouth.

  "I said I'm not going to talk to you."

  Silence. Sunset touched the earth with fire on all sides. Dan stood slowly.

  Ford had moved to the edge of the yard and stood s here. He showed his anxiety in the rigid lines of his arms plunged into the leather pockets. Dan felt the pull of that being, the hunger. I will take care of myself.

  "Sure you will."

  Mom stood in the doorway of the trailer. Her own anxiety was just as plain, though Dan could not have said what were his clues.

  Turning to the grave a last moment, he shut off all the voices and sighed. Following the loop road, he returned.

  Inside, he could hear the low sound of Ford's voice, a vibration that passed through walls. In the office, Ford huddled over the phone, astonishingly small and fragile. "I'm sorry, Mother," Ford said, "we were busy all morning, and I couldn't get to the phone." Pause. "Well, it's not like that." Rubbing his forehead with fingers. "I told you, I couldn't get to a phone, I'm sorry." Ford closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. "Mother, I didn't ruin your Christmas. Your Christmas was ruined a long time ago." Pause. "You know exactly what I mean." Pause. "I've had a wonderful holiday. His family is great." Swallowing. "No, it's not very big." Brows furrowing momentarily. "No, just the family. Dan's brother and his sister and his sister-in-law." Pause. "Well, I still don't see why you didn't go to Uncle Reuben's. But that's up to you."

  He turned in the chair, and Dan ducked out of sight. His heart was pounding. He was surprised at the strength of his reaction. Ford was listening now, the tinny, distant sound of his mother's voice audible in his silence. Finally, Ford interrupted to say, "This is no use, Mother. Goodbye. I'll talk to you soon."

  As he hung up the phone, Dan slipped away. Ford found him in the kitchen. A clock murmured behind him. Other sounds joined in the steady rhythm. Ford was scowling. Dan stood nervously to pour himself water; but when he rose he moved abruptly and pain lit his shoulder.

  Ford asked, sharply, "What's wrong?"

  The throbbing pain had yet to peak. Dan stood still and Ford faced him. Searching his face.

  "My shoulder."

  "Bleeding?" Dan nodded, "How long?" Ford slid his hand inside Dan's sweater.

  "I don't know. I noticed it a while back."

  "And you didn't say anything." Changes played over

  Ford's face. Dan read his companion's exhaustion and sudden anger. "I can't believe you still do this as many times as I've yelled at you about it. You cannot let yourself bleed one minute longer than you have to."

  "I know that, Ford."

  "Then what is the problem? I'm right here. Your medicine is right here. All I have to do is give it to you."

  "I know. Look—"

  "Never mind," Ford snapped, "where did your mother put the boxes?"

  "In the shop.In Ray's refrigerator."

  The rest of the medical paraphernalia Dan had stashed in the chest of drawers in the bedroom. Wishing to be elsewhere when Ford returned, he headed there to fetch it. Mom appeared in the doorway. "Son, what's wrong?"

  Small-voiced, he answered, "I'm bleeding in my shoulder," opening the chest of drawers, searching for the syringes, tourniquet, and alcohol swabs. "Ford's upset about it."

  "Oh my goodness," Mom said. "Why is he mad?"

  "He always wants me to tell him the second I start bleeding, and I never do." Feeling suddenly tired, he sagged against the heavy wooden chest, facing a picture of himself at eight, framed on the wall. Dan tried to find a position in which his shoulder would stop hurting. From the kitchen came sounds of Ford returning, large footfalls accompanied by the rustling of paper. Mom, over her shoulder, called, "We're in here."

  "Did he tell you what happened?" Ford asked, as Dan applied himself to his search for butterfly needles and alcohol swabs.

  "Yes. It's just like him." Her tone was mocking but gentle. "He never could pick a good time to get sick."

  This, delivered in Mom's best offhand manner, quieted Ford somewhat. Dan and Ford faced each other across the room. "You didn't forget anything, did you?"

  "No, I didn't." Stomach beginning to knot. "I brought three butterflies, I hope that's enough."

  "I don't think I'll miss your veins twice."

  Knowing no response would meet with friendlier reception, Dan remained silent. Ford sullenly watched him.

  In the kitchen, boxes of dried blood protein sat on the table. The process of mixing medication to treat his hemophilia had evolved, for Dan, the character of a ceremony. He opened the boxes, laying out the contents—dehydrated Factor VIII protein in one large vacuum-sealed jar and sterile water for reconstitution in another. Ford joined him at the table and began to prepare the other box. Dan remained silent, puncturing the nipple of the vacuum jar with one end of the double-needle. A thin stream of sterile water jetted into the white latticework of the protein, which instantly collapsed into wet clumps.

  Mom asked, "Do you boys have everything you need in here? Because I want to stay out of your way." Not waiting for an answer, she leaned from behind Dan to kiss his forehead. "I know you'll be fine when you get your medicine." She hesitated, then touched Ford affectionately as well. "Looks like you have somebody to take care of you, anyway. Your very own doctor."

  In the quiet that followed, Ford's anger began to soften. Dan waited, the bottle of diluted medicine warming in his hand. Finally, Ford said, "This mess with my family is getting out of hand. I think my parents' solution to this is going to be to make me choose between them and you."

  Edges of fear pric
kled Dan. The butterfly needle on the table caught his eye. "I think that's exactly what they're trying to do."

  During the transfusion they hardly said a word. Ford slowly squeezed the syringe and the yellowish fluid vanished through the butterfly needle and into Dan's body. Dan always imagined he could feel the medicine as it circulated through him, awakening his bloodstream, filling him with well-being. Adding to him the one tiny ingredient he lacked. Ford removed the needle, careful of the drop of blood at the tip. He slid the plastic sheath over the needle and packed all the jars and wrappers neatly into the medicine box. His careful movements gave Dan a slight feeling of discomfiture, though he said nothing. Ford cleared the table, and Dan slid a Band-Aid over the needle puncture, pressing down to stop the oozing blood. They were done. His shoulder ached, but soon the ache would be less.

  They moved to the outer room to sit with Mom and Ray. A slight coolness between them still. After a few minutes Ray announced he was going to bed, but Mom said, "I think I'll sit up with the boys a few more minutes." Ray vanished toward the bedroom, slippers making soft brushing sounds along the kitchen linoleum. Mom took the remote control from the arm of his chair and turned off the television. She tucked her robe under her knees. "How's your shoulder, son?"

  "Better."

  "Is there enough for another dose before we leave tomorrow?" Ford asked. "I didn't check when I was out there, I was so mad."

  "There's enough."

  "You were mad, weren't you?" Mom asked, chuckling. "I used to get mad like that when Danny or Grove would tell me they were bleeding. I would fuss and fuss and rush around, until finally I realized it didn't do a bit of good."

  "I'm a doctor, you'd think I would know that."

  He spoke in an almost surly way, and Dan realized he had forgotten the need for charm. Mom must have realized it too, because she smiled. Some troublesome thought came to her as she watched Ford, and Dan was afraid she was sorry Ford had come. But when she spoke, he understood he had guessed wrong.