Comfort and Joy

by Jim Grimsley

  Ford stirred and Dan tried to settle back into bed, but his arm coursed with pain from the motion and he failed to restore himself beneath the blankets. Ford murmured and rose partly out of bed himself. Eyes opening, seeing Dan, suddenly his face flooded with consciousness. "What's the matter?" he asked, with effort to make words so soon out of sleep. He pulled himself closer to Dan. "Has it started bleeding again?"

  He nodded. Ford moved toward him, kissing his forehead softly. The press of the body eased Dan's panic. From Ford he felt no anger. "I'm sorry to wake you up," he whispered, and Ford pulled him close, in a caress.

  Ford headed to the bathroom. Light flooded the doorway and spilled across polished hardwood. Returning in jeans, he proffered a cup of water and more painkiller, sitting on the bed, light along bare shoulders and arms. "Tell me what I need to get when I go to your apartment."

  Taking the pills, Dan asked, "Do you want me to go with you?"

  "I wouldn't be giving you narcotics if I wanted you to go with me." Listening to Dan's descriptions, most of which Ford already knew. "I'll feed the cats. I'm keeping you here today."

  "I thought you were on call."

  "No, I'm off the whole day."

  He rose, dressed, found Dan's keys in Dan's pants. "Lie down and rest. Don't get up and try walking around, you'll fall flat on your face. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  When Dan was alone in the dark house, he could feel the current of the painkiller rising. Dullness returned to the bursting in his elbow, the edge of pain vanishing; and dread returned, too, that he would drift into sleep and dream about his father again. He lay still and breathed deeply.

  "Dan, I hate to wake you up, but I can't give you this shot in here."

  Sitting up suddenly, blinking, he noted vague daylight smeared on the windows as Ford steadied his shoulder. Dizzy, the painkiller rushing in his head. Ford slid a loose robe over his shoulders, and they headed to the kitchen.

  When he saw the large syringe and its familiar murky contents, he felt the slight panic again. Ford touched Dan's bare arm, seeking a vein. "Do you trust me to do this? I'm pretty good at it."

  "I'll try."

  The sight of the syringe in Ford's hands made him want to jump out of the chair.

  "Calm down. It's all right."

  "I know it is. I don't know why I'm being like this."

  "There's two of you sometimes," Ford said, evenly. Through the painkiller, Dan felt distant surprise to hear his own thoughts echoed. "That's why." He chuckled briefly. "What would you do if you were by yourself? You can't give yourself a shot, not with your arm like it is."

  "I probably wouldn't give myself one."

  Ford nodded. "That's what I thought." This time there was no anger in his voice. The transfusion lasted till light seeped up the panes of the kitchen windows, the sounds of morning birdcalls reaching them from the yard.

  "You're not using your arm till I say you're using your arm. I'm going to make you a bed in the den and you're staying there. You're going to let me take care of you. We can fight about it if you want to. But I've thought about it, and I know how you are, and I might as well start this fight sooner as later. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Do you want some coffee when I make it?"

  "Yes."

  By the end of the day he understood, again, how much his life had changed. All day he lay in peace, tended by the careful hands of the doctor, surrounded by the spacious, comfortable rooms. Dan bore it without protest. In the evening, Ford prepared another infusion of antihemophilic factor and administered the injection again, without objection from Dan. With, in fact, relief. "Residents aren't supposed to be any good at that. How come you are?"

  "I'm good at a lot of things I'm not supposed to be good at."

  A week later, with the arm healed or at least mostly healed, they headed to Grayton Beach.

  Lunar Cove stood just behind the dune line. When they approached the house from behind, Dan thought there must have been some mistake. The size made him certain this must be an apartment building, not a house. They stopped at a garage large enough for three cars. No entrance was apparent from outside. Ford idled the car, "The realtor said you have to go in through the garages. It's for security."

  "This is it? That's all one house?"

  "Sure," Ford said. "It's not that big."

  Ford, at the garage door, fumbled with a series of locks. He gave a heave and rolled the heavy door upward. "Remind me not to let you do that. You did pack medicine. Right?"

  "Yes. I did." Stepping into the huge garage.

  Ford tossed him the key and he caught it. Stairs led to the back door of the house. The lock turned smoothly, and the house opened with a small intake of air.

  Afternoon light flooded a neat anteroom leading immediately to a broad kitchen, windows facing the dunes on one side and the parking lot on the other. The room outclassed any kitchen Dan had ever seen, even in houses where people resided year round.

  Hearing Ford on the stairs, he went into the next room.

  Broad windows opened onto the sea. Past the dunes azure waves were breaking, the white sand gleamed. Blue sky burned fiercely beyond the broad-beamed posts of a porch, beyond the carpet, the fireplace, the carved wooden doors, the staircase sweeping upward to more rooms.

  From the kitchen came sounds of Ford's cautious entry. "Dan," he called, his deep voice echoing in the kitchen.

  "In here." Dan touched the cool stone mantle.

  Ford carried their luggage to the bedroom. The suite proved as spacious as anything on the lower floor. The same broad glass windows and hefty wooden beams. French doors opened onto a balcony, where they faced the ocean wind.

  "How is your arm? No pain?"

  "None. I think it's okay."

  After a moment, Ford asked, "Do you like the house?"

  "It's really something."

  Watching Dan earnestly. "I wanted us to have something nice."

  Inside, Dan opened his suitcase to begin unpacking. On impulse, and without stopping to consider his actions, he opened Ford's as well.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Unpacking you."

  There was something touching about his surprise. "Why?"

  "I wanted to do it."

  When he was done, they walked beyond the dune line, where heat rose from the sand in waves. Blue-green water glittered all the way to the horizon.

  "This is great." Dan turned from side to side, noting the bare expanse. "There's nobody here."

  Ford gave him a playful slap on the shoulder and trotted toward the water. Wind tugged at Dan's loose shirt and tossed his curls to tangles. Feeling the sharpness of it in his face and the heat on his arms and neck, he closed his eyes and sighed. The surf penetrated his consciousness, soft-rolling and repeated waves surging one over another and whispering across sand. Shore and sea curving toward the horizon. He rolled up his jeans and slipped off his sneakers and socks. Nearly October, but the sun was still warm. Nesting his shoes in the sand well clear of the waves, he headed toward Ford, who was splashing in the water.

  On the horizon along the beach, half-obscured by haze or low clouds, a city lay before them. Its glass towers gleamed in the color along the horizon, the flame of pink where the sun had begun to settle and refract. They waded past an abandoned sailboat, block clanging dully against the mast. Deeply tangled happiness and something else mixed strangely inside. "This was a good thing to do. I'm glad we could manage it."

  "It was touch and go there for a while. Russell wanted me to take his next couple of shifts. He's got a bad cold. But I told him he'd have to be a lot sicker to keep me from taking my week off."

  "You're both back at Grady when? Four weeks?"

  Ford sighed. "Almost six." Kicking at the water.

  After dinner, they sipped armagnac in the broad porch swing. Spread before them were the glittering tops of waves, the carpet of luminous sand, the speckled backs of dunes, under stars and moon. He glimpsed a large, dark bird, escaped
from the marshes, flying low over the water. Headlights swept past them as a jeep drove toward the beach and parked along the water's edge. Dan, in spite of himself, felt proud to display himself beside Ford on the porch of the biggest house on the beach. The liquor bit his throat with smoke and dusk. Each beat of wave onto shore released that urban tension. In the silence their bodies continued to speak. Wind blew out from land to gulf.

  Helicopters patrolled the lower reaches of clouds along the shoreline, repeatedly, and Dan wondered whether some invading navy were poised beyond the horizon. "Must be looking for drugs," Ford murmured after the sky patroller passed ominously overhead. He moved his head against Dan's shoulder for just a moment and sighed. "We're the squires of the beach, you and me."

  "What is Dorothy going to say when she sees this place? She always acts like she's in some kind of contest with you anyway."

  Ford laughed, spreading his arm along the swing back and pushing gently with his foot to make the contraption sway. "She'll go down to the realtor and see if there's something bigger she can rent."

  "We should all go to dinner tomorrow night. Someplace up the coast." Adding, slightly sardonic, "Of course we'll have to take two cars. Dorothy's going to bring her little sports car too, I bet."

  "Sure she will. What else? There's nothing wrong with taking two cars."

  "Waste of gas."

  "You sure are on my case today."

  "I just think it's funny for you and Dorothy to drive your little sports cars, both of you, every time we want to go somewhere. She'll be trying to race you. Mark my words."

  Ford chuckled. Setting his glass on the side rail, he scanned the beach as if to check for spies, then sprawled in the swing with his head in Dan's lap. Satisfied with himself, Ford said, "I'm not as scared as you think I am."

  Their bodies became conscious of being bodies, of being together and of warmth kindling. Dan suppressed the thrill of fear that always accompanied this moment, the slight shrinking at the thought of desire; he traced the line of Ford's jaw with eye and fingertip.

  A struggle played itself out on Ford's face, acute, hungry. But then he looked away, and the link between their bodies dissolved as suddenly as it had formed.

  Abruptly he said, "Let's go for a walk."

  Dan forced himself to stand at once, refusing hesitation. He told himself it was only his fear that let him hear anything ominous in Ford's tone. Ford's white shirt glimmered in moonlight. Dan trotted toward him through the sand. Ford had struck out for the darker edge of gulf, the opposite direction from their afternoon walk, and Dan caught him near the water. He settled his hand firmly onto Ford's shoulder and they walked side by side through the darkness, brushing against each other, aware of their solitude along the darkened strand. There was something Ford wanted to say. Presently he extended his arm around Dan, almost shyly. "There's no getting away from you, is there?"

  The tentative question left Dan speechless. Ford continued. "I halfway thought I was bringing you here to break up with you. Either that or to make you move in with me, once and for all. I thought I knew what I wanted to say."

  Chilling, even on the summer night. Dan forced himself to speak before ice took hold inside him. "You want to break up? Is that what you said?"

  Ford shook his head. "No, that's not what I said. I mean, I can't help thinking about it sometimes." A dreadful pause ensued. "Do you ever think about it?"

  "No." Closing his eyes, he suddenly hated the warmth of the arm around his waist. At the point of pushing it away, he felt Ford's arm tighten.

  "Don't run away, okay?"

  What surprised him was not the urge. What surprised him was the need to stay.

  They stood in the dark, Ford's fear overcome by his wish to keep Dan close to his body at that moment. Dan's heart was thudding. "So is that what you brought me out here to do? Is that what you're doing? Breaking up?"

  "No." Drowned in wind.

  "Then why did you say that?"

  Gripped by the arm, Dan wondered how they had both arrived at this moment, so suddenly. "I'm scared," Ford repeated. "That's why."

  The simplicity of the statement disarmed them. Dan faced the waves, the shimmering undersides of clouds overhead, and he counted patches of stars in tatters among the cumulus. He felt himself more and more amazed, because he was not afraid. Even now. Even with all this reason. He could only go on being happy, that in the concealment of blue-black night they could share loose embraces on the beach, in the open. Ford allowed the intimacy to go on, and that was all that mattered.

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "You," Ford answered.

  "Why?"

  Ford laughed softly. For the first time, the sound lacked gentleness. But his voice, after he composed himself, was gentle. "You really don't know, do you?"

  Draping an arm across Dan's shoulder, then glancing around. Too much light, he withdrew the touch. Then realized what he had done and put his hands in his pockets.

  "Let's go back."

  His suggestion completed the failure. During the long walk home they kept more distance, as if each had grown more tender since leaving the porch.

  Lamps threw trapezoids of light along the bedroom walls. Dan opened the curtains and sliding doors, wind flowing in curves through the fabric. He stepped onto the balcony. Out of range of Ford for the moment, he wanted to collapse, and the panic continued to spread inside. Ford unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop from his shoulders.

  When they met eye to eye across that distance, Dan no longer lay out of Ford's reach. Ford stepped onto the balcony and stood near. The warm light poured over the curves of his bare back and arms. His presence indicated invitation, clearer than words but more dangerous. The wish to give in, to lay his hand on that shoulder's lush curve, coursed through Dan with an ache that made him tired. A hint of resentment seized him, since he understood the limits of the offer, that sometimes it offered more than it gave.

  Now Ford watched him. Now Dan lay his hand on the curve of forearm, pulsing beneath his palms, and the contact evoked in him desire that was real enough. The bare body moved. Ford played out what he comprehended of the gestures of seduction, and Dan lay his hands on the large body of the boy and worshiped him until they were both aroused. No condom separated them that night; Ford would not stop to find it. But beyond, through Ford's heavy first sleep, lay the long stretch of empty hours, marked by the breaking of waves beyond the dunes.

  Dan wakened after a dream he never remembered afterward, but it had frightened him while he was in it. When he emerged into consciousness, light spilled into the room from the adjacent dressing room, and there he saw Ford's bare thigh through the doorway. An ache radiated from the room, along with the light. Dan sat up, sheets rolled around his waist. Slipping across the room, silent, he appeared in the doorway before Ford even heard him.

  The familiar face, the tender gray eyes, locked onto Dan without surprise; within Dan the unstoppable softening commenced and he knelt. Ford lay a hand in his hair. "I couldn't sleep."

  "I had a bad dream and it woke me up. I guess I couldn't sleep either."

  "We're a mess." Dan could have predicted the next sentences. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you tonight. You know I couldn't break up—" trembling, "—I can't even say it now."

  "Hush."

  Shaking his head. "No. I can't do that either." Rubbing his eyes dry.

  Clearly, he had been panicked; clearly the panic faded now that he was no longer alone. Dan felt the same ease in himself, the loss of terror from the dream, the certainty of Ford's protection. They rested near each other in the small dressing room. Ford asked, "If you were a woman, would you marry me?"

  "What if you were a woman?"

  "Answer me."

  Dan lay his lips along the edge of Ford's knee, the light feathering of leg hair on the tip of his tongue. What a wrongheaded question, really. But he answered. "Yes. But I think it would still be hard to do."

  "But you would want to."

>   "Yes. It's what I want now."

  "Is it?" Ford shook his head. The motion suffused his body with sadness, genuine and bone deep; Dan pressed himself against the younger man. "I mean it."

  "Then why won't you move into my house with me? That's what I want. Now." The words rushed out all at once. In their wake, silence.

  Dan might have laughed; but only a few hours ago you said you wanted something else. "You know I can't move in with you and leave my cats."

  "That's an excuse. I'm tired of hearing it."

  "What would you do if I moved in with you? You're already so scared of what the neighbors think you won't even walk in the front yard with me. What do you think would happen if I lived there?"

  As if each word were painful pressure, Ford shrank, as if he would like to disappear into the wall. They had reached this point of discussion before, hitting the same wall. If we live together everybody will know. Your parents will know. Your sister will know.

  "How do we get past this?" And suddenly Ford felt tears coming out of himself, running along his face. "Danny, this won't last if we don't do something. If we don't try to live together we won't stay together. We have to do something."

  So that was why they had come here, why the big house, why the public contact on the porch. After a moment, Dan stood. "Let's go for another walk. Okay? I can't stay here anymore. And I don't want to sleep."

  On the beach, feet in the cool sand, they walked without hurry, unmindful of the hour. The topic which they had suspended in the dressing room of the beach house returned to them along the strand. "If I move in with you, my cats come too."

  "Fine," Ford said.

  They pushed forward into solitary darkness, a sense of peace spreading across their shores like an entering tide. They sat in the sand watching the water, Ford's head in Dan's lap. He let himself get lost, and this time, the weight of Ford seemed sweet. Water lapped around them near the end of its journey, sand streaming beneath them, drawing them downward, then streaming in to lift them again.