lived in Atlanta for a while. You've been around Gradysince I've beenthere."
"Sometimes it feels like I've been at Grady forever,"Dan said, witha slight scowl. "But it's just five years. That's about how long I've lived inAtlanta. I like it here, I guess."
Ford had maneuvered to the down ramp and drove through the open gate. "So do I. Better than Savannah, I think. But that's not supposed to happen."
"Savannah boys grow up to be Savannah men, don't they? Somethingto do withevolutionofa higher order ofbeing."
"Do youknow muchabout Savannah?"Ford asked.
"I was there for a while, once. A couple of months. I was in New Orleans longer. It's the same waythere."
"I was in New Orleans once, when I was a kid. Before I was old enough to remember much about it. We went on a steamboat ride. And we ate seafood I didn't like. And I didn't like the French Quarter because there weren't any rides. That should give yousome idea how old I was."
He navigated toward the expressway. Dannested inhis winter coat, surrounded by the dim of winter evening, by Ford's lowslung coupe and by the highway monuments of downtown Atlanta. Enormous bridges, loops and rivers of prestressed concrete, dressed steelbeams, and arcs and torrents of masonry dropped shadows across the windshield. Dan's awareness moved fromshadow to shadow; he leaned forward to look up at the sky, his face catching the low light. Ford found himself watching, at odd moments.
"Youdrive well. Do youlike this car a lot?"
"What do youmean, a lot?"
"Do you drive it a lot, do you take it out in the country? Does it meanas muchto youas a horse to a cowboy?"
"No," Ford chuckled. "I like to drive it but I hardly ever get to. Why are you making fun of my car? Do you think it's ostentatious?"
"It's certainly conspicuously consumptive." Dan crossed his arms and inspected the interior once again. "But I don't think it's offensive. Maybe it's just the smell of the leather, maybe that's what reminds me ofcowboys."
"I don't think I ever reminded anybody of cowboys before,"
"I don't think I ever reminded anybody of cowboys before," Ford said.
"I bet youhave, it's just that nobodyever told youabout it."
Ford steered through traffic, and Dan smiled faintly. Ford said, "It's a flattering image, anyway. Are you at all curious as to where we're going?"
Easy silence followed as the automobile cruised past buildings too new to have either name or reputation. Into a side street the car turned, and Ford parked.
The restaurant, a converted bungalow, nested behind twin cedars, each tall and full based. A brick path led them to the dwarfed house. In summer the patio in front, shaded by an old pecan tree, housed outdoor tables, but these were cleared since the winter cold rendered them useless. Leaves beat across the red tile, tumbled bysharp wind. Ford found himselfremembering his last date here with Haviland Barrows, which had taken place at a table in a bay window in what had once served as the parlor of the bungalow. His restlessness that night had been evident to Haviland, and when she asked him about it, the whole long conversation leading to their breakup began. Tonight, standing in the smallfoyer waitingfor the owner, a polite Frenchman, to seat them, Ford wondered if this gesture, this dinner, were truly the end ofthat cycle.
As they were about to be seated, Ford stood, blankly eyeing the neat arrangement of china and silver, then turned to the owner. "Could we have the window table in the parlor? I'd prefer that one, now that I think about it."
The owner assured him the table was available and led them through low-ceilinged rooms to the front of the house. Dan walked ahead of Ford to the table, Ford watching him. The man moved with a precision that approached grace; but also with undeniable softness, a trace ofeffeminacy.
Ford savored newness. He sipped a drink and studied the menu while Dan cradled a tall wine glass in one hand. They ordered from a small, neat, mustachioed man. Dan accepted Ford's
"Sometimes it feels like I've been at Grady forever,"Dan said, witha slight scowl. "But it's just five years. That's about how long I've lived inAtlanta. I like it here, I guess."
Ford had maneuvered to the down ramp and drove through the open gate. "So do I. Better than Savannah, I think. But that's not supposed to happen."
"Savannah boys grow up to be Savannah men, don't they? Somethingto do withevolutionofa higher order ofbeing."
"Do youknow muchabout Savannah?"Ford asked.
"I was there for a while, once. A couple of months. I was in New Orleans longer. It's the same waythere."
"I was in New Orleans once, when I was a kid. Before I was old enough to remember much about it. We went on a steamboat ride. And we ate seafood I didn't like. And I didn't like the French Quarter because there weren't any rides. That should give yousome idea how old I was."
He navigated toward the expressway. Dannested inhis winter coat, surrounded by the dim of winter evening, by Ford's lowslung coupe and by the highway monuments of downtown Atlanta. Enormous bridges, loops and rivers of prestressed concrete, dressed steelbeams, and arcs and torrents of masonry dropped shadows across the windshield. Dan's awareness moved fromshadow to shadow; he leaned forward to look up at the sky, his face catching the low light. Ford found himself watching, at odd moments.
"Youdrive well. Do youlike this car a lot?"
"What do youmean, a lot?"
"Do you drive it a lot, do you take it out in the country? Does it meanas muchto youas a horse to a cowboy?"
"No," Ford chuckled. "I like to drive it but I hardly ever get to. Why are you making fun of my car? Do you think it's ostentatious?"
"It's certainly conspicuously consumptive." Dan crossed his arms and inspected the interior once again. "But I don't think it's offensive. Maybe it's just the smell of the leather, maybe that's what reminds me ofcowboys."
"I don't think I ever reminded anybody of cowboys before,"
"I don't think I ever reminded anybody of cowboys before," Ford said.
"I bet youhave, it's just that nobodyever told youabout it."
Ford steered through traffic, and Dan smiled faintly. Ford said, "It's a flattering image, anyway. Are you at all curious as to where we're going?"
Easy silence followed as the automobile cruised past buildings too new to have either name or reputation. Into a side street the car turned, and Ford parked.
The restaurant, a converted bungalow, nested behind twin cedars, each tall and full based. A brick path led them to the dwarfed house. In summer the patio in front, shaded by an old pecan tree, housed outdoor tables, but these were cleared since the winter cold rendered them useless. Leaves beat across the red tile, tumbled bysharp wind. Ford found himselfremembering his last date here with Haviland Barrows, which had taken place at a table in a bay window in what had once served as the parlor of the bungalow. His restlessness that night had been evident to Haviland, and when she asked him about it, the whole long conversation leading to their breakup began. Tonight, standing in the smallfoyer waitingfor the owner, a polite Frenchman, to seat them, Ford wondered if this gesture, this dinner, were truly the end ofthat cycle.
As they were about to be seated, Ford stood, blankly eyeing the neat arrangement of china and silver, then turned to the owner. "Could we have the window table in the parlor? I'd prefer that one, now that I think about it."
The owner assured him the table was available and led them through low-ceilinged rooms to the front of the house. Dan walked ahead of Ford to the table, Ford watching him. The man moved with a precision that approached grace; but also with undeniable softness, a trace ofeffeminacy.
Ford savored newness. He sipped a drink and studied the menu while Dan cradled a tall wine glass in one hand. They ordered from a small, neat, mustachioed man. Dan accepted Ford's
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