recommendations on most items, folding the menu. He Ford's recommendations on most items, folding the menu. He considered the wine. "I can't drink more than this. Unfortunately. If I'm going to rehearse tonight. I'm having trouble remembering the words to mysongs. I do three songs inthis show."
"Yousingother places too? Other theaters?"
"Sometimes. I also act sometimes, but I'mnot very good at it. It's somethingto do besides pushpaper at Grady.
I grew up singing in the choir. At least I joined the choir once my family started going to church. One of the times when my parents were tryingto save themselves."
The tinge of sarcasm in the tone and the sudden hardness of Dan's expression surprised Ford. He asked what Dan meant by saving themselves, and Dan answered, coolly and with that same distance, that his mother and father had spent eighteen years fighting, with time out to regroup every couple of years. During time-out they attended church passionately, prayed on their knees in their bedroom every night before going to bed, taught Sunday school classes and Baptist Training Union sections, and generally pursued a path toward whatever salvation they could thus earn. Dan told the story easily, not as information that was difficult to give, but articulated quickly, in an offhand way. As if he had beenmerelyanobserver allthose years.
Throughout, Ford was struck by the ease with which Dan spoke, no matter what the subject, and by the liveliness of his mind. Surrounded bythe fluxofDan's charm, Ford found himself free to talk as well, and he told, without any forethought, the story of Christmas and the coming Atlanta summit during which he and his parents would hashout the subject ofhis marriage. He talked about his mother's coolness at the altar of family photographs and the sudden return of her kinder self at the moment of his departure. "The whole visit was like an essay on why I should marry well," Ford said, "and there I was, very quietlytryingto tellthemthat I'mnot the marryingkind."
The words dropped into space before he heard them in his head. But he knew as soon as he spoke that he must have had a plan. He watched Dancarefullyfor response.
Dan met his eye and said, "My mother and I got through that
Dan met his eye and said, "My mother and I got through that stage. I finally told her I was gay a few years back, and she stopped askingabout mygirlfriends."
"I hate that word,"Ford said.
Danshrugged. "There isn't another one."
Ford conceded the point, though with an inner resistance that puzzled him. "How did your mother react?"
Dan's face filled withgentleness. "She had beenworried about me, because she knew I was keeping a secret from her. So I finally got up the guts to tell her I was gay, and she shrugged. She still doesn't like to talk about it. She hates the word 'gay' too, but I make her say it every now and then, to get her used to the idea."
"What about your father?"
"He's dead,"Dansaid.
Something in Dan's tone warned Ford to ask no questions. Ford waited till the chill passed from Dan's features, a visible change. "I don't think my parents willreact very well,"Ford said. "My sister was fine. But Courtenay's just like that. We've always had to take care ofeachother."
"My sister was fine about it too, when I told her," Dan said, "but she always hates it whenI have a boyfriend."
Ford laughed. Framing his next question with careful casualness. "Eventhe current ones?"
Danmet his eye again. "There aren't anyright now."
Silence. After whichFord asked, "Are yousure about that?"
Dan flushed slightly, abandoning the dinner, turning to the window. Deep emotion stirred in his face, and he spoke as if to the cedars beyond the glass. "I hope you mean that. Because I really like you. And I don't want this to be the last time I see you."
"I feelthe same way,"Ford said, suddenlybreathless.
Having accomplished this much, they sat in silence, each flushed. They were jointly aware of the need to shelter this intimacy from the other couples
"Yousingother places too? Other theaters?"
"Sometimes. I also act sometimes, but I'mnot very good at it. It's somethingto do besides pushpaper at Grady.
I grew up singing in the choir. At least I joined the choir once my family started going to church. One of the times when my parents were tryingto save themselves."
The tinge of sarcasm in the tone and the sudden hardness of Dan's expression surprised Ford. He asked what Dan meant by saving themselves, and Dan answered, coolly and with that same distance, that his mother and father had spent eighteen years fighting, with time out to regroup every couple of years. During time-out they attended church passionately, prayed on their knees in their bedroom every night before going to bed, taught Sunday school classes and Baptist Training Union sections, and generally pursued a path toward whatever salvation they could thus earn. Dan told the story easily, not as information that was difficult to give, but articulated quickly, in an offhand way. As if he had beenmerelyanobserver allthose years.
Throughout, Ford was struck by the ease with which Dan spoke, no matter what the subject, and by the liveliness of his mind. Surrounded bythe fluxofDan's charm, Ford found himself free to talk as well, and he told, without any forethought, the story of Christmas and the coming Atlanta summit during which he and his parents would hashout the subject ofhis marriage. He talked about his mother's coolness at the altar of family photographs and the sudden return of her kinder self at the moment of his departure. "The whole visit was like an essay on why I should marry well," Ford said, "and there I was, very quietlytryingto tellthemthat I'mnot the marryingkind."
The words dropped into space before he heard them in his head. But he knew as soon as he spoke that he must have had a plan. He watched Dancarefullyfor response.
Dan met his eye and said, "My mother and I got through that
Dan met his eye and said, "My mother and I got through that stage. I finally told her I was gay a few years back, and she stopped askingabout mygirlfriends."
"I hate that word,"Ford said.
Danshrugged. "There isn't another one."
Ford conceded the point, though with an inner resistance that puzzled him. "How did your mother react?"
Dan's face filled withgentleness. "She had beenworried about me, because she knew I was keeping a secret from her. So I finally got up the guts to tell her I was gay, and she shrugged. She still doesn't like to talk about it. She hates the word 'gay' too, but I make her say it every now and then, to get her used to the idea."
"What about your father?"
"He's dead,"Dansaid.
Something in Dan's tone warned Ford to ask no questions. Ford waited till the chill passed from Dan's features, a visible change. "I don't think my parents willreact very well,"Ford said. "My sister was fine. But Courtenay's just like that. We've always had to take care ofeachother."
"My sister was fine about it too, when I told her," Dan said, "but she always hates it whenI have a boyfriend."
Ford laughed. Framing his next question with careful casualness. "Eventhe current ones?"
Danmet his eye again. "There aren't anyright now."
Silence. After whichFord asked, "Are yousure about that?"
Dan flushed slightly, abandoning the dinner, turning to the window. Deep emotion stirred in his face, and he spoke as if to the cedars beyond the glass. "I hope you mean that. Because I really like you. And I don't want this to be the last time I see you."
"I feelthe same way,"Ford said, suddenlybreathless.
Having accomplished this much, they sat in silence, each flushed. They were jointly aware of the need to shelter this intimacy from the other couples
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