Holly in the yard gleamed deeply green. Loneliness poured into himwiththe stirringofwinter breezes, but even in the cold he sat on the porch for a long time in his pajamas and sweater, bare ankles in bedroomslippers, numbed fingers onthe warmcoffee mug.
He tried to remember the feeling that had led him to cross space, to sit down at the table of a stranger and ask the stranger to take a meal with him. He pictured the stranger's face but the image formed only as a blur in his consciousness. What expectations did Dan harbor? I've been watching you for a lon g time. Since you were a medical student.
By the time he left the porch, he had resolved to break the date; but even that act would be public, would require courage. He must either telephone Dan or else, worse, walk into his office. BrieflyFord considered callingDanat home but found the idea too personal, worse than any public scene. Would he tell the truth, or would it be better to pretend that his on-call schedule had changed? Dan might not get the message right away, but soon enough, when Ford refused any attempt at rescheduling, the picture would become clear. Dan was, after all, rescheduling, the picture would become clear. Dan was, after all, far from the kind of person Ford wanted in his life; surely even he understood that.
This left only the question of timing. On this issue, Ford's thinking failed him. He meant to call at once. Each silent telephone reminded him. But Ford lacked the certainty that he could carryoffthe conversationwithgood grace.
Finally he wrote a note to the young man, mailing it to his hospital address. Ford simply wrote that the dinner they had planned was proving impossible for him to schedule. He signed himself"F. McKinney"and attempted to make the scrawlas little like his usual signature as possible, in case Dan Crell attempted to make some sinister use ofthe note.
He placed a callto Shaun Gould, canceling his weekly session and wishingher the merriest ofholidays.
On the Friday of the impossible dinner, with Christmas loomingthe next week, Ford headed throughfirst-floor corridors toward the Pediatric Appointment Clinic where he was scheduled to see patients under Dr. Milliken's supervision. Though the clinic occupied a large area on the second floor of the hospital, Ford went to the trouble of descending one floor and crossing to the clinic on that level. Out of fear. Dan Crell's office lay on the second floor in a suite of offices between the two clinics.
But Ford found Dr. Milliken at the juncture of corridors near the first-floor lobby, standing in a large crowd, and as Ford approached Dr. Milliken signaled him. Ford smiled the crisp smile of the proper young medical resident, heading toward his chief of service. "I want you to hear this," Dr. Milliken said, and a piano struck soft notes as across the crowded lobby Dan Crell mounted a dais and prepared to sing.
"Let's see if we can't get closer," Dr. Milliken whispered. "He has a wonderfulvoice."
Ford muffled his panic and followed, entrapped. Dan began a lullabyto the Christ child, a songFord had heard inhis childhood but not since. At the first full notes, a ripple of response passed through the gathering as the song was recognized; then rapt silence fell as the voice swelled to fill the lobby, to permeate every corner. "Lo, lay thou little tiny child," the young man sang, and the mournful tones sent a chill through Ford. He lost himself in listening. His eyes followed every movement, tracing the slim figure of the singer as the song poured fromhim, the radiance of the sound matched by the luminescence of his face, his wholeness. While Dan sang, he remained oblivious to everything around him, motionless but for the throbbing of his tender, touchable throat. Again his singing told those who listened that the joy ofthe saved is the sorrow ofthe savior, that the tiny child might wish another fate. Again in minor keys and throbbing tones he undercut the merry decorations of the lobby, and
He tried to remember the feeling that had led him to cross space, to sit down at the table of a stranger and ask the stranger to take a meal with him. He pictured the stranger's face but the image formed only as a blur in his consciousness. What expectations did Dan harbor? I've been watching you for a lon g time. Since you were a medical student.
By the time he left the porch, he had resolved to break the date; but even that act would be public, would require courage. He must either telephone Dan or else, worse, walk into his office. BrieflyFord considered callingDanat home but found the idea too personal, worse than any public scene. Would he tell the truth, or would it be better to pretend that his on-call schedule had changed? Dan might not get the message right away, but soon enough, when Ford refused any attempt at rescheduling, the picture would become clear. Dan was, after all, rescheduling, the picture would become clear. Dan was, after all, far from the kind of person Ford wanted in his life; surely even he understood that.
This left only the question of timing. On this issue, Ford's thinking failed him. He meant to call at once. Each silent telephone reminded him. But Ford lacked the certainty that he could carryoffthe conversationwithgood grace.
Finally he wrote a note to the young man, mailing it to his hospital address. Ford simply wrote that the dinner they had planned was proving impossible for him to schedule. He signed himself"F. McKinney"and attempted to make the scrawlas little like his usual signature as possible, in case Dan Crell attempted to make some sinister use ofthe note.
He placed a callto Shaun Gould, canceling his weekly session and wishingher the merriest ofholidays.
On the Friday of the impossible dinner, with Christmas loomingthe next week, Ford headed throughfirst-floor corridors toward the Pediatric Appointment Clinic where he was scheduled to see patients under Dr. Milliken's supervision. Though the clinic occupied a large area on the second floor of the hospital, Ford went to the trouble of descending one floor and crossing to the clinic on that level. Out of fear. Dan Crell's office lay on the second floor in a suite of offices between the two clinics.
But Ford found Dr. Milliken at the juncture of corridors near the first-floor lobby, standing in a large crowd, and as Ford approached Dr. Milliken signaled him. Ford smiled the crisp smile of the proper young medical resident, heading toward his chief of service. "I want you to hear this," Dr. Milliken said, and a piano struck soft notes as across the crowded lobby Dan Crell mounted a dais and prepared to sing.
"Let's see if we can't get closer," Dr. Milliken whispered. "He has a wonderfulvoice."
Ford muffled his panic and followed, entrapped. Dan began a lullabyto the Christ child, a songFord had heard inhis childhood but not since. At the first full notes, a ripple of response passed through the gathering as the song was recognized; then rapt silence fell as the voice swelled to fill the lobby, to permeate every corner. "Lo, lay thou little tiny child," the young man sang, and the mournful tones sent a chill through Ford. He lost himself in listening. His eyes followed every movement, tracing the slim figure of the singer as the song poured fromhim, the radiance of the sound matched by the luminescence of his face, his wholeness. While Dan sang, he remained oblivious to everything around him, motionless but for the throbbing of his tender, touchable throat. Again his singing told those who listened that the joy ofthe saved is the sorrow ofthe savior, that the tiny child might wish another fate. Again in minor keys and throbbing tones he undercut the merry decorations of the lobby, and
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