fromwithin Ford responded withthe same deep sadness.
The song ended, the last pulse vanishing, and the room exploded into applause, far greater than Ford's memory of the year before. Dan received this quietly, with a look of deliberate containment. The stillness of his features burned an image into Ford. Before descending from the dais, with an air of perfect peace, he surveyed the crowd as the applause continued.
He could hardly help but find Ford, who stood inches above every other occupant of the room. Their eyes locked, and suddenly Dan's moment of perfect beauty fled. He froze on the dais, broke off the eye contact by act of will, took a breath and gathered himself together, each phase of the change visible to Ford. His flesh went ashen, his eyes dimmed. When he could move again, he let the crowd take him.
"He's wasting his time at Grady," Dr. Milliken said, "anybody who cansinglike that."
Ford said, allhollow, "I heard himinthe conceit last year."
Only the sickness of his patients kept Ford intact through the remainder ofhis shift. He moved through the clinic corridors with perfect whiteness of mind, obliterating every thought but that of his next action, the counting of a heartbeat, the proper curve of sinus rhythm on an EKG strip, the correct test to order for the white blood cell count of a child one week past strep throat. Once, in his empty exam room, before summoning his next Once, in his empty exam room, before summoning his next patient, he dialed Dan Crell's hospitalextension; closing his eyes, holding his breath, he told himselfhe would think ofsomething to say. A crisp-voiced secretary informed him that Mr. Crell had left for the day and would not return to the hospital till after Christmas; would there be anymessage?
His shift ended, and he drove to Clifton Heights. The iron controlwith which he had braved the long day refused to release him now, and he could hardly feel his own heartbeat. Pouring himself a large glass of gin, disdaining all lights, all television, all music, he wandered from room to room, his brain a burned-out blank. When he recalled the events of the day, he could hardly believe any moment of it after Dr. Milliken's voice in the lobby, I want you to hear this.
He had heard. He had also remembered, past his fear.
When the telephone rang he rushed to answer. But this voice was without resonance, was his mother asking about his plans for arrival in Savannah, would he drive or would he fly? Her mellow, cool questions returned him to the kitchen, facing wooden shelves, studying his grandmother's colanders and the telephone directory. He reached for the directory, saying to his mother, "I only have about thirty-six hours, if I drive I'll do nothingat home except sleep."
"I agree that flying is sensible, Ford, but ifyou haven't booked a flight bynow you'llnever get a seat."
"That's not what I told you, Mother, I said I hadn't decided which flight to take because I wasn't sure of my schedule. I have seats on two different flights and I'll know tomorrow which one I'llbe on. Mytravelagent has everythingunder control."
"I don't mean to be a bore about it, dear, but you know what Christmas means to all of us." She laughed electronically across the scores of miles. "We want to make sure you get here in time for your grandmother's party."
"I get there Christmas Eve night,"Ford said, "and I'llprobably make it to the party, but I won't make dinner. ThenI flyout early the morning ofthe twenty-sixth, just about dawn. That's the most the morning ofthe twenty-sixth, just about dawn. That's the most likelyschedule at the moment."
"Do you have any shopping I can do for you, or have you managed it all?"
Ford rubbed his brows, biting back impatience. Reaching for the telephone book, he said, "Why don't I call you about that sometime Sunday. I need some help, but I don't have myself organized about it right this minute."
"That's fine, son, but please don't push this off to Christmas Eve. Youknow how muchI have to
The song ended, the last pulse vanishing, and the room exploded into applause, far greater than Ford's memory of the year before. Dan received this quietly, with a look of deliberate containment. The stillness of his features burned an image into Ford. Before descending from the dais, with an air of perfect peace, he surveyed the crowd as the applause continued.
He could hardly help but find Ford, who stood inches above every other occupant of the room. Their eyes locked, and suddenly Dan's moment of perfect beauty fled. He froze on the dais, broke off the eye contact by act of will, took a breath and gathered himself together, each phase of the change visible to Ford. His flesh went ashen, his eyes dimmed. When he could move again, he let the crowd take him.
"He's wasting his time at Grady," Dr. Milliken said, "anybody who cansinglike that."
Ford said, allhollow, "I heard himinthe conceit last year."
Only the sickness of his patients kept Ford intact through the remainder ofhis shift. He moved through the clinic corridors with perfect whiteness of mind, obliterating every thought but that of his next action, the counting of a heartbeat, the proper curve of sinus rhythm on an EKG strip, the correct test to order for the white blood cell count of a child one week past strep throat. Once, in his empty exam room, before summoning his next Once, in his empty exam room, before summoning his next patient, he dialed Dan Crell's hospitalextension; closing his eyes, holding his breath, he told himselfhe would think ofsomething to say. A crisp-voiced secretary informed him that Mr. Crell had left for the day and would not return to the hospital till after Christmas; would there be anymessage?
His shift ended, and he drove to Clifton Heights. The iron controlwith which he had braved the long day refused to release him now, and he could hardly feel his own heartbeat. Pouring himself a large glass of gin, disdaining all lights, all television, all music, he wandered from room to room, his brain a burned-out blank. When he recalled the events of the day, he could hardly believe any moment of it after Dr. Milliken's voice in the lobby, I want you to hear this.
He had heard. He had also remembered, past his fear.
When the telephone rang he rushed to answer. But this voice was without resonance, was his mother asking about his plans for arrival in Savannah, would he drive or would he fly? Her mellow, cool questions returned him to the kitchen, facing wooden shelves, studying his grandmother's colanders and the telephone directory. He reached for the directory, saying to his mother, "I only have about thirty-six hours, if I drive I'll do nothingat home except sleep."
"I agree that flying is sensible, Ford, but ifyou haven't booked a flight bynow you'llnever get a seat."
"That's not what I told you, Mother, I said I hadn't decided which flight to take because I wasn't sure of my schedule. I have seats on two different flights and I'll know tomorrow which one I'llbe on. Mytravelagent has everythingunder control."
"I don't mean to be a bore about it, dear, but you know what Christmas means to all of us." She laughed electronically across the scores of miles. "We want to make sure you get here in time for your grandmother's party."
"I get there Christmas Eve night,"Ford said, "and I'llprobably make it to the party, but I won't make dinner. ThenI flyout early the morning ofthe twenty-sixth, just about dawn. That's the most the morning ofthe twenty-sixth, just about dawn. That's the most likelyschedule at the moment."
"Do you have any shopping I can do for you, or have you managed it all?"
Ford rubbed his brows, biting back impatience. Reaching for the telephone book, he said, "Why don't I call you about that sometime Sunday. I need some help, but I don't have myself organized about it right this minute."
"That's fine, son, but please don't push this off to Christmas Eve. Youknow how muchI have to
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