Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

She pushed away the malted and swiveled the stool, as if it were her typist’s chair, so that she could face him. “You condescending, buck-passing bastard,” she declared, as evenly as she could. “It’s your romance, too. You found the castle for it.” “You’re right. It was my romance, too.” Her hand went, involuntarily, to her stomach. It rested there, protectively, for a moment. “‘Was’? Does he know that?” “No. He’s dealing with a vocational setback right now.” The answer’s coolness was, she realized, too much even for Fuller. The display of sang-froid suggested the opposite, an agitation that had prompted him to summon her here. “Did he not get the job?” was all she asked. “He did not get the job.” “That was the ‘other matter’ he called you about.” “Yes, but he wound up chattering mostly of you. In those little grammatical torrents that issue from him when he’s nervous, as if he’s reciting the Apostles’ Creed. He was sentimental. For some reason he couldn’t bear the idea of your leaving without our saying goodbye, you and me.” “Tell me what happened with the job.” “Osborne sent him a letter.” “I thought it was more or less settled, a sure thing.” “‘Security considerations’ arose.” “About him?” “Yes. I mean, they’re obvious enough, aren’t they?” “How exactly were they obvious to Osborne? Or let’s say more obvious than they would have been in February.” Fuller didn’t answer. But when she looked at him, she knew. More than that, she knew that he wanted her to know—just as sure...