Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

“How long have you been friends?” Tim asked. “About ten years,” Mr. Shaw explained. “Since just after the war.” “We’re in the ‘just friends’ stage now,” Wel added. “Sisters. It comes to that with the seven-year itch. Well, seven months in our case.” He laughed at Tim’s evident perplexity. “I don’t think he’s seen the movie, Clay. He was probably at The Seven Little Foys instead. Anywho,” Wel announced, picking up his cigarette lighter from the tray, “I’m going to leave you two and mosey back home to Chartres Street.” “You don’t live here?” Tim asked. The apartment wasn’t just fancy; it appeared to be enormous. Wel shook his head. “More convenient all around.” He gave Tim a peck on the cheek—“Say hello to all our fighting men!”—and made a fast exit. “May I freshen your drink, Timothy?” “Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” Without Wel, the room itself, however ornate, seemed to acquire a more masculine aspect. Mr. Shaw now appeared almost huge, more handsome and less guarded. Tim had the sense that Wel’s departure had occurred because he’d completed his work by bringing a guest here. Looking toward what seemed to be the largest bedroom, beyond a set of French doors, Tim noticed a silver crucifix attached to one of the walls. In a corner stood a black bullwhip, like something the Lone Ranger might have captured. Mr. Shaw, topping off their drinks, saw him looking and laughed. “Don’t be alarmed, Private Laughlin. That’s left over from Mardi Gras.”