Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

When the Baumeisters were gone, she sat down on one of the freshly vacuumed couch cushions. She was wondering whether to open the little box when the phone rang. Fuller’s voice came through the receiver. “I never remembered to disconnect mine, either. The missus had to remind me to.” She supposed he knew everything after all. And why should she be surprised by that? Or surprised by his having waited until the last minute to be in touch? “I’ve switched the service over to the Vassar girl who’s moving in tomorrow,” she explained, as matter-of-factly as possible. “Go downstairs in five minutes. A cab will be waiting to take you to me.” “Fuller, I’m not going to the department.” “You’re going to Quigley’s drugstore. Near GWU. I’ll be at the soda fountain.” “Why don’t you just drive here in your Plymouth? My plane doesn’t leave for hours.” “I know. It leaves at five-forty-five. But there is no Plymouth this week. It’s out in Alexandria at the disposal of the nurse taking care of my little girl.” “How is she?” “Remarkable. Very small but very calm. Quite discriminating. Standoffish, I’d say. We call her Garbo.” I want to be alone. She almost said it, but it wasn’t true. She was all at once nervous and again wanting company, even his. “If there’s no Plymouth, why don’t you take a cab here?” “I don’t want to be around if you have a surprise visitor, which is to say, if Skippy gets there early. Come on, head downstairs. The cabbie will be honking his horn any minute.” She was soon ...