Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

Mary attempted to move out of the kitchen, but Fuller blocked her, trying to smooth things over with a laugh. “If I’d brought him up, he would only have asked you for a glass of milk. And you don’t seem to be serving any.” By now furious at being ignored, Miss Lightfoot could feel her overpowdered jaw suddenly slacken. Him? He? A small cascade of pennies started dropping in her head. After all her flirtation! She’d even sung with this man! Without hesitation, she began a loud, seething recitation of the words she’d seen that boy, that milk-drinking nancy, write in the Lodge biography: “‘With thanks to Hawkins Fuller. I got the job. You’re wonderful.’” She made the inscription sound as if it were a cable from Moscow that had been discovered in Fuller’s shoe. Mary, still unable to get away, could picture the book lying on Fuller’s filing cabinet. He’d never even taken the gift home—a bit of callousness that still appalled her, even as she wanted to defend Fuller from this harridan to whom he’d so foolishly exposed himself. Pushing Miss Lightfoot aside, she at last returned to the living room. Fuller lifted the bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream from the kitchen counter. He topped up Miss Lightfoot’s drink and poured one for himself. He clinked her glass and said, “Miss Lightfoot, I am wonderful.” And then, before walking away, he leaned over and whispered in her ear: “So why don’t you just suffer.”