Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

“All right, Mr. Laughlin.” Fuller rose from the edge of the desktop. “We can’t waste the taxpayers’ money by keeping you here any longer.” The dismissal was performed as a burlesque of impatience, but Tim knew he was indeed meant to go, as if the two of them really were Mr. Fuller and Mr. Laughlin, strangers. The touch of Hawkins’ hand to his shoulder, for the briefest moment as they reached the door, did little to erase the impression. “He’s a nice boy,” said Mary Johnson, once he was gone. “Skippy?” asked Fuller. “Practically an angel.” She resumed typing thank-you letters to opponents of the Bricker Amendment. “You don’t approve,” said Fuller, not quite ready to reenter his own office. “Of what?” asked Mary. The ensuing silence convinced her he didn’t really mean to discuss it. “Fuller,” she finally said—a last effort—“I’m not Miss Lightfoot.” “I’ll tell the brewer. He’ll be relieved.” “But no,” said Mary. “I suppose I don’t approve. I doubt any woman really does. And you can’t expect me to: I was still getting ashes on my own head three years ago. But there are things I approve of less.” “Of our boy Skippy railing against the reds?” “No. Of your breaking his heart.” Fuller paused before saying, grandly, “I lack all such intention.” “But not all such power.”