Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

From behind, Tim heard a woman’s soft Southern voice beginning to sing “Hey There.” He felt an ice-filled glass being pressed against the back of his neck and realized it must be Mary Johnson. He turned around and smiled. “Me with the stars in my eyes,” he sang in return. “That ice felt good. Where’s Paul?” “At a phone, ordering us a car. He figures we’ll never get a cab downstairs.” “You’re leaving so soon?” Mary laughed. “It’s a miracle he lasted this long.” Tim noticed the way she said it, as if Hildebrand’s prudential nature might be troubling her more than Hawkins’ daredevil one. “Would you let me make you dinner some night?” she asked. “Really?” “Really,” she assured him. “Just the two of us.” “Of course,” he replied, knowing there would be a third, incorporeal presence at her table. For the first time in his life he would be talking to somebody about Hawkins Fuller, saying his name, making judgments and speculations about him, offering amusing stories in which he himself figured. But were there any stories that Tim could actually tell? Ones that didn’t have nakedness and the bedroom for their costume and setting? Banishing this reverie, he spoke again at last: “Hawk got dragged away to meet someone.” “I know,” Mary said. “I was taken over there, too.” She pointed toward a spot by the railing. “Oh, my gosh,” said Tim, “that’s Mrs. Wilson!”