Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

“Well, Mother was no doubt watching it up on Seventy-fourth and Park. I’ve seen it with her several times myself. I’m sure what she really wishes is that we still had an Irish maid she could Lady-Bountifully invite to join her on the sofa.” “You’re talking about your mother,” said Tim, poking Hawkins’ thigh. “No, we’re talking about you,” said Fuller, drawing Tim up so that their two faces were only inches apart. “Tell me, Skippy, how’d you escape Local 20 of the cherubim? Why didn’t they make you into a priest?” For the same reason you should never be a husband, he wanted to say. “Maybe because I like doing this too much instead,” he settled for answering. He kissed Hawkins’ neck, receiving in return only a familiar, opaque smile, as if “this,” and all it signified, did not even register. Was Hawkins ever really conscious, Tim wondered, of their doing anything at all? Or had he somehow made “this” into an automatic, harmlessly recurring condition, like sleepwalking? Hawkins lifted him from the couch, and turned off the television. Once they were in the bedroom and he was removing the last of his clothes, the older man finally said, “Of course, there’s my father’s great dilemma to consider, too.” Tim propped himself up on the pillow, surprised at what seemed to be a waiver of the rules. He prepared for the imparting of real, personal information, unprompted by any risky question of his own.