Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

Hawkins flopped onto the bed, holding a shiny brochure. “The old man is deciding whether he can permit himself to drive an automatic transmission—or whether that’s something that was never meant to be, like filter tips.” He climbed on top of Tim and, between kisses, began a comic recitation of the advertisement. “‘Now your hand, foot, and mind are completely free from all gear-shifting work,’” he whispered. Tim remembered to laugh, but this transposition of the brochure’s promises, accompanied by Hawkins’ insistent touch, was ludicrously thrilling, a smoothly narrated trip into the helplessness he sought. “‘Masters the steepest grades without asking a thing of you,’” said Hawkins, who shut the light and placed one hand under the small of his back. “‘Instant response to throttle.’” When they were through, Tim held on to Hawkins in the dark for as long as he could, knowing he would soon hear the serious joke about this being a school night, and how he ought to get home so that come morning he would be fresh for “Citizen Canes,” as Hawkins liked to call Potter. But for the moment he could feel the beating of their hearts, at different rates, and recognize in Hawkins’ touch a fondness, an attachment, that was sanctioned only by the dark.