Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

“Bless me, Sister, for I have…” “That’s not a bad beginning. Keep going.” “I’m fine.” “You’ve been telling me that for three years now.” She reached back to the counter and picked up the cuff links he’d removed from his shirt when he started on the dishes. She pressed them into his hand. “I still don’t know who ‘Hawkins Fuller’ is, but one of these Christmases or Easters that old lady will finally be dead”—she pointed back to the living room and Grandma Gaffney—“and while she’s down there complaining about too few Jews being in Hell—” Tim began to laugh, evasively. Francy pressed the cuff links harder against the palm of his hand. “—I’ll finally be cooking the dinner on Staten Island, where there’ll be two children, no more, and my sullen son of a bitch of a husband.” Over her brother’s nervous, lighthearted protest, she continued: “And I want you to know that whoever this person is”—she pressed the cuff links even harder into Tim’s hand—“he’s always welcome in my house.”