Fellow Mortals by Dennis Mahoney

kitchen. She hands him a bottle of beer and Henry takes a sip, trying to guess the cause of her mysterious expression.
    “Sam Bailey called.”
    “What? When?”
    “Twenty minutes ago. We had a whole conversation. Sort of,” she admits. “I got the impression it was a long talk for him.”
    “What’d he want?”
    “He wants to see you,” Ava says. “He says he understands if you don’t want to go, considering what happened when you went the other morning.”
    Henry wipes the bottle on his neck. Jig is up.
    “He knocked me down and started yelling. He didn’t mean it,” Henry says. “He was running and he fell, we tangled up. I guess he lost his head. The guy’s a wreck. It’s like you said, he hasn’t had a regular talk with anyone in weeks, and here comes me of all people. It wasn’t that bad. I didn’t want to scare you.”
    Ava doesn’t like it. He can see it in her shoulders, in the way the sweaty bottle isn’t slipping in her hand.
    “I don’t have to go,” he says, feeling for his keys.
    “No, I think you should.”
    “If it worries you…”
    “He sounded really normal,” Ava tells him. “I’ve been picturing this cold, dark woodsman with an ax. But you can’t go now—you’ll have to go tomorrow. We’re having chicken and for once you’re going to sit with us at dinner.”
    “I always sit—”
    “You’re going to sit with us.”
    Henry takes a seat to prove he gets the point. He watches Ava’s jeans while she moves around the kitchen, how her back keeps showing in the gap below her shirt. Her hips seem perfectly designed for his lap, and the bottle warms him up with a nice, sunny fizz. Joan’s busy with her puzzle. Nan’s sleeping in her room. Even Wing is out of sight and they’re together in the kitchen. He’s attentive when she talks, hearing everything she says, and then she’s balancing a tray full of drinks near the screen.
    “Little help?” Ava asks.
    Henry’s up and at the door. He holds it open right beside her, conscious of her eyes and of the keys in his pocket, tempting him to drive off to Sam’s straightaway.

 
    10
    Henry reaches Arcadia Street at 8:16 a.m., having risen predawn and paced the house until Nan required him to sit, Joan encouraged him to eat, and Ava finally let him go at the reasonable workday hour of eight o’clock. Wing’s alertness has an edge, a memory of danger and a spirit of defense.
    Henry parks and says, “Relax. He invited us today.”
    Sam saunters from the trailer. Henry takes his foot off the clutch without shifting into neutral and the car bucks forward.
    “Damn it,” he says, blushing from the jolt; he hasn’t stalled that badly since he learned how to drive.
    Sam lifts a hand, not quite waving as he walks toward the car. Wing snarls at the sight, lunging for the road as soon as Henry flips up the lock.
    “No,” he says. “Sit. Knock it off, Wing. Sit!”
    He squeezes out and shuts the door, shaken by the fury of the barks. Sam halts where he is, back beyond the walk, but when Henry gets close enough he offers him a hand. Henry shakes it too emphatically and cracks Sam’s knuckles.
    “I guess your dog hates me now,” Sam says.
    Wing grows far more insistent when they turn. He’s impressive with his bare teeth flashing at the glass and yet his voice keeps breaking, like an angry adolescent.
    “He’ll get over it,” Henry says. “You got any junk food?”
    “I have a couple of old donuts.”
    “That’ll work.”
    Sam gets the donuts from the trailer, a pair of stiff crullers in a wax paper bag.
    “Give me the first one,” Henry says. He waggles it back and forth and opens the door the width of one cruller, slipping it in for Wingnut to sniff. “Look what Sam has. That’s for you. Go ahead, good dog. That’s from Sam .”
    Wing takes the donut in a one-two bite and lifts his head, first to Henry, then to Sam’s paper bag.
    “You want me to open the door?” Henry asks.
    Sam nods, firming up his stance