Free Fellow Mortals by Dennis Mahoney Page A

foot, intuiting the one that hurts most, and tips her back gently onto the bed. Ava props on her elbows, just to show resistance, but the pressure of his thumb immediately glows. Henry hums at her foot, near enough to kiss it, his mustache not quite tickling her sole.
    Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute  … She’s never decided if it’s worse that he hums old commercials, or that she always hears the lyric bouncing in her head. But she’s happy they’re in tune, that his hands are on her foot, and that he really did survive the visit out to Sam’s. He hits a spot along her arch that prickles up her thigh. She settles back and hears maple leaves swishing in the yard. She thinks of fireflies bobbing outside, gold-green, and it’s almost like dozing in a hammock in the breeze.
    “I’ll tell you,” Henry says. “Seeing him alone out there, living in a trailer…”
    “Shh,” Ava says, opening her toes.
    *   *   *
    Henry and Wing drive back to Arcadia Street the next morning. They follow Ava going to work until she turns her own way and blows them a kiss out the window, more professional and beautiful than Henry’s used to seeing her at home. She’s a woman he’d admire if he passed her on the road, and he thinks of other people that’ll see her this way—patients at the lab, businessmen and doctors—when her smile is directed at the world instead of him.
    For days and days she swaddled him up, petting his hair and bringing him drinks, calling him from work every two or three hours just to see if he was doing okay. But when the newness of the fire wore off, when the aftermath and living with the Finns grew familiar, he began to feel a starchiness in all her ministrations. He’d sensed a similar detachment from a surgeon last summer when he had to get a coronary stent. The surgery itself had gone as well as they had hoped, but the artery they’d pierced to get the catheter inside kept bleeding, just a little, when it should have knit together. Each day, Henry’s surgeon grew increasingly annoyed, subtly at first and openly at last, as if the bleeding were a voluntary failure of his patient.
    Wing tracks Ava for as long as he can see her. Then he’s back, eyes ahead, remembering the way and sniffing in the wind. Henry’s eager, too. He’s in agony from yesterday, sore at every joint, but Ava’s kiss pepped him up and what’s a little rain? He’s brought along a thermos and a bag full of sandwiches and pears. He could haul a whole forest. It’s a wide-open day.
    He parks in front of the Bailey lot and double-toots the horn.
    Like a shot, there’s Sam striding at the car. He’s wearing long johns and socks without shoes, pounding into puddles and electrically awake. Henry steps out, shutting Wingnut in.
    “Get out of here!” Sam yells, ten feet away and bearing down fast.
    Henry backs up and stumbles off the curb. Sam shoves him in the chest.
    “ Whoa…,” Henry says.
    Sam pushes him again. They tangle at the feet and topple in the road. Wing snarls in the car, scratching at the door. Henry gasps and doesn’t move. Sam grabs him by the neck, kneeling on his stomach, and his face is inescapable and near enough to blur. There’s banana on his breath and mud below his eye, and Henry has a feeling like he’s staring at a relative, everything familiar from the oil on his nose to the one stray whisker he neglected when he shaved.
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Henry stammers.
    “You killed her,” Sam says. “Understand? Understand? ” punctuating each with a jostle and a bump.
    “I’m sorry,” Henry moans, incapable of stopping. He’s shaken by a sob. Snot bubbles from his nostril.
    Sam is catatonic when he wobbles to his feet. He walks away, leaving Henry like he isn’t even there. Wing’s stopped barking but he presses at the glass. Henry stands and has to catch himself; he might have sprained an ankle. He watches Sam trudge toward the trailer, where he