The Accidental Tourist (2 page)

Breakfast: Breakfast was your most important meal. He hooked up the percolator and the electric skillet to the clock radio on his bedroom windowsill. Of course he was asking for food poisoning, letting two raw eggs wait all night at room temperature, but once he’d changed menus there was no problem. You had to be flexible about these matters. He was awakened now by the smell of fresh coffee and hot buttered popcorn, and he could partake of both without getting out of bed. Oh, he was managing fine, just fine. All things considered.

But his nights were terrible.

It wasn’t that he had trouble getting to sleep in the first place. That was easy. He’d watch TV till his eyes burned; then he’d climb the stairs. He would start the shower running and spread his clothes in the tub. At times he thought of skipping this part, except there was such a danger in falling behind with your system. So he carried out each step: hanging the laundry, setting up the breakfast things, flossing his teeth. He couldn’t go to bed without flossing his teeth. For some reason, Sarah had found this irritating. If Macon were condemned to death, she’d said once, and they told him he’d be executed by firing squad at dawn, he would no doubt still insist on flossing the night before. Macon, after thinking it over, had agreed. Yes, of course he would. Hadn’t he flossed while in the depths of pneumonia? In the hospital with gallstones? In a motel the night his son was killed? He checked his teeth in the mirror. They were never entirely white, in spite of all his care. And now it seemed his skin was taking on a yellowish cast as well.

He turned off the lights, moved the cat over, helped the dog up onto the bed. The dog was a Welsh corgi, very shortlegged, but he did love to sleep in a bed, and so every night he stood erect and propped his elbows on the mattress and gazed at Macon expectantly till Macon gave him a boost. Then they’d all three settle themselves. Macon slipped into his envelope, the cat fitted her shape to the warm spot under his arm, and the dog plopped down near his feet. Then Macon closed his eyes and drifted off.

But eventually he found himself conscious of his dreams—not borne along by them but tediously constructing them, quibbling over details. When it dawned on him that he was awake, he would open his eyes and squint at the clock radio. But it was only one a.m. At the latest, two. There were all those hours still to be survived.

His brain buzzed with little worries. Had he left the back door unlocked? Forgotten to put the milk away? Made out a check for his bank balance instead of his gas bill? He remembered all in a rush that he’d opened a can of V-8 juice and then put the can in the icebox. Oxidation of the metal seams! Resulting in lead poisoning!

The worries changed, grew deeper. He wondered what had gone wrong with his marriage. Sarah had been his first and only girlfriend; now he thought he should have practiced on someone else beforehand. During the twenty years of their marriage there’d been moments—there’d been months—when he didn’t feel they had really formed a unit the way couples were supposed to. No, they’d stayed two distinct people, and not always even friends. Sometimes they’d seemed more like rivals, elbowing each other, competing over who was the better style of person. Was it Sarah, haphazard, mercurial? Was it Macon, methodical and steady?

When Ethan was born, he only brought out more of their differences. Things they had learned to ignore in each other resurfaced. Sarah never got their son on any kind of schedule at all, was lax and unconcerned. And Macon (oh, he knew it, he admitted it) had been so intent on preparing him for every eventuality that he hadn’t had time to enjoy him. Ethan at two, at four floated up into his vision as clearly as a color film projected upon the bedroom ceiling. A chortling, sunny little boy, he’d been, with Macon a stooped shape above him wringing his hands. Macon had been fierce in teaching him, at age six, how to swing a bat; it would have wrenched his soul to have Ethan chosen last for any team. “Why?” Sarah had asked. “If he’s chosen last, he’s chosen last. Let it be, why don’t you.” Let it be! Life was so full of things you couldn’t do anything about; you had to avert what you could. She laughed when Macon spent one fall collecting Wacky Packs, which had these jokey stickers inside that Ethan liked to plaster his bedroom door with. He’d have more than anyone in the whole third grade, Macon vowed. Long after Ethan lost interest, Macon was still doggedly bringing them home. He knew it was absurd, but still, there was this one last sticker they had not yet managed to get hold of . . .

Ethan went away to camp when he was twelve—a year ago, almost exactly. Most boys started earlier, but Macon had kept delaying it. Why have a child at all, he asked Sarah, if you were only going to ship him off to some godforsaken spot in Virginia? By the time he finally gave in, Ethan was in the top age group—a tall blond sprout of a boy with an open, friendly face and an endearing habit of bouncing on the balls of his feet when he was nervous.

Don’t think about it.

He was murdered in a Burger Bonanza his second night at camp. It was one of those deaths that make no sense—the kind where the holdup man has collected his money and is free to go but decides, instead, first to shoot each and every person through the back of the skull.

Ethan wasn’t even supposed to be there. He had snuck away from camp with a cabinmate, who waited outside as a lookout.

Blame the camp for not supervising. Blame Burger Bonanza for poor security. Blame the cabinmate for not going in too and altering, perhaps, what took place. (Lookout for what, for God’s sake?) Blame Sarah for allowing Ethan to leave home; blame Macon for agreeing; blame even (hell, yes) Ethan. Blame Ethan for wanting to attend that camp and for sneaking off from it, and for entering Burger Bonanza like some headstrong fool while a holdup was in progress. Blame him for so meekly moving to the kitchen with the others, for placing his hands flat against the wall as he was ordered and no doubt bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet . . .

Don’t think about it.

The director of the camp, not wanting to break the news on the phone, had driven to Baltimore to tell them in person. Then he’d driven them back to Virginia. Macon often recalled that director. Jim, his name was, Jim Robinson or maybe Robertson—a burly, white-whiskered man with a crew cut, wearing a suit coat, as if in respect, over a Redskins T-shirt. He’d seemed uncomfortable with silence and did his best to fill it with abrupt little fragments of chitchat. Macon hadn’t listened, or he’d thought he hadn’t; but now all the fragments came back to him. How Jim’s mother had been a Baltimorean herself, born the year Babe Ruth was playing for the Orioles. How Jim’s tomato plants had been acting queerly, producing only tiny green marbles that fell off the vines before they ripened. How Jim’s wife was terrified of driving in reverse and avoided any situation that required it. Macon gave a lot of thought to that now, lying in his bed at night. Could you really drive a car without reversing? What about at intersections, where a bus driver pokes his head out his window and asks you to roll on back a few yards so he can turn? Would she refuse? Macon imagined her, staunch and defiant, glaring straight in front of her and pretending not to notice. The driver escalating into curses, horns blowing, other drivers shouting, “Aw, lady!” It made a nice picture. He kept it firmly in mind.

Finally he would sit up and wriggle out of his sheet. The dog, sighing, roused himself and dropped off the bed to pad downstairs behind him. The floorboards were cool underfoot, the kitchen linoleum cooler still; there was a glow from the refrigerator as Macon poured himself a glass of milk. He went to the living room and turned on the TV. Generally some black-and-white movie was running—men in suits and felt hats, women with padded shoulders. He didn’t try to follow the plot. He took small, steady sips of milk, feeling the calcium traveling to his bones. Hadn’t he read that calcium cures insomnia? He absently stroked the cat, who had somehow crept into his lap. It was much too hot to have a cat in his lap, especially this one—a loose-strung, gray tweed female who seemed made of some unusually dense substance. And the dog, most often, would be lying on top of his feet. “It’s just you and me, old buddies,” Macon would tell them. The cat made a comma of sweat across his bare thighs.

At last he would slip out from under the animals and turn off the TV. He would put his glass in the chlorine solution in the kitchen sink. He would climb the stairs. He’d stand at the bedroom window looking over the neighborhood—black branches scrawled on a purple night sky, a glimmer of white clapboard here and there, occasionally a light. Macon always took comfort if he found a light. Someone else had trouble sleeping too, he assumed. He didn’t like to consider any other possibility—a party, for instance, or a heart-to-heart talk with old friends. He preferred to believe that someone else was on his own, sitting up wide awake fending off his thoughts. That made him feel much better. He returned to his bed. He lay down. He closed his eyes and without even trying, he dropped off the edge into sleep.

three

Sarah telephoned Macon and asked if she could come get the navy blue rug from the dining room.

“Navy blue rug,” Macon repeated. (He was stalling for time.)

“I wouldn’t mention it except you never liked it,” Sarah told him. “You said it was a mistake to have a rug where people were eating.”

Yes, he had said that. A crumb catcher, he’d said. Unsanitary. Then why did he feel this sudden, wrenching need to keep the rug for himself?

“Macon, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“So would you mind if I came and got it?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Oh, good. My apartment has these bare floors and you’ve no idea how—”

She would stop by for the rug and he’d invite her in. He’d offer her a glass of sherry. They would sit on the couch with their sherry and he would say, “Sarah, have you missed me?” Or no, he’d say, “I’ve missed you, Sarah.”

She would say . . .

She said, “I thought I’d drop over Saturday morning, if that’s convenient.”

But people don’t drink sherry in the morning.

And besides: He wouldn’t even be here then. “I leave for England tomorrow afternoon,” he said.

“Oh, is it time for England again?”

“Maybe you could come this evening.”

“No, my car’s in the shop.”

“Your car? What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I was driving along and . . . you know that little red light on the lefthand side of the dash?”

“What, the oil pressure light?”

“Yes, and so I thought, ‘Well, I’ll be late for the dentist if I stop and see to it now and anyway, the car does seem to be running all right, so—’ ”

“Wait. Are you saying the light lit up? And then you went on driving?”

“Well, nothing sounded any different and nothing
acted
any different, so I figured—”

“Jesus, Sarah.”

“What’s so terrible about that?”

“You’ve probably ruined the engine.”

“No, I did not ruin the engine, for your information. I just need this single, simple repair job but unfortunately it’s going to take a few days to do it. Well, never mind. I’ve got a house key. I’ll just let myself in on Saturday.”

“Maybe I could bring the rug over.”

“I’ll wait till Saturday.”

“That way I could see your apartment,” Macon said. “I’ve never been inside, you know.”

“No, it’s not fixed up yet.”

“I don’t care if it’s fixed up.”

“It’s a disaster. Nothing’s been done.”

“How could nothing be done? You’ve been living there over a month.”

“Well, I’m not so wonderfully perfectly efficient as you are, Macon.”

“You wouldn’t have to be efficient to—”

“Some days,” Sarah said, “I can’t even make it out of my bathrobe.”

Macon was silent.

“I should have agreed to teach summer school,” Sarah said. “Something to give some shape to things. I open my eyes in the morning and think, ‘Why bother getting up?’ ”

“Me too,” Macon said.

“Why bother eating? Why bother breathing?”

“Me too, sweetheart.”

“Macon, do you suppose that person has any idea? I want to go see him in prison, Macon. I want to sit on the other side of the grid or the screen or whatever they have and I’ll say, ‘Look at me. Look. Look at what you did. You didn’t just kill the people you shot; you killed other people besides. What you did goes on and on forever. You didn’t just kill my son; you killed me; you killed my husband. I mean I can’t even manage to put up my curtains; do you understand what you did?’ Then when I’m sure that he does understand, that he really does realize, that he feels just terrible, I’m going to open my purse and pull out a gun and shoot him between the eyes.”

“Oh, well, sweetheart—”

“You think I’m just raving, don’t you. But Macon, I swear, I can feel that little kick against my palm when I fire the gun. I’ve never fired a gun in my life—Lord, I don’t think I’ve ever
seen
a gun. Isn’t it odd? Ethan’s seen one; Ethan’s had an experience you and I have no notion of. But sometimes I hold my hand out with the thumb cocked like when kids play cowboy, and I fold my trigger finger and feel what a satisfaction it would be.”

“Sarah, it’s bad for you to talk like this.”

“Oh? How am I supposed to talk?”

“I mean if you let yourself get angry you’ll be . . . consumed. You’ll burn up. It’s not productive.”

“Oh, productive! Well, goodness, no, let’s not waste our time on anything unproductive.”

Macon massaged his forehead. He said, “Sarah, I just feel we can’t afford to have these thoughts.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“No, it is not easy for me to say, dammit—”

“Just shut the door, Macon. Just walk away. Just pretend it never happened. Go rearrange your tools, why don’t you; line up your wrenches from biggest to smallest instead of from smallest to biggest; that’s always fun.”

“Goddammit, Sarah—”

“Don’t you curse at me, Macon Leary!”

They paused.

Macon said, “Well.”

Sarah said, “Well, anyhow.”

“So I guess you’ll come by while I’m gone,” he said.

“If that’s all right.”

“Yes, certainly,” he said.

Although he felt a curious uneasiness when he hung up, as if he were letting a stranger come. As if she might walk off with more than just the dining room rug.

For his trip to England, he dressed in his most comfortable suit.
One suit is plenty,
he counseled in his guidebooks,
if you take along
some travel-size packets of spot remover
. (Macon knew every item that came in travel-size packets, from deodorant to shoe polish.)
The suit should be a medium gray. Gray not only hides the dirt; it’s
handy for sudden funerals and other formal events. At the same time,
it isn’t too somber for everyday.

He packed a minimum of clothes and a shaving kit. A copy of his most recent guide to England. A novel to read on the plane.

Bring only what fits in a carry-on bag. Checking your luggage is
asking for trouble. Add several travel-size packets of detergent so you
won’t fall into the hands of foreign laundries.

When he’d finished packing, he sat on the couch to rest. Or not to rest, exactly, but to collect himself—like a man taking several deep breaths before diving into a river.

The furniture was all straight lines and soothing curves. Dust motes hung in a slant of sunlight. What a peaceful life he led here! If this were any other day he’d be making some instant coffee. He would drop the spoon in the sink and stand sipping from his mug while the cat wove between his feet. Then maybe he’d open the mail. Those acts seemed dear and gentle now. How could he have complained of boredom? At home he had everything set up around him so he hardly needed to think. On trips even the smallest task required effort and decisions.

When it was two hours till takeoff, he stood up. The airport was a thirty-minute drive at the most, but he hated feeling rushed. He made a final tour of the house, stopping off at the downstairs bathroom—the last
real
bathroom (was how he thought of it) that he’d see for the next week. He whistled for the dog. He picked up his bag and stepped out the front door. The heat slammed into him like something solid.

The dog was going with him only as far as the vet’s. If he’d known that, he never would have jumped into the car. He sat next to Macon, panting enthusiastically, his keg-shaped body alert with expectation. Macon talked to him in what he hoped was an un-alarming tone. “Hot, isn’t it, Edward. You want the air conditioner on?” He adjusted the controls. “There now. Feeling better?” He heard something unctuous in his voice. Maybe Edward did, too, for he stopped panting and gave Macon a sudden suspicious look. Macon decided to say no more.

They rolled through the neighborhood, down streets roofed over with trees. They turned into a sunnier section full of stores and service stations. As they neared Murray Avenue, Edward started whimpering. In the parking lot of the Murray Avenue Veterinary Hospital, he somehow became a much smaller animal.

Macon got out of the car and walked around to open the door. When he took hold of Edward’s collar, Edward dug his toenails into the upholstery. He had to be dragged all the way to the building, scritching across the hot concrete.

The waiting room was empty. A goldfish tank bubbled in one corner, with a full-color poster above it illustrating the life cycle of the heartworm. There was a girl on a stool behind the counter, a waifish little person in a halter top.

“I’ve brought my dog for boarding,” Macon said. He had to raise his voice to be heard above Edward’s moans.

Chewing her gum steadily, the girl handed him a printed form and a pencil. “Ever been here before?” she asked.

“Yes, often.”

“What’s the last name?”

“Leary.”

“Leary. Leary,” she said, riffling through a box of index cards. Macon started filling out the form. Edward was standing upright now and clinging to Macon’s knees, like a toddler scared of nursery school.

“Whoa,” the girl said.

She frowned at the card she’d pulled.

“Edward?” she said. “On Rayford Road?”

“That’s right.”

“We can’t accept him.”

“What?”

“Says here he bit an attendant. Says, ‘Bit Barry in the ankle, do not readmit.’ ”

“Nobody told me that.”

“Well, they should have.”

“Nobody said a word! I left him in June when we went to the beach; I came back and they handed him over.”

The girl blinked at him, expressionless.

“Look,” Macon said. “I’m on my way to the airport, right this minute. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“I’m only following orders,” the girl said.

“And what set him off, anyhow?” Macon asked. “Did anyone think to wonder? Maybe Edward had good reason!”

The girl blinked again. Edward had dropped to all fours by now and was gazing upward with interest, as if following the conversation.

“Ah, the hell with it,” Macon said. “Come on, Edward.”

He didn’t have to take hold of Edward’s collar when they left. Edward galloped ahead of him all the way across the parking lot.

In that short time, the car had turned into an oven. Macon opened his window and sat there with the motor idling. What now? He considered going to his sister’s, but she probably wouldn’t want Edward either. To tell the truth, this wasn’t the first time there had been complaints. Last week, for instance, Macon’s brother Charles had stopped by to borrow a router, and Edward had darted in a complete circle around his feet, taking furious little nibbles of his trouser cuffs. Charles was so astonished that he just turned his head slowly, gaping down. “What’s got into him?” he asked. “He never
used
to do this.” Then when Macon grabbed his collar, Edward had snarled. He’d curled his upper lip and snarled. Could a dog have a nervous breakdown?

Macon wasn’t very familiar with dogs. He preferred cats. He liked the way cats kept their own counsel. It was only lately that he’d given Edward any thought at all. Now that he was alone so much he had taken to talking out loud to him, or sometimes he just sat studying him. He admired Edward’s intelligent brown eyes and his foxy little face. He appreciated the honey-colored whorls that radiated so symmetrically from the bridge of his nose. And his walk! Ethan used to say that Edward walked as if he had sand in his bathing suit. His rear end waddled busily; his stubby legs seemed hinged by some more primitive mechanism than the legs of taller dogs.

Macon was driving toward home now, for lack of any better idea. He wondered what would happen if he left Edward in the house the way he left the cat, with plenty of food and water. No. Or could Sarah come see to him, two or three times a day? He recoiled from that; it meant asking her. It meant dialing that number he’d never used and asking her for a favor.

MEOW-BOW ANIMAL HOSPITAL, a sign across the street read. Macon braked and Edward lurched forward. “Sorry,” Macon told him. He made a left turn into the parking lot.

The waiting room at the Meow-Bow smelled strongly of disinfectant. Behind the counter stood a thin young woman in a ruffled peasant blouse. She had aggressively frizzy black hair that burgeoned to her shoulders like an Arab headdress. “Hi, there,” she said to Macon.

Macon said, “Do you board dogs?”

“Sure.”

“I’d like to board Edward, here.”

She leaned over the counter to look at Edward. Edward panted up at her cheerfully. It was clear he hadn’t yet realized what kind of place this was.

“You have a reservation?” the woman asked Macon.

“Reservation! No.”

“Most people reserve.”

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

“Especially in the summer.”

“Couldn’t you make an exception?”

She thought it over, frowning down at Edward. Her eyes were very small, like caraway seeds, and her face was sharp and colorless.

“Please,” Macon said. “I’m about to catch a plane. I’m leaving for a week, and I don’t have a soul to look after him. I’m desperate, I tell you.”

From the glance she shot at him, he sensed he had surprised her in some way. “Can’t you leave him home with your wife?” she asked.

He wondered how on earth her mind worked.

“If I could do that,” he said, “why would I be standing here?”

“Oh,” she said. “You’re not married?”

“Well, I am, but she’s . . . living elsewhere. They don’t allow pets.”

“Oh.”

She came out from behind the counter. She was wearing very short red shorts; her legs were like sticks. “I’m a divorsy myself,” she said. “I know what you’re going through.”

“And see,” Macon said, “there’s this place I usually board him but they suddenly claim he bites. Claim he bit an attendant and they can’t admit him anymore.”

“Edward? Do you bite?” the woman said.

Macon realized he should not have mentioned that, but she seemed to take it in stride. “How could you do such a thing?” she asked Edward. Edward grinned up at her and folded his ears back, inviting a pat. She bent and stroked his head.