The Accidental Tourist Read online

  “Whatever.”

  The weather was cold, and the interior of the hall was chilly and bleak. Macon noticed Susan gaping vacantly at the guide, who wasn’t making his spiel very exciting; so he leaned over and whispered, “Imagine. George Washington sat in that very chair.”

  “I’m not really into George Washington, Uncle Macon.”

  “Human beings can only go ‘into’ houses, cars, and coffins, Susan.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  They followed the crowd upstairs, through other rooms, but Susan had plainly exhausted her supply of good humor. “If it weren’t for what was decided in this building,” Macon told her, “you and I might very well be living under a dictatorship.”

  “We are anyhow,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You really think that you and me have any power?”

  “You and I, honey.”

  “It’s just free speech, that’s all we’ve got. We can say whatever we like, then the government goes on and does exactly what it pleases. You call that democracy? It’s like we’re on a ship, headed someplace terrible, and somebody else is steering and the passengers can’t jump off.”

  “Why don’t we go get some supper,” Macon said. He was feeling a little depressed.

  He took her to an old-fashioned inn a few streets over. It wasn’t even dark yet, and they were the first customers. A woman in a Colonial gown told them they’d have to wait a few minutes. She led them into a small, snug room with a fireplace, and a waitress offered them their choice of buttered rum or hot spiked cider. “I’ll have buttered rum,” Susan said, shucking off her jacket.

  Macon said, “Uh, Susan.”

  She glared at him.

  “Oh, well, make that two,” he told the waitress. He supposed a little toddy couldn’t do much harm.

  But it must have been an exceptionally strong toddy—either that, or Susan had an exceptionally weak head for alcohol. At any rate, after two small sips she leaned toward him in an unbalanced way. “This is sort of fun!” she said. “You know, Uncle Macon, I like you much better than I thought I did.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “I used to think you were kind of finicky. Ethan used to make us laugh, pointing to your artichoke plate.”

  “My artichoke plate.”

  She pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “I didn’t mean to talk about him.”

  “You can talk about him.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said.

  She gazed off across the room. Macon, following her eyes, found only a harpsichord. He looked back at her and saw her chin trembling.

  It had never occurred to him that Ethan’s cousins missed him too.

  After a minute, Susan picked her mug up and took several large swallows. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Hot,” she explained. It was true she seemed to have recovered herself.

  Macon said, “What was funny about my artichoke plate?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “I won’t be hurt. Was it funny?”

  “Well, it looked like geometry class. Every leaf laid out in such a perfect circle when you’d finished.”

  “I see.”

  “He was laughing with you, not at you,” Susan said, peering anxiously into his face.

  “Well, since I wasn’t laughing myself, that statement seems inaccurate. But if you mean he wasn’t laughing unkindly, I believe you.”

  She sighed and drank some more of her rum.

  “Nobody talks about him,” Macon said. “None of you mentions his name.”

  “We do when you’re not around,” Susan said.

  “You do?”

  “We talk about what he’d think, you know. Like when Danny got his license, or when I had a date for the Halloween Ball. I mean we used to make so much fun of the grown-ups. And Ethan was the funniest one; he could always get us to laugh. Then here we are, growing up ourselves. We wonder what Ethan would think of us, if he could come back and see us. We wonder if he’d laugh at us. Or if he’d feel . . . left out. Like we moved on and left him behind.”

  The woman in the Colonial gown came to show them to their table. Macon brought his drink; Susan had already finished hers. She was a bit unsteady on her feet. When their waitress asked them if they’d like a wine list, Susan gave Macon a bright-eyed look but Macon said, “No,” very firmly. “I think we ought to start with soup,” he said. He had some idea soup was sobering.

  But Susan talked in a reckless, headlong way all through the soup course, and the main course, and the two desserts she hadn’t been able to decide between, and the strong black coffee that he pressed upon her afterward. She talked about a boy she liked who either liked her back or else preferred someone named Sissy Pace. She talked about the Halloween Ball where this really juvenile eighth-grader had thrown up all over the stereo. She said that when Danny was eighteen, the three of them were moving to their own apartment because now that their mother was expecting (which Macon hadn’t known), she wouldn’t even realize they were gone. “That’s not true,” Macon told her. “Your mother would feel terrible if you left.” Susan propped her cheek on her fist in a sort of slipshod manner and said that she wasn’t born yesterday. Her hair had grown wilder through the evening, giving her an electrified appearance. Macon found it difficult to stuff her into her jacket, and he had to hold her up more or less by the back of her collar while they were waiting for a taxi.

  In the railroad station she got a confused, squinty look, and once they were on the train she fell asleep with her head against the window. In Baltimore, when he woke her, she said, “You don’t think he’s mad at us, do you, Uncle Macon?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You think he’s mad we’re starting to forget him?”

  “Oh, no, honey. I’m sure he’s not.”

  She slept in the car all the way from the station, and he drove very gently so as not to wake her. When they got home, Rose said it looked as if he’d worn the poor child right down to a frazzle.

  “You want your dog to mind you in every situation,” Muriel said. “Even out in public. You want to leave him outside a public place and come back to find him waiting. That’s what we’ll work on this morning. We’ll start with him waiting right on your own front porch. Then next lesson we’ll go on to shops and things.”

  She picked up the leash and they stepped out the door. It was raining, but the porch roof kept them dry. Macon said, “Hold on a minute, I want to show you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  He tapped his foot twice. Edward looked uncomfortable; he gazed off toward the street and gave a sort of cough. Then slowly, slowly, one forepaw crumpled. Then the other. He lowered himself by degrees until he was lying down.

  “Well! Good dog!” Muriel said. She clucked her tongue.

  Edward flattened his ears back for a pat.

  “I worked on him most of yesterday,” Macon said. “It was Sunday and I had nothing to do. And then my brother’s kids were getting ready to leave and Edward was growling the way he usually does; so I tapped my foot and down he went.”

  “I’m proud of both of you.”

  She told Edward, “Stay,” holding out a hand. She backed into the house again. “Now, Macon, you come in too.”

  They closed the front door. Muriel tweaked the lace curtain and peered out. “Well, he’s staying so far,” she announced.

  She turned her back to the door. She checked her fingernails and said, “Tsk!” Tiny beads of rain trickled down her raincoat, and her hair—reacting to the damp—stood out in corkscrews. “Someday I’m going to get me a professional manicure,” she said.

  Macon tried to see around her; he wasn’t sure that Edward would stay put.

  “Have you ever been to a manicurist?” she asked.

  “Me? Goodness, no.”

  “Well, some men go.”

  “Not
me.”

  “I’d like just once to get everything done professional. Nails, skin . . . My girlfriend goes to this place where they vacuum your skin. They just vacuum all your pores, she says. I’d like to go there sometime. And I’d like to have my colors done. What colors look good on me? What don’t? What brings out the best in me?”

  She looked up at him. All at once, Macon got the feeling she had not been talking about colors at all but something else. It seemed she used words as a sort of background music. He took a step away from her. She said, “You didn’t have to apologize, the other day.”

  “Apologize?”

  Although he knew exactly what she was referring to.

  She seemed to guess that. She didn’t explain herself.

  “Um, I don’t remember if I ever made this clear,” Macon said, “but I’m not even legally divorced yet.”

  “So?”

  “I’m just, what do you call. Separated.”

  “Well? So?”

  He wanted to say, Muriel, forgive me, but since my son died, sex has . . . turned. (As milk turns; that was how he thought of it. As milk will alter its basic nature and turn sour.) I really don’t think of it anymore. I honestly don’t. I can’t imagine anymore what all that fuss was about. Now it seems pathetic.

  But what he said was, “I’m worried the mailman’s going to come.” She looked at him for a moment longer, and then she opened the door for Edward.

  Rose was knitting Julian a pullover sweater for Christmas. “Already?” Macon asked. “We’ve barely got past Thanksgiving.”

  “Yes, but this is a really hard pattern and I want to do it right.”

  Macon watched her needles flashing. “Actually,” he said, “have you ever noticed that Julian wears cardigans?”

  “Yes, I guess he does,” she said.

  But she went on knitting her pullover.

  It was a heathery gray wool, what he believed they called Ragg wool. Macon and both his brothers had sweaters that color. But Julian wore crayon colors or navy blue. Julian dressed like a golfer. “He tends toward the V-necked look,” Macon said to Rose.

  “That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t wear a crew neck if he had one.”

  “Look,” Macon said. “I guess what I’m getting at—”

  Rose’s needles clicked serenely.

  “He’s really kind of a playboy,” he said. “I don’t know if you realize that. And besides, he’s younger.”

  “Two years,” she said.

  “But he’s got a younger, I don’t know, style of living. Singles and apartments and so on.”

  “He says he’s tired of all that.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “He says he likes homeyness. He appreciates my cooking. He can’t believe I’m knitting him a sweater.”

  “No, I guess not,” Macon said grimly.

  “Don’t try to spoil this, Macon.”

  “Sweetheart, I only want to protect you. It’s wrong, you know, what you said at Thanksgiving. Love is not what it’s all about. There are other things to consider besides, all kinds of other issues.”

  “He ate my turkey and did not get sick. Two big helpings,” Rose said.

  Macon groaned and tore at a handful of his hair.

  “First we try him on a real quiet street,” Muriel said. “Someplace public, but not too busy. Some out-of-the-way little store or something.”

  She was driving her long gray boat of a car. Macon sat in front beside her, and Edward sat in back, his ears out horizontal with joy. Edward was always happy to be invited for a car ride, though very soon he’d turn cranky. (“How much longer?” you could almost hear him whine.) It was lucky they weren’t going far.

  “I got this car on account of its big old trunk,” Muriel said. She slung it dashingly around a corner. “I needed it for my errand business. Guess how much it cost?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Only two hundred dollars. That’s because it needed work, but I took it to this boy down the street from where I live. I said, ‘Here’s the deal. You fix my car up, I let you have the use of it three nights a week and all day Sunday.’ Wasn’t that a good idea?”

  “Very inventive,” Macon said.

  “I’ve had to be inventive. It’s been scrape and scrounge, nail and knuckle, ever since Norman left me,” she said. She had pulled into a space in front of a little shopping center, but she made no move to get out of the car. “I’ve lain awake, oh, many a night, thinking up ways to earn money. It was bad enough when room and board came free, but after Mrs. Brimm died it was worse; her house passed on to her son and I had to pay him rent. Her son’s an old skinflint. Always wanting to jack up the price. I said, ‘How’s about this? You leave the rent where it is and I won’t trouble you with maintenance. I’ll tend to it all myself,’ I said. ‘Think of the headaches you’ll save.’ So he agreed and now you should see what I have to deal with, things go wrong and I can’t fix them and so we just live with them. Leaky roof, stopped-up sink, faucet dripping hot water so my gas bill’s out of this world, but at least I’ve kept the rent down. And I’ve got about fifty jobs, if you count them all up. You could say I’m lucky; I’m good at spotting a chance. Like those lessons at Doggie, Do, or another time a course in massage at the Y. The massage turned out to be a dud, seems you have to have a license and all like that, but I will say Doggie, Do paid off. And also I’m trying to start this research service; that’s on account of all I picked up helping the school librarian. Wrote out these little pink cards I passed around at Towson State: We-Search Research. Xeroxed these flyers and mailed them to every Maryland name in the Writer’s Directory. Men and Women of Letters!I said. Do you want a long slow illness that will effectively kill off a character without unsightly disfigurement? So far no one’s answered but I’m still hoping. Twice now I’ve paid for an entire Ocean City vacation just by going up and down the beach offering folks these box lunches me and Alexander fixed in our motel room every morning. We lug them in Alexander’s red wagon; I call out, ‘Cold drinks! Sandwiches! Step right up!’ And this is not even counting the regular jobs, like the Meow-Bow or before that the Rapid-Eze. Tiresome old Rapid-Eze; they did let me bring Alexander but it was nothing but copying documents and tedious things like that, canceled checks and invoices, little chits of things. I’ve never been so disinterested.”

  Macon stirred and said, “Don’t you mean uninterested?”

  “Exactly. Wouldn’t you be? Copies of letters, copies of exams, copies of articles on how to shop for a mortgage. Knitting instructions, crochet instructions, all rolling out of the machine real slow and stately like they’re such a big deal. Finally I quit. When I got my training at Doggie, Do I said, ‘I quit. I’ve had it!’ Why don’t we try the grocery.”

  Macon felt confused for a second. Then he said, “Oh. All right.”

  “You go into the grocery, put Edward on a down-stay outside. I’ll wait here in the car and see if he behaves.”

  “All right.”

  He climbed from the car and opened the back door for Edward. He led him over to the grocery. He tapped his foot twice. Edward looked distressed, but he lay down. Was this humane, when the sidewalk was still so wet? Reluctantly, Macon stepped into the store. It had the old-fashioned smell of brown paper bags. When he looked back out, Edward’s expression was heartbreaking. He wore a puzzled, anxious smile and he was watching the door intently.

  Macon cruised an aisle full of fruits and vegetables. He picked up an apple and considered it and set it down again. Then he went back outside. Edward was still in place. Muriel had emerged from her car and was leaning against the fender, making faces into a brown plastic compact. “Give him lots of praise!” she called, snapping the compact shut. Macon clucked and patted Edward’s head.

  They went next door to the drugstore. “This time we’ll both go in,” Muriel said.

  “Is that safe?”

  “We’ll have to try it sooner or later.”

  They strolled the length of the hair care a
isle, all the way back to cosmetics, where Muriel stopped to try on a lipstick. Macon imagined Edward yawning and getting up and leaving. Muriel said, “Too pink.” She took a tissue from her purse and rubbed the pink off. Her own lipstick stayed on, as if it were not merely a 1940s color but a 1940s formula—the glossless, cakey substance that used to cling to pillowcases, napkins, and the rims of coffee cups. She said, “What are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “For—?”

  “Come and eat at my house.”

  He blinked.

  “Come on. We’ll have fun.”

  “Um . . .”

  “Just for dinner, you and me and Alexander. Say six o’clock. Number Sixteen Singleton Street. Know where that is?”

  “Oh, well, I don’t believe I’m free then,” Macon said.

  “Think it over a while,” she told him.

  They went outside. Edward was still there but he was standing up, bristling in the direction of a Chesapeake Bay retriever almost a full block away. “Shoot,” Muriel said. “Just when I thought we were getting someplace.” She made him lie down again. Then she released him and the three of them walked on. Macon was wondering how soon he could decently say that he had thought it over and now remembered he definitely had an invitation elsewhere. They rounded a corner. “Oh, look, a thrift shop!” Muriel said. “My biggest weakness.” She tapped her foot at Edward. “This time, I’ll go in,” she said. “I want to see what they have. You step back a bit and watch he doesn’t stand up like before.”

  She went inside the thrift shop while Macon waited, skulking around the parking meters. Edward knew he was there, though. He kept turning his head and giving Macon beseeching looks.

  Macon saw Muriel at the front of the shop, picking up and setting down little gilded cups without saucers, chipped green glass florists’ vases, ugly tin brooches as big as ashtrays. Then he saw her dimly in the back where the clothes were. She drifted into sight and out again like a fish in dark water. She appeared all at once in the doorway, holding up a hat. “Macon? What do you think?” she called. It was a dusty beige turban with a jewel pinned to its center, a great false topaz like an eye.

  “Very interesting,” Macon said. He was starting to feel the cold.