The Accidental Tourist (7 page)

“Oh, yes, of course,” Macon said.

He stood up and they shook hands. Garner’s fingers were crisp and intricately shaped, like crumpled paper. “Thanks for stopping by,” Macon told him.

“Any time,” Garner said, looking elsewhere.

Macon said, “I didn’t mean, you know—I hope I didn’t sound short-tempered.”

“Naw,” Garner said. He lifted an arm and let it drop. “Shoot. Don’t think a thing about it.” Then he turned to leave.

As soon as he did, Macon thought of a flood of other things he should have mentioned. It wasn’t all his fault, he wanted to say. Sarah had a little to do with it too. What Sarah needed was a rock, he wanted to say; someone who wouldn’t crumble. Otherwise, why had she picked him to marry? But he held his peace and watched Garner walk out. There was something pitiable about the two sharp cords that ran down the back of Garner’s neck, cupping a little ditch of mapped brown skin between them.

When his brothers came home from work, the house took on a relaxed, relieved atmosphere. Rose drew the living room curtains and lit a few soft lamps. Charles and Porter changed into sweaters. Macon started mixing his special salad dressing. He believed that if you pulverized the spices first with a marble mortar and pestle, it made all the difference. The others agreed that no one else’s dressing tasted as good as Macon’s. “Since you’ve been gone,” Charles told him, “we’ve had to buy that bottled stuff from the grocery store.” He made it sound as if Macon had been gone a few weeks or so—as if his entire marriage had been just a brief trip elsewhere.

For supper they had Rose’s pot roast, a salad with Macon’s dressing, and baked potatoes. Baked potatoes had always been their favorite food. They had learned to fix them as children, and even after they were big enough to cook a balanced meal they used to exist solely on baked potatoes whenever Alicia left them to their own devices. There was something about the smell of a roasting Idaho that was so cozy, and also, well,
conservative,
was the way Macon put it to himself. He thought back on years and years of winter evenings: the kitchen windows black outside, the corners furry with gathering darkness, the four of them seated at the chipped enamel table meticulously filling scooped-out potato skins with butter. You let the butter melt in the skins while you mashed and seasoned the floury insides; the skins were saved till last. It was almost a ritual. He recalled that once, during one of their mother’s longer absences, her friend Eliza had served them what she called potato boats—restuffed, not a bit like the genuine article. The children, with pinched, fastidious expressions, had emptied the stuffing and proceeded as usual with the skins, pretending to overlook her mistake. The skins should be crisp. They should not be salted. The pepper should be freshly ground. Paprika was acceptable, but only if it was American. Hungarian paprika had too distinctive a taste. Personally, Macon could do without paprika altogether.

While they ate, Porter discussed what to do with his children. Tomorrow was his weekly visitation night, when he would drive over to Washington, where his children lived with their mother. “The thing of it is,” he said, “eating out in restaurants is so artificial. It doesn’t seem like real food. And anyway, they all three have different tastes. They always argue over where to go. Someone’s on a diet, someone’s turned vegetarian, someone can’t stand food that crunches. And I end up shouting, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, we’re going to Such-and-Such and that’s that!’ So we go and everybody sulks throughout the meal.”

“Maybe you should just not visit,” Charles said reasonably. (He had never had children of his own.)

“Well, of course I want to visit, Charles. I just wish we had some different program. You know what would be ideal? If we could all do something with tools together. I mean like the old days before the divorce, when Danny helped me drain the hot water heater or Susan sat on a board I was sawing. If I could just drop by their house, say, and June and her husband could go to a movie or something, then the kids and I would clean the gutters, weather-strip the windows, wrap the hot water pipes . . . Well, that husband of hers is no use at all, you can bet he lets his hot water pipes sit around naked. I’d bring my own tools, even. We’d have a fine time! Susan could fix us cocoa. Then at the end of the evening I’d pack up my tools and off I’d go, leaving the house in perfect repair. Why, June ought to jump at the chance.”

“Then why not suggest it,” Macon said.

“Nah. She’d never go for it. She’s so impractical. I said to her last week, I said, ‘You know that front porch step is loose? Springing up from its nails every time you walk on it wrong.’ She said, ‘Oh, Lord, yes, it’s
been
that way,’ as if Providence had decreed it. As if nothing could be done about it. They’ve got leaves in the gutter from way last winter but leaves are natural, after all; why go against nature. She’s so impractical.”

Porter himself was the most practical man Macon had ever known. He was the only Leary who understood money. His talent with money was what kept the family firm solvent—if just barely. It wasn’t a very wealthy business. Grandfather Leary had founded it in the early part of the century as a tinware factory, and turned to bottle caps in 1915. The Bottle Cap King, he called himself, and was called in his obituary, but in fact most bottle caps were manufactured by Crown Cork and always had been; Grandfather Leary ran a distant second or third. His only son, the Bottle Cap Prince, had barely assumed his place in the firm before quitting to volunteer for World War II—a far more damaging enthusiasm, it turned out, than any of Alicia’s. After he was killed the business limped along, never quite succeeding and never quite failing, till Porter bounced in straight from college and took over the money end. Money to Porter was something almost chemical—a volatile substance that reacted in various interesting ways when combined with other substances. He wasn’t what you’d call mercenary; he didn’t want the money for its own sake but for its intriguing possibilities, and in fact when his wife divorced him he handed over most of his property without a word of complaint.

It was Porter who ran the company, pumping in money and ideas. Charles, more mechanical, dealt with the production end. Macon had done a little of everything when he worked there, and had wasted away with boredom doing it, for there wasn’t really enough to keep a third man busy. It was only for symmetry’s sake that Porter kept urging him to return. “Tell you what, Macon,” he said now, “why not hitch a ride down with us tomorrow and look over your old stomping ground?”

“No, thanks,” Macon told him.

“Plenty of room for your crutches in back.”

“Maybe some other time.”

They followed Rose around while she washed the dishes. She didn’t like them to help because she had her own method, she said. She moved soundlessly through the old-fashioned kitchen, replacing dishes in the high wooden cabinets. Charles took the dog out; Macon couldn’t manage his crutches in the spongy backyard. And Porter pulled the kitchen shades, meanwhile lecturing Rose on how the white surfaces reflected the warmth back into the room now that the nights were cooler. Rose said, “Yes, Porter, I know all that,” and lifted the salad bowl to the light and examined it a moment before she put it away.

They watched the news, dutifully, and then they went out to the sun porch and sat at their grandparents’ card table. They played something called Vaccination—a card game they’d invented as children, which had grown so convoluted over the years that no one else had the patience to learn it. In fact, more than one outsider had accused them of altering the rules to suit the circumstances. “Now, just a minute,” Sarah had said, back when she’d still had hopes of figuring it out. “I thought you said aces were high.”

“They are.”

“So that means—”

“But not when they’re drawn from the deck.”

“Aha! Then why was the one that Rose drew counted high?”

“Well, she did draw it after a deuce, Sarah.”

“Aces drawn after a deuce are high?”

“No, aces drawn after a number that’s been drawn two times in a row just before that.”

Sarah had folded her fan of cards and laid them face down— the last of the wives to give up.

Macon was in quarantine and had to donate all his cards to Rose. Rose moved her chair over next to his and played off his points while he sat back, scratching the cat behind her ears. Opposite him, in the tiny dark windowpanes, he saw their reflections— hollow-eyed and severely cheekboned, more interesting versions of themselves.

The telephone in the living room gave a nipped squeak and then a full ring. Nobody seemed to notice. Rose laid a king on Porter’s queen and Porter said, “Stinker.” The telephone rang again and then again. In the middle of the fourth ring, it fell silent. “Hypodermic,” Rose told Porter, and she topped the king with an ace.

“You’re a real stinker, Rose.”

In the portrait on the end wall, the Leary children gazed out with their veiled eyes. It occurred to Macon that they were sitting in much the same positions here this evening: Charles and Porter on either side of him, Rose perched in the foreground. Was there any real change? He felt a jolt of something very close to panic. Here he still was! The same as ever!
What have I gone and done?
he wondered, and he swallowed thickly and looked at his own empty hands.

six

Help! Help! Call off your dog!”

Macon stopped typing and lifted his head. The voice came from somewhere out front, rising above a string of sharp, excited yelps. But Edward was taking a walk with Porter. This must be some other dog.

“Call him off, dammit!”

Macon rose, propping himself on his crutches, and made his way to the window. Sure enough, it was Edward. He seemed to have treed somebody in the giant magnolia to the right of the walk. He was barking so hard that he kept popping off the ground perfectly level, all four feet at once, like one of those pull toys that bounce straight up in the air when you squeeze a rubber bulb.

“Edward! Stop that!” Macon shouted.

Edward didn’t stop. He might not even have heard. Macon stubbed out to the hall, opened the front door, and said, “Come here this instant!”

Edward barely skipped a beat.

It was a Saturday morning in early October, pale gray and cool. Macon felt the coolness creeping up his cut-off pants leg as he crossed the porch. When he dropped one crutch and took hold of the iron railing to descend the steps, he found the metal beaded with moisture.

He hopped over to the magnolia, leaned down precariously, and grabbed the leash that Edward was trailing. Without much effort, he reeled it in; Edward was already losing interest. Macon peered into the inky depths of the magnolia. “Who
is
that?” he asked.

“This is your employer, Macon.”

“Julian?”

Julian lowered himself from one of the magnolia’s weak, sprawling branches. He had a line of dirt across the front of his slacks. His white-blond hair, usually so neat it made him look like a shirt ad, struck out at several angles. “Macon,” he said. “I really hate a man with an obnoxious dog. I don’t hate just the dog. I hate the man who owns him.”

“Well, I’m sorry about this. I thought he was off on a walk.”

“You send him on walks by himself?”

“No, no . . .”

“A dog who takes solitary strolls,” Julian said. “Only Macon Leary would have one.” He brushed off the sleeves of his suede blazer. Then he said, “What happened to your leg?”

“I broke it.”

“Well, I see that, but how?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Macon told him.

They started toward the house, with Edward trotting docilely alongside. Julian supported Macon as they climbed the steps. He was an athletic-looking man with a casual, sauntering style—a boater. You could tell he was a boater by his nose, which was raw across the tip even this late in the year. No one so startlingly blond, so vividly flushed in the face, should expose himself to sunburn, Macon always told him. But that was Julian for you: reckless. A dashing sailor, a speedy driver, a frequenter of singles bars, he was the kind of man who would make a purchase without consulting
Consumer Reports
. He never seemed to have a moment’s self-doubt and was proceeding into the house now as jauntily as if he’d been invited, first retrieving Macon’s other crutch and then holding the door open and waving him ahead.

“How’d you find me, anyway?” Macon asked.

“Why, are you hiding?”

“No, of course not.”

Julian surveyed the entrance hall, which all at once struck Macon as slightly dowdy. The satin lampshade on the table had dozens of long vertical rents; it seemed to be rotting off its frame.

“Your neighbor told me where you were,” Julian said finally.

“Oh, Garner.”

“I stopped by your house when I couldn’t reach you by phone. Do you know how late you’re running with this guidebook?”

“Well, you can see I’ve had an accident,” Macon said.

“Everybody’s held up, waiting for the manuscript. I keep telling them I expect it momentarily, but—”

“Any moment,” Macon said.

“Huh?”

“You expect it any moment.”

“Yes, and all I’ve seen so far is two chapters mailed in with no explanation.”

Julian led the way to the living room as he spoke. He selected the most comfortable chair and sat down. “Where’s Sarah?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Your wife, Macon.”

“Oh. Um, she and I are . . .”

Macon should have practiced saying it out loud. The word “separated” was too bald; it was something that happened to other people. He crossed to the couch and made a great business of settling himself and arranging his crutches at his side. Then he said, “She’s got this apartment downtown.”

“You’ve
split
?”

Macon nodded.

“Jesus.”

Edward nosed Macon’s palm bossily, demanding a pat. Macon was grateful to have something to do.

“Well, Jesus, Macon, what went wrong?” Julian asked.

“Nothing!” Macon told him. His voice was a little too loud. He lowered it. “I mean, that’s not something I can answer,” he said.

“Oh. Excuse me.”

“No, I mean . . . there
is
no answer. It turns out these things can happen for no particular reason.”

“Well, you’ve been under a strain, you two,” Julian said. “Shoot, with what happened and all . . . She’ll be back, once she’s gotten over it. Or not gotten
over
it of course but, you know . . .”

“Maybe so,” Macon said. He felt embarrassed for Julian, who kept jiggling one Docksider. He said, “What did you think of those first two chapters?”

Julian opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by the dog. Edward had flown to the hall and was barking furiously. There was a clang that Macon recognized as the sound of the front door swinging open and hitting the radiator. “Hush, now,” he heard Rose tell Edward. She crossed the hall and looked into the living room.

Julian got to his feet. Macon said, “Julian Edge, this is my sister Rose. And this,” he said as Charles arrived behind her, “is my brother Charles.”

Neither Rose nor Charles could shake hands; they were carrying the groceries. They stood in the center of the room, hugging brown paper bags, while Julian went into what Macon thought of as his Macon Leary act. “Macon Leary with a sister! And a brother, too. Who’d have guessed it? That Macon Leary had a family just never entered my mind, somehow.”

Rose gave him a polite, puzzled smile. She wasn’t looking her best. She wore a long black coat that drew all the color from her face. And Charles, rumpled and out of breath, was having trouble with one of his bags. He kept trying to get a better grip on it. “Here, let me help you,” Julian said. He took the bag and then peered into it. Macon was afraid he’d go off on some tangent about Macon Leary’s groceries, but he didn’t. He told Rose, “Yes, I do see a family resemblance.”

“You’re Macon’s publisher,” Rose said. “I remember from the address label.”

“Address label?”

“I’m the one who mailed you Macon’s chapters.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’m supposed to send you some more, but first I have to buy nine-by-twelve envelopes. All we’ve got left is ten-by-thirteen. It’s terrible when things don’t fit precisely. They get all out of alignment.”

“Ah,” Julian said. He looked at her for a moment.

Macon said, “We wouldn’t want to keep you, Rose.”

“Oh! No,” she said. She smiled at Julian, hoisted her groceries higher, and left the room. Charles retrieved his bag from Julian and slogged after her.

“The Macon Leary Nine-by-Twelve Envelope Crisis,” Julian said, sitting back down.

Macon said, “Oh, Julian, drop it.”

“Sorry,” Julian said, sounding surprised.

There was a pause. Then Julian said, “Really I had no idea, Macon, I mean, if you’d let me know what was going on in your life . . .”

He was jiggling a Docksider again. He always seemed uneasy when he couldn’t do his Macon Leary act. After Ethan died he’d avoided Macon for weeks; he’d sent a tree-sized bouquet to the house but never again mentioned Ethan’s name.

“Look,” he said now. “If you want another, I don’t know, another month—”

Macon said, “Oh, nonsense, what’s a missing wife or two, right? Ha, ha! Here, let me get what I’ve typed and you can check it.”

“Well, if you say so,” Julian said.

“After this there’s only the conclusion,” Macon said. He was calling over his shoulder as he made his way to the dining room, where his latest chapter lay stacked on the buffet. “The conclusion’s nothing, a cinch. I’ll crib from the old one, mostly.”

He returned with the manuscript and handed it to Julian. Then he sat on the couch again, and Julian started reading. Meanwhile, Macon heard Porter come in the back way, where he was greeted by explosive barks from Edward. “Monster,” Porter said. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” The phone rang over and over, unanswered. Julian looked at Macon and raised his eyebrows but made no comment.

Macon and Julian had met some dozen years ago, when Macon was still at the bottle-cap factory. He’d been casting about for other occupations at the time. He’d begun to believe he might like to work on a newspaper. But he’d had no training, not a single journalism course. So he started the only way he could think of: He contributed a freelance article to a neighborhood weekly. His subject was a crafts fair over in Washington.
Getting there is difficult,
he wrote,
because the freeway is so blank you start feeling all lost
and sad. And once you’ve arrived, it’s worse. The streets are not like
ours and don’t even run at right angles.
He went on to evaluate some food he’d sampled at an outdoor booth, but found it contained a spice he wasn’t used to,
something sort of cold and yellow I
would almost describe as foreign,
and settled instead for a hot dog from a vendor across the street who wasn’t even part of the fair.
The
hot dog I can recommend,
he wrote,
though it made me a little regretfulbecause Sarah, my wife, uses the same kind of chili sauce and
I thought of home the minute I smelled it.
He also recommended the patchwork quilts, one of which had a starburst pattern like the quilt in his grandmother’s room. He suggested that his readers leave the fair no later than three thirty,
since you’ll be driving into Baltimoreright past Lexington Market and will want to pick up your crabs
before it closes
.

His article was published beneath a headline reading CRAFTS FAIR DELIGHTS, INSTRUCTS. There was a subhead under that.
Or,
it read,
I Feel So Broke-Up, I Want to Go Home
. Until he saw the subhead, Macon hadn’t realized what tone he’d given his piece. Then he felt silly.

But Julian Edge thought it was perfect. Julian phoned him. “You the fellow who wrote that hot dog thing in the
Watchbird
?”

“Well, yes.”

“Ha!”

“Well, I don’t see what’s so funny,” Macon said stiffly.

“Who said it was funny? It’s perfect. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

They met at the Old Bay Restaurant, where Macon’s grandparents used to take the four children on their birthdays. “I can personally guarantee the crab soup,” Macon said. “They haven’t done a thing to it since I was nine.” Julian said, “Ha!” again and rocked back in his chair. He was wearing a polo shirt and white duck trousers, and his nose was a bright shade of pink. It was summer, or maybe spring. At any rate, his boat was in the water.

“Now, here’s my plan,” he said over the soup. “I own this little company called the Businessman’s Press. Well, little: I say little. Actually we sell coast to coast. Nothing fancy, but useful, you know? Appointment pads, expense account booklets, compound interest charts, currency conversion wheels . . . And now I want to put out a guidebook for commercial travelers. Just the U.S., to begin with; maybe other countries later. We’d call it something catchy, I don’t know:
Reluctant Tourist . . .
And you’re the fellow to write it.”

“Me?”

“I knew the minute I read your hot dog piece.”

“But I hate to travel.”

“I kind of guessed that,” Julian said. “So do businessmen. I mean, these folks are not running around the country for the hell of it, Macon. They’d rather be home in their living rooms. So you’ll be helping them pretend that’s where they are.”

Then he pulled a square of paper from his breast pocket and said, “What do you think?”

It was a steel engraving of an overstuffed chair. Attached to the chair’s back were giant, feathered wings such as you would see on seraphim in antique Bibles. Macon blinked.

“Your logo,” Julian explained. “Get it?”

“Um . . .”

“While armchair travelers dream of going places,” Julian said, “traveling armchairs dream of staying put. I thought we’d use this on the cover.”

“Ah!” Macon said brightly. Then he said, “But would I actually have to travel myself?”

“Well, yes.”

“Oh.”

“But just briefly. I’m not looking for anything encyclopedic, I’m looking for the opposite of encyclopedic. And think of the pay.”

“It pays?”

“It pays a bundle.”

Well, not a bundle, exactly. Still, it did make a comfortable living. It sold briskly at airport newsstands, train stations, and office supply shops. His guide to France did even better. That was part of a major promotion by an international car-rental agency—slipcased with
The Businessman’s Foreign Phrase Book
, which gave the German, French, and Spanish for “We anticipate an upswing in cross-border funds.” Macon, of course, was not the author of the phrase book. His only foreign language was Latin.

Now Julian restacked the pages he’d been reading. “Fine,” he said. “I think we can send this through as is. What’s left of the conclusion?”

“Not much.”

“After this I want to start on the U.S. again.”

“So soon?”

“It’s been three years, Macon.”

“Well, but . . .” Macon said. He gestured toward his leg. “You can see I’d have trouble traveling.”

“When does your cast come off?”

“Not till the first of November at the earliest.”

“So? A few weeks!”

“But it really seems to me I just did the U.S.,” Macon said. A kind of fatigue fell over him. These endlessly recurring trips, Boston and Atlanta and Chicago . . . He let his head drop back on the couch.