The Accidental Tourist

him in her nightgown, hugging her bare arms. “You’ll be one of those mismatched couples no one invites to parties. No one will know what to make of you. People will wonder whenever they meet you, ‘My God, what does he see in her? Why choose someone so inappropriate? It’s grotesque, how does he put up with her?’ And her friends will no doubt be asking the same about you.”

“That’s probably true,” Macon said. He felt a mild stirring of interest; he saw now how such couples evolved. They were not, as he’d always supposed, the result of some ludicrous lack of perception, but had come together for reasons that the rest of the world would never guess.

He zipped his overnight bag.

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t want to decide this,” he said.

He put his arm around her painfully, and after a pause she let her head rest against his shoulder. It struck him that even this moment was just another stage in their marriage. There would probably be still other stages in their thirtieth year, fortieth year — forever, no matter what separate paths they chose to travel.

He didn’t take the elevator; he felt he couldn’t bear the willynilliness of it. He went down the stairs instead. He managed the front door by backing through it, stiffly.

Out on the street he found the usual bustle of a weekday morning — shopgirls hurrying past, men with briefcases. No taxis in sight. He set off for the next block, where his chances were better. Walking was fairly easy but carrying his bag was torture. Lightweight though it was, it twisted his back out of line. He tried it in his left hand, then his right. And after all, what was inside it? Pajamas, a change of underwear, emergency supplies he never used. He stepped over to a building, a bank or office building with a low stone curb running around its base. He set the bag on the curb and hurried on.

Up ahead he saw a taxi with a boy just stepping out of it, but he discovered too late that hailing it was going to be a problem. Raising either arm was impossible. So he was forced to run in an absurd, scuttling fashion while shouting bits of French he’d never said aloud before: “Attendez! Attendez, monsieur!”

The taxi was already moving off and the boy was just slipping his wallet back into his jeans, but then he looked up and saw Macon. He acted fast; he spun and called out something and the taxi braked. “Merci beaucoup,” Macon panted and the boy, who had a sweet, pure face and shaggy yellow hair, opened the taxi door for him and gently assisted him in. “Oof!” Macon said, seized by a spasm. The boy shut the door and then, to Macon’s surprise, lifted a hand in a formal good-bye. The taxi moved off. Macon told the driver where he was going and sank back into his seat. He patted his inside pocket, checking passport, plane ticket. He unfolded his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

Evidently his sense of direction had failed him, as usual. The driver was making a U-turn, heading back where Macon had just come from. They passed the boy once again. He had a jaunty, stiff-legged way of walking that seemed familiar.

If Ethan hadn’t died, Macon thought, wouldn’t he have grown into such a person?

He would have turned to give the boy another look, except that he couldn’t manage the movement.

The taxi bounced over the cobblestones. The driver whistled a tune between his teeth. Macon found that bracing himself on one arm protected his back somewhat from the jolts. Every now and then, though, a pothole caught him off guard.

And if dead people aged, wouldn’t it be a comfort? To think of Ethan growing up in heaven — fourteen years old now instead of twelve — eased the grief a little. Oh, it was their immunity to time that made the dead so heartbreaking. (Look at the husband who dies young, the wife aging on without him; how sad to imagine the husband coming back to find her so changed.) Macon gazed out the cab window, considering the notion in his mind. He felt a kind of inner rush, a racing forward. The real adventure, he thought, is the flow of time; it’s as much adventure as anyone could wish. And if he pictured Ethan still part of that flow — in some other place, however unreachable — he believed he might be able to bear it after all.

The taxi passed Macon’s hotel — brown and tidy, strangely home-like. A man was just emerging with a small anxious dog on his arm. And there on the curb stood Muriel, surrounded by suitcases and string-handled shopping bags and cardboard cartons overflowing with red velvet. She was frantically waving down taxis — first one ahead, then Macon’s own. “Arretez!” Macon cried to the driver. The taxi lurched to a halt. A sudden flash of sunlight hit the windshield, and spangles flew across the glass. The spangles were old water spots, or maybe the markings of leaves, but for a moment Macon thought they were something else. They were so bright and festive, for a moment he thought they were confetti.

The Accidental Tourist ANNE TYLER A Reader’s Guide

A Conversation with Anne Tyler

Q: Can Macon be described as an accidental tourist in his own life? Can we all?

AT: Certainly Macon can, but I wouldn’t say that accidental tourism is a universal condition. Some people seem to have very meticulous itineraries for their lives.

Q: Ethan’s tragic death looms over all of the characters in this novel. Why are so many characters angry at, or at least disapproving of, Macon for his manner of grieving?

AT: Because to someone not very perceptive, Macon’s manner of grieving doesn’t really look like grief.

Q: Is it simply inertia that prevents Macon from dealing with Edward’s misbehavior for so long? Why does he find the process of training Edward to be so difficult and painful?

AT: While I was writing this book, I wondered the same thing. I asked myself, Why do I seem to be going on and on about this ridiculous dog, who has nothing to do with the main plot? Then when Muriel asked Macon, “Do you want a dog who’s angry all the time?” (or words to that effect), I thought, Oh! Of course! That’s exactly what he wants! This dog is angry for him!

Q: Would you agree that Edward’s reactions to Muriel mirror Macon’s to some degree?

AT: Oh, I think Edward is way ahead of Macon in his reactions.

Q: What does Singleton Street represent for Macon?

AT: Otherness. The opposite of his own narrow self.

Q: Macon, like many characters in this novel, feels trapped by other people’s perceptions of him. Does Muriel see Macon as he truly is, or as someone he wants to be?

AT: Neither, really. She sees the person she herself wants him to be; but since she’s an accepting and non- judgmental type, who he really is turns out to be all right with her.

Q: Macon’s friends and family are mostly disapproving of “that Muriel person.” Is it simply a matter of class prejudice?

AT: Class for the most part; but also personality style. To a family so undemonstrative, Muriel would be a bit daunting.

Q: If not for Muriel’s persistence, would Macon have made a different choice?

AT: Yes, certainly. Muriel is a pretty powerful force.

Q: In The Accidental Tourist, you write of Macon: “He began to think that who you are when you’re with somebody may matter more than whether you love her.” Ultimately, does Macon love Muriel?

AT: I think he really does.

Q: Macon remembers finding a magazine quiz in which Sarah answered that she loved her spouse more than he loved her. How accurate was her answer? Was Sarah correct in writing that she loved Macon more than he loved her?

AT: Her answer reflected her limited understanding of Macon, I believe, more than the true situation.

Q: Is Macon being honest when he tells Sarah that Muriel’s young son did not draw him to Muriel?