The Accidental Tourist
by Anne Tyler
“INDISPUTABLY HER BEST BOOK.
It leaves one aching with pleasure and pain.”
“Hilarious… and touching. Anne Tyler is a wise and perceptive writer with a warm understanding of human foibles.”
“Comic. Sweetly perverse. A novel animated by witty invention and lively personalities.”
“Anne Tyler [is] covering common ground with uncommon insight. Convincingly real.”
“Engaging. Gripping. Irresistible.”
“TENDER AND COMPELLING. A VERY FINE NOVEL.”
— Philadelphia Inquirer
“Genuinely funny. If anything could be said against The Accidental Tourist, it’s that it’s almost too complete an entertainment package, laughter and tears all tied together.”
“Anne Tyler is not merely good, she is wickedly good.”
— JOHN UPDIKE
“Imbued with a warmth and wisdom about human nature. Funny, poignant, compassionate and true.”
“Delightful. Charming. Full of surprises and wisdom. All of Tyler’s novels are wonderful; this is her best yet.”
“Luminous, tone-perfect, and probably her best to date. A delicate sounding of the odd and accidental incursions of the heart.”
one
They were supposed to stay at the beach a week, but neither of them had the heart for it and they decided to come back early. Macon drove. Sarah sat next to him, leaning her head against the side window. Chips of cloudy sky showed through her tangled brown curls.
Macon wore a formal summer suit, his traveling suit — much more logical for traveling than jeans, he always said. Jeans had those stiff, hard seams and those rivets. Sarah wore a strapless terry beach dress. They might have been returning from two entirely different trips. Sarah had a tan but Macon didn’t. He was a tall, pale, gray-eyed man, with straight fair hair cut close to his head, and his skin was that thin kind that easily burns. He’d kept away from the sun during the middle part of every day.
Just past the start of the divided highway, the sky grew almost black and several enormous drops spattered the windshield. Sarah sat up straight. “Let’s hope it doesn’t rain,” she said.
“I don’t mind a little rain,” Macon said.
Sarah sat back again, but she kept her eyes on the road.
It was a Thursday morning. There wasn’t much traffic. They passed a pickup truck, then a van all covered with stickers from a hundred scenic attractions. The drops on the windshield grew closer together. Macon switched his wipers on. Tick-
“Can you see all right?” Sarah asked.
“Of course,” Macon said. “This is nothing.”
They arrived behind a trailer truck whose rear wheels sent out arcs of spray. Macon swung to the left and passed. There was a moment of watery blindness till the truck had dropped behind. Sarah gripped the dashboard with one hand.
“I don’t know how you can see to drive,” she said.
“Maybe you should put on your glasses.”
“Putting on my glasses would help you to see?”
“Not me; you,” Macon said. “You’re focused on the windshield instead of the road.”
Sarah continued to grip the dashboard. She had a broad, smooth face that gave an impression of calm, but if you looked closely you’d notice the tension at the corners of her eyes.
The car drew in around them like a room. Their breaths fogged the windows. Earlier the air conditioner had been running and now some artificial chill remained, quickly turning dank, carrying with it the smell of mildew. They shot through an underpass. The rain stopped completely for one blank, startling second. Sarah gave a little gasp of relief, but even before it was uttered, the hammering on the roof resumed. She turned and gazed back longingly at the underpass. Macon sped ahead, with his hands relaxed on the wheel.
“Did you notice that boy with the motorcycle?” Sarah asked. She had to raise her voice; a steady, insistent roaring sound engulfed them.
“What boy?”
“He was parked beneath the underpass.”
