The Accidental Tourist

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.

Julian said, “Things are changing every minute, Macon. Change! It’s what keeps us in the black. How far do you think we’d get selling out-of-date guidebooks?”

Macon thought of the crumbling old Tips for the Continent in his grandfather’s library. Travelers were advised to invert a wineglass on their hotel beds, testing the sheets for damp. Ladies should seal the corks of their perfume bottles with melted candlewax before packing. Something about that book implied that tourists were all in it together, equally anxious and defenseless. Macon might almost have enjoyed a trip in those days.

Julian was preparing to go now. He stood up, and with some difficulty Macon did too. Then Edward, getting wind of a leavetaking, rushed into the living room and started barking. “Sorry!” Macon shouted above the racket. “Edward, stop it! I figure that’s his sheep-herding instinct,” he explained to Julian. “He hates to see anyone straying from the flock.”

They moved toward the front hall, wading through a blur of dancing, yelping dog. When they reached the door, Edward blocked it. Luckily, he was still trailing his leash, so Macon gave one crutch to Julian and bent to grasp it. The instant Edward felt the tug, he turned and snarled at Macon. “Whoa!” Julian said, for Edward when he snarled was truly ugly. His fangs seemed to lengthen. He snapped at his leash with an audible click. Then he snapped at Macon’s hand. Macon felt Edward’s hot breath and the oddly intimate dampness of his teeth. His hand was not so much bitten as struck — slammed into with a jolt such as you’d get from an electric fence. He stepped back and dropped the leash. His other crutch clattered to the floor. The front hall seemed to be full of crutches; there was some splintery, spiky feeling to the air.

“Whoa, there!” Julian said. He spoke into a sudden silence. The dog sat back now, panting and shamefaced. “Macon? Did he get you?” Julian asked.

Macon looked down at his hand. There were four red puncture marks in the fleshy part — two in front, two in back — but no blood at all and very little pain. “I’m all right,” he said.

Julian gave him his crutches, keeping one eye on Edward. “I wouldn’t have a dog like that,” he said. “I’d shoot him.”

“He was just trying to protect me,” Macon said.

“I’d call the S.P.C.A.”

“Why don’t you go now, Julian, while he’s calm.”

“Or the what’s-it, dogcatcher. Tell them you want him done away with.”

“Just go, Julian.”

Julian said, “Well, fine.” He opened the door and slid through it sideways, glancing back at Edward. “That is not a well dog,” he said before he vanished.

Macon hobbled to the rear of the house and Edward followed, snuffling a bit and staying close to the ground. In the kitchen, Rose stood on a stepstool in front of a towering glass-fronted cupboard, accepting the groceries that Charles and Porter handed up to her. “Now I need the n’s, anything starting with n,” she was saying.

“How about these noodles?” Porter asked. “ N for noodles? P for pasta?”

“E for elbow macaroni. You might have passed those up earlier, Porter.”

“Rose?” Macon said. “It seems Edward’s given me a little sort of nip.”

She turned, and Charles and Porter stopped work to examine the hand he held out. It was hurting him by now — a deep, stinging pain. “Oh, Macon!” Rose cried. She came down off the stepstool. “How did it happen?”

“It was an accident, that’s all. But I think I need an antiseptic.”

“You need a tetanus shot, too,” Charles told him.

“You need to get rid of that dog,” Porter said.

They looked at Edward. He grinned up at them nervously.

“He didn’t mean any harm,” Macon said.

“Takes off your hand at the elbow and he means no harm? You should get rid of him, I tell you.”

“See, I can’t,” Macon said.

“Why not?”

“Well, see…”

They waited.

“You know I don’t mind the cat,” Rose said. “But Edward is so disruptive, Macon. Every day he gets more and more out of control.”

“Maybe you could give him to someone who wants a guard dog,” Charles said.

“A service station,” Rose suggested. She took a roll of gauze from a drawer.

“Oh, never,” Macon said. He sat where she pointed, in a chair at the kitchen table. He propped his crutches in the corner. “Edward alone in some Exxon? He’d be wretched.”

Rose swabbed Mercurochrome on his hand. It looked bruised; each puncture mark was puffing and turning blue.

“He’s used to sleeping with me,” Macon told her. “He’s never been alone in his life.”

Besides, Edward wasn’t a bad dog at heart — only a little unruly. He was sympathetic and he cared about Macon and plodded after him wherever he went. There was a furrowed W on his forehead that gave him a look of concern. His large, pointed, velvety ears seemed more expressive than other dogs’ ears; when he was happy they stuck straight out at either side of his head like airplane wings. His smell was unexpectedly pleasant — the sweetish smell a favorite sweater takes on when it’s been folded away in a drawer unwashed.

And he’d been Ethan’s.

Once upon a time Ethan had brushed him, bathed him, wrestled on the floor with him; and when Edward stopped to paw at one ear Ethan would ask, with the soberest courtesy, “Oh, may I scratch that for you?” The two of them watched daily at the window for the afternoon paper, and the instant it arrived Ethan sent Edward bounding out to fetch it — hind legs meeting front legs, heels kicking up joyfully. Edward would pause after he got the paper in his mouth and look around him, as if hoping to be noticed, and then he’d swagger back all bustling and self-important and pause again at the front hall mirror to admire the figure he cut. “Conceited,” Ethan would say fondly. Ethan picked up a tennis ball to throw and Edward grew so excited that he wagged his whole hind end. Ethan took Edward outside with a soccer ball and when Edward got carried away — tearing about and shouldering the ball into a hedge and growling ferociously — Ethan’s laugh rang out so high and clear, such a buoyant sound floating through the air on a summer evening.

“I just can’t,” Macon said.

There was a silence.