pink, magnified behind large, watery spectacles whose clear frames had an unfortunate pinkish cast themselves. He wore a carefully coordinated shirt-and-slacks set such as only a mother would choose.
“How’d it go?” Muriel asked him.
“Okay.”
“Sweetie, this is Macon. Can you say hi? I’ve been training his dog.”
Macon stood up and held out his hand. After a moment, Alexander responded. His fingers felt like a collection of wilted stringbeans. He took his hand away again and told his mother, “You have to make another appointment.”
“Sure thing.”
She went over to the receptionist, leaving Macon and Alexander standing there. Macon felt there was nothing on earth he could talk about with this child. He brushed a leaf off his sleeve. He pulled his cuffs down. He said, “You’re pretty young to be at the doctor’s without your mother.”
Alexander didn’t answer, but Muriel — waiting for the receptionist to flip through her calendar — turned and answered for him. “He’s used to it,” she said, “because he’s had to go so often. He’s got these allergies.”
“I see,” Macon said.
Yes, he was just the type for allergies.
“He’s allergic to shellfish, milk, fruits of all kinds, wheat, eggs, and most vegetables,” Muriel said. She accepted a card from the receptionist and dropped it into her purse. She said as they were walking out, “He’s allergic to dust and pollen and paint, and there’s some belief he’s allergic to air. Whenever he’s outside a long time he gets these bumps on any uncovered parts of his body.”
She clucked at Edward and snapped her fingers. Edward jumped up, barking. “Don’t pat him,” she told Alexander. “You don’t know what dog fur will do to you.”
They got into her car. Macon sat in back so Alexander could take the front seat, as far from Edward as possible. They had to drive with all the windows down so Alexander wouldn’t start wheezing. Over the rush of wind, Muriel called, “He’s subject to asthma, eczema, and nosebleeds. He has to get these shots all the time. If a bee ever stings him and he hasn’t had his shots he could be dead in half an hour.”
Alexander turned his head slowly and gazed at Macon. His expression was prim and censorious.
When they drew up in front of the house, Muriel said, “Well, let’s see now. I’m on full time at the Meow-Bow tomorrow…” She ran a hand through her hair, which was scratchy, rough, disorganized. “So I guess I won’t see you till dinner,” she said.
Macon couldn’t think of any way to tell her this, but the fact was he would never be able to make that dinner. He missed his wife. He missed his son. They were the only people who seemed real to him. There was no point looking for substitutes.
eleven
Muriel Pritchett was how she was listed. Brave and cocky: no timorous initials for Muriel. Macon circled the number. He figured now was the time to call. It was nine in the evening. Alexander would have gone to bed. He lifted the receiver.
But what would he say?
Best to be straightforward, of course, much less hurtful; hadn’t Grandmother Leary always told them so?
It seemed his voice had rusted over. He held the receiver to his ear but great, sharp clots of rust were sticking in his throat.
He had never actually said out loud that Ethan was dead. He hadn’t needed to; it was in the papers (page three, page five), and then friends had told other friends, and Sarah got on the phone… So somehow, he had never spoken the words. How would he do it now? Or maybe he could make Muriel do it.
He hung up.
He went to ask Rose for notepaper and she gave him some from her desk. He took it to the dining room table, sat down, and uncapped his fountain pen.
Funny sort of name.
Who would think of calling a little newborn baby Muriel?
He examined his pen. It was a Parker, a swirly tortoiseshell lacquer with a complicated gold nib that he liked the looks of. He examined Rose’s stationery. Cream colored. Deckle edged. Deckle! What an odd word.
Well.
Grandmother Leary would not have approved.
He sealed the envelope and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Then he went to the kitchen where Rose kept a giant city map thumb-tacked to the wall.
Driving through the labyrinth of littered, cracked, dark streets in the south of the city, Macon wondered how Muriel could feel safe living here. There were too many murky alleys and stairwells full of rubbish and doorways lined with tattered shreds of posters. The gridded shops with their ineptly lettered signs offered services that had a sleazy ring to them: CHECKS CASHED NO QUESTIONS, TINY BUBBA’S INCOME TAX, SAME DAY AUTO RECOLORING. Even this late on a cold November night, clusters of people lurked in the shadows — young men drinking out of brown paper bags, middle-aged women arguing under a movie marquee that read CLOSED.
He turned onto Singleton and found a block of row houses that gave a sense of having been skimped on. The roofs were flat, the windows flush and lacking depth. There was nothing to spare, no excess material for overhangs or decorative moldings, no generosity. Most were covered in formstone, but the bricks of Number 16 had been painted a rubbery maroon. An orange bugproof bulb glowed dimly above the front stoop.
He got out of the car and climbed the steps. He opened the screen door, which was made of pitted aluminum. It clattered in a cheap way and the hinges shrieked. He winced. He took the letter from his pocket and bent down.
“I’ve got a double-barreled shotgun,” Muriel said from inside the house, “and I’m aiming it exactly where your head is.”
He straightened sharply. His heart started pounding. (Her voice sounded level and accurate — like her shotgun, he imagined.) He said, “It’s Macon.”
“Macon?”
The latch clicked and the inner door opened several inches. He saw a sliver of Muriel in a dark-colored robe. She said, “Macon! What are you doing here?”
He gave her the letter.
She took it and opened it, using both hands. (There wasn’t a trace of a shotgun.) She read it and looked up at him.
He saw he had done it all wrong.
“Last year,” he said, “I lost… I experienced a… loss, yes, I lost my…”
She went on looking into his face.
“I lost my son,” Macon said. “He was just… he went to a hamburger joint and then… someone came, a holdup man, and shot him. I can’t go to dinner with people! I can’t talk to their little boys! You have to stop asking me. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings but I’m just not up to this, do you hear?”
She took one of his wrists very gently and she drew him into the house, still not fully opening the door, so
