The Accidental Tourist

build a snowman,” Bernice told Alexander. “Snow must be four feet deep out there.”

“Have the streets been cleared?” Macon asked.

“Are you kidding?”

“They couldn’t even get through with the newspaper,” Alexander told him. “Edward’s about to lose his mind wondering where it’s got to.”

“And there’s cars abandoned all over the city. Radio says nobody’s going anywhere at all.”

But Bernice had hardly spoken when Edward wheeled toward the back door and started barking. A figure loomed outside. “Who’s that?” Bernice asked.

Muriel tapped her foot at Edward. He lay down but kept on barking, and Macon opened the door. He found himself face to face with his brother Charles — unusually rugged-looking in a visored cap with earflaps. “Charles?” Macon said. “What are you doing here?”

Charles stepped in, bringing with him the fresh, expectant smell of new snow. Edward’s yelps changed to welcoming whines. “I came to pick you up,” Charles said. “Couldn’t reach you on the phone.”

“Pick me up for what?”

“Your neighbor Garner Bolt called and said pipes or something have burst in your house, water all over everything. I’ve been trying to get you since early morning but your line was always busy.”

“That was me,” Claire said, setting down a platter of pancakes. “I took the receiver off the hook so my folks wouldn’t call me up and nag me.”

“This is Muriel’s sister, Claire,” Macon said, “and that’s Alexander and that’s Bernice Tilghman. My brother Charles.”

Charles looked confused.

Come to think of it, this wasn’t an easy group to sort out. Claire was her usual mingled self — rosebud bathrobe over faded jeans, fringed moccasin boots that laced to her knees. Bernice could have been a lumberjack. Alexander was neat and polished, while Muriel in her slinky silk robe was barely decent. Also, the kitchen was so small that there seemed to be more people than there actually were. And Claire was waving her spatula, spangling the air with drops of grease. “Pancakes?” she asked Charles. “Orange juice? Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Charles said. “I really have to be—”

“I bet you want milk,” Muriel said. She got to her feet, fortunately remembering to clutch her robe together. “I bet you don’t want sugar on an empty stomach.”

“No, really I—”

“It won’t be any trouble!” She was taking the carton from the refrigerator. “How’d you get here, anyways?”

“I drove.”

“I thought the streets were blocked.”

“They weren’t so bad,” Charles said, accepting a glass of milk. “Finding the place was the hard part.” He told Macon, “I looked it up on the map but evidently I was mizzled.”

“Mizzled?” Muriel asked.

“He was misled,” Macon explained. “What did Garner say, exactly, Charles?”

“He said he saw water running down the inside of your living room window. He looked in and saw the ceiling dripping. Could have been that way for weeks, he said; you know that cold spell we had over Christmas.”

“Doesn’t sound good,” Macon said.

He went to the closet for his coat. When he came back, Muriel was saying, “Now that you don’t have an empty stomach, Charles, won’t you try some of Claire’s pancakes?”

“I’ve had a half a dozen,” Bernice told him. “They don’t call me Big-Ass Bernice for nothing.”

Charles said, “Uh, well—” and gave Macon a helpless look.

“We have to be going,” Macon told the others. “Charles, are you parked in back?”

“No, in front. Then I went around back because I couldn’t get the doorbell to work.”

There was a reserved, disapproving note in Charles’s voice when he said this, but Macon just said airily, “Oh, yes! Place is a wreck.” He led the way toward the front of the house. He felt like someone demonstrating how well he got on with the natives.

They pushed open the door with some difficulty and floundered down steps so deeply buried that both men more or less fell the length of them, trusting that they would be cushioned. The sunlight sparked and flashed. They waded toward the street, Macon’s shoes quickly filling with snow — a refreshing sharpness that almost instantly turned painful.

“I guess we’d better take both cars,” he told Charles.

“How come?”

“Well, you don’t want to have to drive all the way back down here.”

“But if we take just one, then one of us can drive and one can push if we get stuck.”

“Let’s take mine, then.”

“But mine’s already cleared and dug out.”

“But with mine I could drop you off home and save you the trip back down.”

“But that leaves my car stranded on Singleton Street.”

“We could get it to you after they plow.”

“And my car has its engine warmed!” Charles said.

Was this how they had sounded, all these years? Macon gave a short laugh, but Charles waited intently for his answer. “Fine, we’ll take yours,” Macon told him. They climbed into Charles’s VW.

It was true there were a lot of abandoned cars. They sat in no particular pattern, featureless white mounds turned this way and that, so the street resembled a river of drifting boats. Charles dodged expertly between them. He kept a slow, steady speed and talked about Rose’s wedding. “We told her April was too iffy. Better wait, we told her, if she’s so set on an outdoor service. But Rose said no, she’ll take her chances. She’s sure the weather will be perfect.”

A snow-covered jeep in front of them, the only moving vehicle they’d yet encountered, suddenly slurred to one side. Charles passed it smoothly in a long, shallow arc. Macon said, “Where will they live, anyhow?”

“Why, at Julian’s, I suppose.”

“In a singles building?”

“No, he’s got another place now, an apartment near the Belvedere.”

“I see,” Macon said. But he had trouble picturing Rose in an apartment — or anywhere, for that matter, if it wasn’t her grandparents’ house with its egg-and-dart moldings and heavily draped windows.

All through the city people were digging out — tunneling toward their parked cars, scraping off their windshields, shoveling sidewalks. There was something holidaylike about them; they waved to each other and called back and forth. One man, having cleared not only his walk but a section of the street as well, was doing a little soft-shoe dance on the wet concrete, and when Charles and Macon drove through he stopped to shout, “What are you, crazy? Traveling around in this?”

“I must say you’re remarkably calm in view of the situation,” Charles told Macon.

“What situation?”

“Your house, I mean. Water pouring through the ceiling for who knows how long.”

“Oh, that,” Macon said. Yes, at one time he’d have been very upset about that.

By now they were high on North Charles Street, which the plows had already cleared. Macon was struck by the spaciousness here — the buildings set far apart, wide lawns sloping between them. He had never noticed that before. He sat forward to gaze at the side streets. They were still completely white. And just a few blocks over, when Charles turned into Macon’s neighborhood, they saw a young girl on skis.

His house looked the same as ever, though slightly dingy in comparison with the snow. They sat in the car a moment studying it, and then Macon said, “Well, here goes, I guess,” and they climbed out. They could see where Garner Bolt had waded through the yard; they saw the scalloping of footprints where he’d stepped closer to peer in a window. But the sidewalk bore no tracks at all, and Macon found it difficult in his smooth-soled shoes.

The instant he unlocked the door, they heard the water. The living room was filled with a cool, steady, dripping sound, like a greenhouse after the plants have been sprayed. Charles, who was the first to enter, said, “Oh, my God.” Macon stopped dead in the hallway behind him.

Apparently an upstairs pipe (in that cold little bathroom off Ethan’s old room, Macon would bet) had frozen