“Her catch!”
“Someone to support her. Anyone,” Charles said. “She’d be lucky to find anyone. Why, she doesn’t even speak proper English! She lives in that slummy house, she dresses like some kind of bag lady, she’s got that little boy who appears to have hookworm or something—”
“Charles, just shut the hell up,” Macon said.
Charles closed his mouth.
They had reached Muriel’s neighborhood by now. They were driving past the stationery factory with its tangled wire fence like old bedsprings. Charles took a wrong turn. “Let’s see, now,” he said, “where do I…”
Macon didn’t offer to help.
“Am I heading in the right direction? Or not. Somehow I don’t seem to…”
They were two short blocks from Singleton Street, but Macon hoped Charles would drive in circles forever. “Lots of luck,” he said, and he opened the door and hopped out.
“Macon?”
Macon waved and ducked down an alley.
Freedom! Sunlight glinting off blinding white drifts, and children riding sleds and TV trays. Cleared parking spaces guarded with lawn chairs. Throngs of hopeful boys with shovels. And then Muriel’s house with its walk still deep in snow, its small rooms smelling of pancakes, its cozy mix of women lounging about in the kitchen. They were drinking cocoa now. Bernice was braiding Claire’s hair. Alexander was painting a picture. Muriel kissed Macon hello and squealed at his cold cheeks. “Come in and get warm! Have some cocoa! Look at Alexander’s picture,” she said. “Don’t you love it? Isn’t he something? He’s a regular da Vinci.”
“Leonardo,” Macon said.
“What?”
“Not da Vinci. For God’s sake. It’s Leonardo,” he told her. Then he stamped upstairs to change out of his clammy trousers.
fifteen
'I’m sorry I’m so fat,” Macon’s seatmate said.
Macon said, “Oh, er, ah—”
“I know I’m using more than my share of space,” the man told him. “Do you think I’m not aware of that? Every trip I take, I have to ask the stewardess for a seatbelt extender. I have to balance my lunch on my knees because the tray can’t unfold in front of me. Really I ought to purchase two seats but I’m not a wealthy man. I ought to purchase two tickets and not spread all over my fellow passengers.”
“Oh, you’re not spreading all over me,” Macon said.
This was because he was very nearly sitting in the aisle, with his knees jutting out to the side so that every passing stewardess ruffled the pages of
“Macon Leary,” Macon told him.
“The stupid thing is,” Lucas Loomis said, “I travel for a living.”
“Do you.”
“I demonstrate software to computer stores. I’m sitting in an airplane seat six days out of seven sometimes.”
“Well, none of us finds them all that roomy,” Macon said.
“What do you do, Mr. Leary?”
“I write guidebooks,” Macon said.
“Is that so? What kind?”
“Oh, guides for businessmen. People just like you, I guess.”
“Why, yes.”
“Really? Am I right? Well, what do you know,” Mr. Loomis said. “Look at this.” He took hold of his own lapels, which sat so far in front of him that his arms seemed too short to reach them. “Gray suit,” he told Macon. “Just what you recommend. Appropriate for all occasions.” He pointed to the bag at his feet. “See my luggage? Carry-on. Change of underwear, clean shirt, packet of detergent powder.”
“Well, good,” Macon said. This had never happened to him before.
“You’re my hero!” Mr. Loomis told him. “You’ve improved my trips a hundred percent. You’re the one who told me about those springy items that turn into clotheslines.”
“Oh, well, you could have run across those in any drugstore,” Macon said.
“I’ve stopped relying on hotel laundries; I hardly need to venture into the streets anymore. I tell my wife, I say, you just ask her, I tell her often, I say, ‘Going with the
“Well, this is very nice to hear,” Macon said.
“Times I’ve flown clear to Oregon and hardly knew I’d left Baltimore.”
“Excellent.”
There was a pause.
“Although,” Macon said, “lately I’ve been wondering.”
Mr. Loomis had to turn his entire body to look at him, like someone encased in a hooded parka.
“I mean,” Macon said, “I’ve been out along the West Coast. Updating my U.S. edition. And of course I’ve covered the West Coast before, Los Angeles and all that; Lord, yes, I knew the place as a child; but this was the first I’d seen of San Francisco. My publisher wanted me to add it in. Have you been to San Francisco?”
“That’s where we just now got on the plane,” Mr. Loomis reminded him.
“San Francisco is certainly, um, beautiful,” Macon said.
Mr. Loomis thought that over.
“Well, so is Baltimore too, of course,” Macon said hastily. “Oh, no place on earth like Baltimore! But San Francisco, well, I mean it struck me as, I don’t know…”
“I was born and raised in Baltimore, myself,” Mr. Loomis said. “Wouldn’t live anywhere else for the world.”
“No, of course not,” Macon said. “I just meant—”
“Couldn’t pay me to leave it.”
“No, me either.”
“You a Baltimore man?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“No place like it.”
“Certainly isn’t,” Macon said.
But a picture came to his mind of San Francisco floating on mist like the Emerald City, viewed from one of those streets so high and steep that you really could hang your head over and hear the wind blow.
He’d left Baltimore on a sleety day with ice coating the airport runways, and he hadn’t been gone all that long; but when he returned it was spring. The sun was shining and the trees were tipped with green. It was still fairly cool but he drove with his windows down. The breeze smelled exactly like Vouvray — flowery with a hint of mothballs underneath.
On Singleton Street, crocuses were poking through the hard squares of dirt in front of basement windows. Rugs and bedspreads flapped in backyards. A whole cache of babies had surfaced. They cruised imperiously in their strollers, propelled by their mothers or by pairs of grandmothers. Old people sat out on the sidewalk in beach chairs and wheelchairs, and groups of men stood about on corners, their hands in their pockets and their posture elaborately casual — the unemployed, Macon imagined, emerging from the darkened living rooms where they’d
