The Accidental Tourist

BLT. Macon, though, hung around the kitchen. Muriel was running a sinkful of water. He said, “Shall I dry?” Without any sort of warning, she whirled and flung a wet sponge in his face. Macon said, “Muriel?”

“Just get out!” she shouted, tears spiking her lashes, and she turned away again and plunged her hands into water so hot that it steamed. Macon retreated. He went into the living room where Alexander was watching TV, and Alexander moved over on the couch to give him space. He didn’t say anything, but Macon could tell he’d heard from the way he tensed at each clatter in the kitchen. After a while the clatters died down. Macon and Alexander looked at each other. There was a silence; a single murmuring voice. Macon rose and returned to the kitchen, walking more quietly than usual and keeping a weather eye out, the way a cat creeps back after it’s been dumped from someone’s lap.

Muriel was talking on the phone with her mother. Her voice was gay and chirpy but just a shade thicker than usual, as if she were recovering from a cold. “So anyhow,” she said, “I asked what kind of trouble her dog is giving her and the lady’s like, ‘Oh, no trouble,’ so I ask her, ‘Well, what’s his problem, then?’ and the lady’s like, ‘No real problem.’ I say, ‘Ma’am. You must have called me here for some reason.’ She says, ‘Oh. Well. That.’ She says, ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I was wondering about when he makes.’ I say, ‘Makes?’ She says, ‘Yes, when he makes number one. He makes like little girl dogs do, he doesn’t lift his leg.’ I say to her, ‘Now let me see if I’ve got this straight. You have called me here to teach your dog to lift his leg when he tinkles.’ ”

Her free hand kept flying out while she talked, as if she imagined her mother could see her. Macon came up behind her and put his arms around her, and she leaned back against him. “Oh, there’s never a dull moment, I tell you,” she said into the phone.

That night he dreamed he was traveling in a foreign country, only it seemed to be a medley of all the countries he’d ever been to and even some he hadn’t. The sterile vast spaces of Charles de Gaulle airport chittered with those tiny birds he’d seen inside the terminal at Brussels; and when he stepped outdoors he was in Julian’s green map of Hawaii with native dancers, oversized, swaying near the dots that marked various tourist attractions. Meanwhile his own voice, neutral and monotonous, murmured steadily: In Germany the commercial traveler must be punctual for all appointments,in Switzerland he should be five minutes early, in Italy delays of several hours are not uncommon…

He woke. It was pitch dark, but through the open window he heard distant laughter, a strain of music, faint cheers as if some sort of game were going on. He squinted at the clock radio: three thirty. Who would be playing a game at this hour? And on this street — this worn, sad street where nothing went right for anyone, where the men had dead-end jobs or none at all and the women were running to fat and the children were turning out badly. But another cheer went up, and someone sang a line from a song. Macon found himself smiling. He turned toward Muriel and closed his eyes; he slept dreamlessly the rest of the night.

The mailman rang the doorbell and presented a long, tube-shaped package addressed to Macon. “What’s this?” Macon asked. He returned to the living room, frowning down at the label. Muriel was reading a paperback book called Beauty Tips from the Stars. She glanced up and said, “Why not open it and find out.”

“Oh? Is this some of your doing?”

She only turned a page.

Another plea for the France trip, he supposed. He pulled off the tape on one end and shook the package till a cylinder of glossy paper slid out. When he unrolled it, he found a full-color photo of two puppies in a basket, with DR. MACK’S PETVITES above it and a calendar for January below it.

“I don’t understand,” he said to Muriel.

She turned another page.

“Why would you send me a calendar for a year that’s half gone?”

“Maybe there’s something written on it,” she told him.

He flipped through February, March, April. Nothing there. May. Then June: a scribble of red ink across a Saturday, “Wedding,” he read out. “Wedding? Whose wedding?”

“Ours?” she asked him.

“Oh, Muriel…”

“You’ll be separated a year then, Macon. You’ll be able to get your divorce.”

“But, Muriel—”

“I always did want to have a June wedding.”

“Muriel, please, I’m not ready for this! I don’t think I ever will be. I mean I don’t think marriage ought to be as common as it is; I really believe it ought to be the exception to the rule; oh, perfect couples could marry, maybe, but who’s a perfect couple?”

“You and Sarah, I suppose,” Muriel said.

The name brought Sarah’s calm face, round as a daisy.

“No, no…” he said weakly.

“You’re so selfish!” Muriel shouted. “You’re so self-centered! You’ve got all these fancy reasons for never doing a single thing I want!”

Then she flung down her book and ran upstairs.

Macon heard the cautious, mouselike sounds of Alexander as he tiptoed around the kitchen fixing himself a snack.

Muriel’s sister Claire arrived on the doorstep with a suitcase spilling clothes and her eyes pink with tears. “I’m never speaking to Ma again,” she told them. She pushed past them into the house. “You want to know what happened? Well, I’ve been dating this guy, see: Claude McEwen. Only I didn’t let on to Ma, you know how she’s scared I’ll turn out like Muriel did, and so last night when he came for me I jumped into his car and she happened to catch sight of me from the window, noticed he had a bumper sticker reading EDGEWOOD. That’s because he used to go to a high school called Edgewood Prep in Delaware, but Ma thought it was Edgewood Arsenal and therefore he must be an Army man. So anyhow, this morning I get up and there she is fit to be tied, says, ‘I know what you’ve been up to! Out all hours last night with the General!’ and I say, ‘Who? The what?’ but there’s never any stopping her once she gets started. She tells me I’m grounded for life and can’t ever see the General again or she’ll have him hauled up for court-martial and all his stars ripped off his uniform, so quick as a wink I packed up my clothes…”

Macon, listening absently while Edward sighed at his feet, had a sudden view of his life as rich and full and astonishing. He would have liked to show it off to someone. He wanted to sweep out an arm and say, “See?”

But the person he would have liked to show it to was Sarah.

Rose and Julian were back from their honeymoon; they were giving a family supper and Macon and Muriel were invited. Macon bought a bottle of very good wine as a hostess gift. He set the bottle on the counter, and Muriel came along and said, “What’s this?”

“It’s wine for Rose and Julian.”

“Thirty-six dollars and ninety-nine cents!” she said, examining the sticker.

“Yes, well, it’s French.”

“I didn’t know a wine could cost thirty-six ninety-nine.”

“I figured since, you know, this’ll be our first visit to their apartment…”

“You sure do think a lot of your family,” Muriel said.

“Yes, of course.”

“You never bought me any wine.”

“I didn’t know you wanted any; you told me it makes your teeth feel rough.”

She didn’t argue with that.

Later that day he happened to notice that the bottle had been moved. And was opened. And was half emptied. The cork lay beside it, still impaled on the corkscrew. A cloudy little juice glass gave off the smell of grapes. Macon called, “Muriel?”

“What,” she answered from the living room.

He went to the living room doorway. She was watching a ball game with Alexander. He said, “Muriel, have you been drinking that wine I bought?”