that was ringing. Then he saw the telephone on the nightstand. Still he was confused. No one had his number, so far as he knew.
He picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?”
“Macon.”
His heart lurched. He said, “Sarah?”
“Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“No, no… How did you know where I was?”
“Well, Julian thought you’d be in either Toronto or Winnipeg by now,” she said, “so I looked in your last guidebook, and I knew the hotels where you discussed night noises were the ones where you stayed yourself, so…”
“Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, I just needed a favor. Would it be all right with you if I moved back into our house?”
“Um—”
“Just as a place to stay,” she said hastily. “Just for a little while. My lease runs out at the end of the month and I can’t find a new apartment.”
“But the house is a mess,” he told her.
“Oh, I’ll take care of that.”
“No, I mean something happened to it over the winter, pipes burst or something, ceiling came down—”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?”
“Your brothers told me.”
“My brothers?”
“I went to ask them your whereabouts when they wouldn’t answer their phone. And Rose said she’d been over to the house herself and—”
“You went to Rose’s, too?”
“No, Rose was at your brothers’.”
“Oh.”
“She’s living there for a while.”
“I see,” he said. Then he said, “She’s what?”
“Well, June has had her baby,” Sarah said, “so she asked Porter to keep the children a while.”
“But what does that have to do with Rose?” he said. “Does Rose imagine Porter can’t open a tin of soup for them? And how come June sent them away?”
“Oh, you know June, she always was kind of a birdbrain.”
She sounded like her old self, when she said that. Up till now there’d been something careful about her voice, something wary and ready to retreat, but now a certain chuckly, confiding quality emerged. Macon leaned back against his pillow.
“She told the children she needs time to bond,” Sarah said.
“Time to what?”
“She and her husband need to bond with the baby.”
“Good grief,” Macon said.
“When Rose heard that, she told Porter she was coming home. Anyhow she didn’t think the boys were eating right, Porter and Charles; and also there’s a crack in the side of the house and she wanted to get it patched before it spreads.”
“What kind of crack?” Macon asked.
“Some little crack in the masonry; I don’t know. When the rain comes from a certain direction water seeps in above the kitchen ceiling, Rose says, and Porter and Charles were planning to fix it but they couldn’t agree on the best way to do it.”
Macon slipped out of his shoes and hoisted his feet up onto the bed. He said, “So is Julian living alone now, or what?”
“Yes, but she brings him casseroles,” Sarah said. Then she said, “Have you thought about it, Macon?”
His heart gave another lurch. He said, “Have I thought about what?”
“About my using the house.”
“Oh. Well. It’s fine with me, but I don’t believe you realize the extent of the damage.”
“But we’d have to fix that anyway, if we were to sell it. So here’s what I was thinking: I could pay for the repairs myself — anything the insurance doesn’t cover — with what I’d ordinarily use for rent. Does that seem fair to you?”
“Yes, of course,” Macon said.
“And maybe I’ll get someone to clean the upholstery,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And the rugs.”
“Yes.”
After all these years, he knew when she was leading up to something. He recognized that distracted tone that meant she was bracing herself for what she really wanted to say.
“Incidentally,” she said, “the papers came through from the lawyer.”
“Ah.”
“The final arrangements. You know. Things I have to sign.”
“Yes.”
“It was kind of a shock.”
He said nothing.
“I mean, of course I knew that they were coming; it’s been nearly a year; in fact he called ahead and told me they were coming, but when I saw them in black and white they just seemed so brisk. They didn’t take into account the feelings of the thing. I guess I wasn’t expecting that.”
Macon had a sense of some danger approaching, something he couldn’t handle. He said, “Ah! Yes! Certainly! That seems a natural reaction. So anyway, good luck with the house, Sarah.”
He hung up quickly.
His seatmate on the flight to Edmonton was a woman who was scared of flying. He knew that before the plane had left the ground, before he’d looked in her direction. He was gazing out the window, keeping to himself as usual, and he heard her swallowing repeatedly. She kept tightening and releasing her grasp on the armrests and he could feel that, too. Finally he turned to see who this was. A pair of pouched eyes met his. A very old, baggy woman in a flowered dress was staring at him intently, had perhaps been willing him to turn. “Do you think this plane is safe,” she said flatly, not exactly asking.
“It’s perfectly safe,” he told her.
“Then why have all these signs about. Oxygen. Life vests. Emergency exits. They’re clearly expecting the worst.”
“That’s just federal regulations,” Macon said.
Then he started thinking about the word “federal.” In Canada, would it apply? He frowned at the seat ahead of him, considering. Finally he said, “
“They don’t give us sherry till we’re airborne. By then it’s much too late.”
“Just a minute,” he said.
He bent to unzip his bag, and from his shaving kit he took a plastic travel flask. This was something he always packed, in case of sleepless nights. He had never used it, though — not because he’d never had a sleepless night but because he’d gone on saving it for some occasion even worse than whatever the current one was, something that never quite arrived. Like his other emergency supplies (the matchbook-sized sewing kit, the tiny white Lomotil tablet), this flask was being hoarded for the
