Anne Tyler - The Accidental Tourist

Macon wondered if it ever occurred to her that she lived an odd sort of life — unemployed, unmarried, supported by her brothers. But what job would she be suited for? he asked himself. Although he could picture her, come to think of it, as the mainstay of some musty, antique law firm or accounting firm. Nominally a secretary, she would actually run the whole business, arranging everything just so on her employer’s desk every morning and allowing no one below her or above her to overlook a single detail. Macon could use a secretary like that. Recalling the gum-chewing redhead in Julian’s disastrous office, he sighed and wished the world had more Roses.

He zipped a page from his typewriter and set it face down on a stack of others. He had finished with his introduction — general instructions like A subway is not an underground train and Don’t say restroom, say toilet —and he’d finished the chapter called “Trying to Eat in England.” Rose had mailed those off for him yesterday. That was his new stratagem: sending his book piece by piece from this undisclosed location. “There’s no return address on this,” Rose told him. “There’s not meant to be,” Macon said. Rose had nodded solemnly. She was the only one in the family who viewed his guidebooks as real writing. She kept a row of them in her bedroom bookcase, alphabetized by country.

In midafternoon, Rose stopped work to watch her favorite soap opera. This was something Macon didn’t understand. How could she waste her time on such trash? She said it was because there was a wonderfully evil woman in it. “There are enough evil people in real life,” Macon told her.

“Yes, but not wonderfully evil.”

“Well, that’s for sure.”

“This one, you see, is so obvious. You know exactly whom to mistrust.”

While she watched, she talked aloud to the characters. Macon could hear her in the dining room. “It isn’t you he’s after, sweetie,” she said, and “Just you wait. Ha!”—not at all her usual style of speech. A commercial broke in, but Rose stayed transfixed where she was. Macon, meanwhile, worked on “Trying to Sleep in England,” typing away in a dogged, uninspired rhythm.

When the doorbell rang, Rose didn’t respond. Edward went mad, barking and scratching at the door and running back to Macon and racing again to the door. “Rose?” Macon called. She said nothing. Finally he stood up, assembled himself on his crutches, and went as quietly as possible to the hall.

Well, it wasn’t Sarah. A glance through the lace curtain told him that much. He opened the door and peered out. “Yes?” he said.

It was Garner Bolt, a neighbor from home — a scrawny little gray man who had made his fortune in cleaning supplies. When he saw Macon, every line in his pert, pointed face turned upward. “There you are!” he said. It was hard to hear him over Edward, who went on barking frantically.

“Why, Garner,” Macon said.

“We worried you had died.”

“You did?”

Macon grabbed at Edward’s collar, but missed.

“Saw the papers piling up on your lawn, mail inside your screen door, didn’t know what to think.”

“Well, I meant to send my sister for those,” Macon said. “I broke my leg, you see.”

“Now, how did you do that?”

“It’s a long story.”

He gave up blocking the door. “Come on in,” he told Garner.

Garner took off his cap, which had a Sherwin-Williams Paint sign across the front. His jacket was part of some long-ago suit, a worn shiny brown, and his overalls were faded to white at the knees. He stepped inside, skirting the dog, and shut the door behind him. Edward’s barks turned to whimpers. “My car is full of your mail,” Garner said. “Brenda said I ought to bring it to your sister and ask if she knew of your whereabouts. Also I promised your friend.”

“What friend?”

“Lady in pedal pushers.”

“I don’t know any lady in pedal pushers,” Macon said. He hadn’t realized pedal pushers still existed, even.

“Saw her standing on your porch, rattling your doorknob. Calling out, ‘Macon? You in there?’ Skinny little lady with hair. Looked to be in her twenties or so.”

“Well, I can’t imagine who it was.”

“Squinching in and shading her eyes.”

“Who could it be?”

“Tripping down the porch steps in her great tall pointy high heels.”

“The dog lady,” Macon said. “Jesus.”

“Kind of young, ain’t she?”

“I don’t even know her!”

“Going round the back of the house to call out, ‘Macon? Macon?’ ”

“I barely met her!”

“It was her that told me about the windle.”

“Windle?”

“Windle to the basement, all broke out. Fall sets in and it’ll turn your furnace on. Waste all kinds of energy.”

“Oh. Well. Yes, I suppose it would,” Macon said.

“We thought you might’ve been burglarized or something.”

Macon led the way to the dining room. “See, what happened,” he said, “I broke my leg and I came to live at my family’s till I could manage for myself again.”

“We didn’t see no ambulance though or nothing.”

“Well, I called my sister.”

“Sister’s a doctor?”

“Just to come and take me to the emergency room.”

“When Brenda broke her hip on the missing step,” Garner said, “she called the ambulance.”

“Well, I called my sister.”

“Brenda called the ambulance.”

They seemed to be stuck.

“I guess I ought to notify the post office about my mail,” Macon said finally. He lowered himself into his chair.

Garner pulled out another chair and sat down with his cap in his hands. He said, “I could just keep on bringing it.”

“No, I’ll have Rose notify them. Lord, all these bills must be coming due and so forth—”

“I could bring it just as easy.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Why don’t I bring it.”

“To tell the truth,” Macon said, “I’m not so sure I’ll be going back there.”

This hadn’t occurred to him before. He placed his crutches together delicately, like a pair of chopsticks, and laid them on the floor beside his chair. “I might stay on here with my family,” he said.

“And give up that fine little house?”

“It’s kind of big for just one person.”

Garner frowned down at his cap. He put it on his head, changed his mind, and took it off again. “Look,” he said. “Back when me and Brenda were newlyweds we were awful together. Just awful. Couldn’t neither one of us stand the other, I’ll never know how we lasted.”

“We aren’t newlyweds, though,” Macon said. “We’ve been married twenty years.”

“Brenda and me did not speak to each other for very nearly every bit of nineteen and thirty-five,” Garner said. “January to August, nineteen and thirty-five. New Year’s Day till my summer vacation. Not a single blessed word.”

Macon’s attention was caught. “What,” he said, “not even ‘Pass the salt’? ‘Open the window’?”

“Not even that.”

“Well, how did you manage your daily life?”

“Mostly, she stayed over to her sister’s.”

“Oh, then.”

“The morning my vacation began, I felt so miserable I like to died. Thought to myself, ‘What am I doing, anyhow?’ Called long distance to Ocean City and booked a room for two. In those days long distance was some big deal, let me tell you. Took all these operators and so forth and it cost a mint. Then I packed some clothes for me and some clothes for Brenda and went on over to her sister’s house. Her sister says, ‘What do you want?’ She was the type that likes to see dissension. I walk right past her. Find Brenda in the living room, mending hose. Open my suitcase: ‘Look at here. Your sundress for dining in a seafood restaurant,’ I tell her. ‘Two pairs of shorts. Two blouses. Your swimsuit.’ She don’t even look at me. ‘Your bathrobe,’ I say. ‘Your nightgown you wore on our honeymoon.’ Acts like I’m not even there. ‘Brenda,’ I tell her. I say, ‘Brenda, I am nineteen years old and I’ll never be nineteen again. I’ll never be alive again. I mean this is the only life I get to go through, Brenda, so far as I know, and I’ve spent this great large chunk of it sitting alone in an empty apartment too proud to make up, too scared you’d say no, but even if you did say no it can’t be worse than what I got now. I’m the loneliest man in the world, Brenda, so please come to Ocean City with me.’ And Brenda, she lays down her mending and says, ‘Well, since you ask, but it looks to me like you forgot my bathing cap.’ And off we went.”