Anne Tyler - The Accidental Tourist

Then she stepped out of the thrift shop. “It was way too expensive,” she told Macon. “Good dog,” she said, and she snapped her fingers to let Edward up. “Now one more test.” She was heading back toward her car. “We want to try both of us going in again. We’ll do it down at the doctor’s.”

“What doctor’s?”

“Dr. Snell’s. I’ve got to pick up Alexander; I want to return him to school after I drop you off.”

“Will that take long?”

“Oh, no.”

They drove south, with the engine knocking in a way that Macon hadn’t noticed the first time. In front of a building on Cold Spring Lane, Muriel parked and got out. Macon and Edward followed her. “Now, I don’t know if he’s ready or not,” she said. “But all the better if he’s not; gives Edward practice.”

“I thought you said this wouldn’t take long.”

She didn’t seem to hear him.

They left Edward on the stoop and went into the waiting room. The receptionist was a gray-haired woman with sequined glasses dangling from a chain of fake scarabs. Muriel asked her, “Is Alexander through yet?”

“Any minute, hon.”

Muriel found a magazine and sat down but Macon remained standing. He raised one of the slats of the venetian blind to check on Edward. A man in a nearby chair glanced over at him suspiciously. Macon felt like someone from a gangster movie — one of those shady characters who twitches back a curtain to make sure the coast is clear. He dropped the blind. Muriel was reading an article called “Put on the New Sultry, Shadowed Eyes!” There were pictures of different models looking malevolent.

“How old did you say Alexander was?” Macon asked.

She glanced up. Her own eyes, untouched by cosmetics, were disquietingly naked compared to those in the magazine.

“He’s seven,” she said.

Seven.

Seven was when Ethan had learned to ride a bicycle.

Macon was visited by one of those memories that dent the skin, that strain the muscles. He felt the seat of Ethan’s bike pressing into his hand — the curled-under edge at the rear that you hold onto when you’re trying to keep a bicycle upright. He felt the sidewalk slapping against his soles as he ran. He felt himself let go, slow to a walk, stop with his hands on his hips to call out, “You’ve got her now! You’ve got her!” And Ethan rode away from him, strong and proud and straight-backed, his hair picking up the light till he passed beneath an oak tree.

Macon sat down next to Muriel. She looked over and said, “Have you thought?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you given any thought to coming to dinner?”

“Oh,” he said. And then he said, “Well, I could come. If it’s only for dinner.”

“What else would it be for?” she asked. She smiled at him and tossed her hair back.

The receptionist said, “ Here he is.”

She was talking about a small, white, sickly boy with a shaved-looking skull. He didn’t appear to have quite enough skin for his face; his skin was stretched, his mouth was stretched to an unattractive width, and every bone and blade of cartilage made its presence known. His eyes were light blue and lashless, bulging slightly, rimmed with pink, magnified behind large, watery spectacles whose clear frames had an unfortunate pinkish cast themselves. He wore a carefully coordinated shirt-and-slacks set such as only a mother would choose.

“How’d it go?” Muriel asked him.

“Okay.”

“Sweetie, this is Macon. Can you say hi? I’ve been training his dog.”

Macon stood up and held out his hand. After a moment, Alexander responded. His fingers felt like a collection of wilted stringbeans. He took his hand away again and told his mother, “You have to make another appointment.”

“Sure thing.”

She went over to the receptionist, leaving Macon and Alexander standing there. Macon felt there was nothing on earth he could talk about with this child. He brushed a leaf off his sleeve. He pulled his cuffs down. He said, “You’re pretty young to be at the doctor’s without your mother.”

Alexander didn’t answer, but Muriel — waiting for the receptionist to flip through her calendar — turned and answered for him. “He’s used to it,” she said, “because he’s had to go so often. He’s got these allergies.”

“I see,” Macon said.

Yes, he was just the type for allergies.

“He’s allergic to shellfish, milk, fruits of all kinds, wheat, eggs, and most vegetables,” Muriel said. She accepted a card from the receptionist and dropped it into her purse. She said as they were walking out, “He’s allergic to dust and pollen and paint, and there’s some belief he’s allergic to air. Whenever he’s outside a long time he gets these bumps on any uncovered parts of his body.”

She clucked at Edward and snapped her fingers. Edward jumped up, barking. “Don’t pat him,” she told Alexander. “You don’t know what dog fur will do to you.”

They got into her car. Macon sat in back so Alexander could take the front seat, as far from Edward as possible. They had to drive with all the windows down so Alexander wouldn’t start wheezing. Over the rush of wind, Muriel called, “He’s subject to asthma, eczema, and nosebleeds. He has to get these shots all the time. If a bee ever stings him and he hasn’t had his shots he could be dead in half an hour.”

Alexander turned his head slowly and gazed at Macon. His expression was prim and censorious.

When they drew up in front of the house, Muriel said, “Well, let’s see now. I’m on full time at the Meow-Bow tomorrow…” She ran a hand through her hair, which was scratchy, rough, disorganized. “So I guess I won’t see you till dinner,” she said.

Macon couldn’t think of any way to tell her this, but the fact was he would never be able to make that dinner. He missed his wife. He missed his son. They were the only people who seemed real to him. There was no point looking for substitutes.

Muriel Pritchett was how she was listed. Brave and cocky: no timorous initials for Muriel. Macon circled the number. He figured now was the time to call. It was nine in the evening. Alexander would have gone to bed. He lifted the receiver.

But what would he say?

Best to be straightforward, of course, much less hurtful; hadn’t Grandmother Leary always told them so? Muriel, last year my son died and I don’t seem to… Muriel, this has nothing to do with you personally but really I have no…

Muriel, I can’t. I just can’t.

It seemed his voice had rusted over. He held the receiver to his ear but great, sharp clots of rust were sticking in his throat.

He had never actually said out loud that Ethan was dead. He hadn’t needed to; it was in the papers (page three, page five), and then friends had told other friends, and Sarah got on the phone… So somehow, he had never spoken the words. How would he do it now? Or maybe he could make Muriel do it. Finish the sentence, please: I did have a son but he—. “He what?” she would ask. “He went to live with your wife? He ran away? He died?” Macon would nod. “But how did he die? Was it cancer? Was it a car wreck? Was it a nineteen-year-old with a pistol in a Burger Bonanza restaurant?”

He hung up.

He went to ask Rose for notepaper and she gave him some from her desk. He took it to the dining room table, sat down, and uncapped his fountain pen. Dear Muriel , he wrote. And stared at the page a while.

Funny sort of name.

Who would think of calling a little newborn baby Muriel?

He examined his pen. It was a Parker, a swirly tortoiseshell lacquer with a complicated gold nib that he liked the looks of. He examined Rose’s stationery. Cream colored. Deckle edged. Deckle! What an odd word.