Anne Tyler - The Accidental Tourist

“Fine,” he said.

“Have a second honeymoon, sort of.”

“Wonderful.”

He watched her set the cheeses on a flattened paper bag. “We’ll change your plane ticket for a later date,” she said. “You’re reserved to leave tomorrow morning; no chance you could manage that. I left my own ticket open-ended. Julian said I should. Did I tell you where Julian is living?”

“No, where?”

“He’s moved in with Rose and your brothers.”

“He’s what?”

“I took Edward over to Rose’s to stay while I was gone, and there was Julian. He sleeps in Rose’s bedroom; he’s started playing Vaccination every night after supper.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Macon said.

“Have some cheese.”

He accepted a slice, changing position as little as possible.

“Funny, sometimes Rose reminds me of a flounder,” Sarah said. “Not in looks, of course. She’s lain on the ocean floor so long, one eye has moved to the other side of her head.”

He stopped chewing and stared at her. She was pouring two glasses of cloudy brown liquid. “Apple cider,” she told him. “I figured you shouldn’t drink wine with those pills.”

“Oh. Right,” he said.

She passed him a glass. “A toast to our second honeymoon,” she said.

“Our second honeymoon,” he echoed.

“Twenty-one more years together.”

“Twenty-one!” he said. It sounded like such a lot.

“Or would you say twenty.”

“No, it’s twenty-one, all right. We were married in nineteen—”

“I mean because we skipped this past year.”

“Oh,” he said. “No, it would still be twenty-one.”

“You think so?”

“I consider last year just another stage in our marriage,” he said. “Don’t worry: It’s twenty-one.”

She clinked her glass against his.

Their main dish was a potted meat that she spread on French bread, and their dessert was fruit. She washed the fruit in the bathroom, returning with handfuls of peaches and strawberries; and meanwhile she kept up a cozy patter that made him feel he was home again. “Did I mention we had a letter from the Averys? They might be passing through Baltimore later this summer. Oh, and the termite man came.”

“Ah.”

“He couldn’t find anything wrong, he said.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“And I’ve almost finished my sculpture and Mr. Armistead says it’s the best thing I’ve done.”

“Good for you,” Macon said.

“Oh,” she said, folding the last paper bag, “I know you don’t think my sculptures are important, but—”

“Who says I don’t?” he asked.

“I know you think I’m just this middle-aged lady playing artist—”

“Who says?”

“Oh, I know what you think! You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Macon started to slump against his pillow, but was brought up short by a muscle spasm.

She cut a peach into sections, and then she sat on the bed and passed him one of the sections. She said, “Macon. Just tell me this. Was the little boy the attraction?”

“Huh?”

“Was the fact that she had a child what attracted you to that woman?”

He said, “Sarah, I swear to you, I had no idea she was planning to follow me over here.”

“Yes, I realize that,” she said, “but I was wondering about the child question.”

“What child question?”

“I was remembering the time you said we should have another baby.”

“Oh, well, that was just — I don’t know what that was,” he said. He handed her back the peach; he wasn’t hungry anymore.

“I was thinking maybe you were right,” Sarah said.

“What? No, Sarah; Lord, that was a terrible idea.”

“Oh, I know it’s scary,” she told him. “I admit I’d be scared to have another.”

“Exactly,” Macon said. “We’re too old.”

“No, I’m talking about the, you know, the world we’d be bringing him into. So much evil and danger. I admit it: I’d be frantic any time we let him out on the street.”

Macon saw Singleton Street in his mind, small and distant like Julian’s little green map of Hawaii and full of gaily drawn people scrubbing their stoops, tinkering with their cars, splashing under fire hydrants.

“Oh, well, you’re right,” he said. “Though really it’s kind of… heartening, isn’t it? How most human beings do try. How they try to be as responsible and kind as they can manage.”

“Are you saying yes, we can have a baby?” Sarah asked.

Macon swallowed. He said, “Well, no. It seems to me we’re past the time for that, Sarah.”

“So,” she said, “her little boy wasn’t the reason.”

“Look, it’s over with. Can’t we close the lid on it? I don’t cross-examine you , do I?”

“But I don’t have someone following me to Paris!” she said.

“And what if you did? Do you think I’d hold you to blame if someone just climbed on a plane without your knowing?”

“Before it left the ground,” she said.

“Pardon? Well, I should hope so!”

“Before it left the ground, you saw her. You could have walked up to her and said, ‘No. Get off. Go this minute. I want nothing more to do with you and I never want to see you again.’ ”

“You think I own the airline, Sarah?”

“You could have stopped her if you’d really wanted,” Sarah said. “You could have taken steps.”

And then she rose and began to clear away their supper.

She gave him his next pill, but he let it stay in his fist for a while because he didn’t want to risk moving. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to Sarah undress. She ran water in the bathroom, slipped the chain on the door, turned off the lights. When she got into bed it stabbed his back, even though she settled carefully, but he gave no sign. He heard her breathing soften almost at once. She must have been exhausted.

He reflected that he had not taken steps very often in his life, come to think of it. Really never. His marriage, his two jobs, his time with Muriel, his return to Sarah — all seemed to have simply befallen him. He couldn’t think of a single major act he had managed of his own accord.

Was it too late now to begin?

Was there any way he could learn to do things differently?

He opened his hand and let the pill fall among the bedclothes. It was going to be a restless, uncomfortable night, but anything was better than floating off on that stupor again.

In the morning, he negotiated the journey out of bed and into the bathroom. He shaved and dressed, spending long minutes on each task. Creeping around laboriously, he packed his bag. The heaviest thing he packed was Miss MacIntosh, My Darling, and after thinking that over a while, he took it out again and set it on the bureau.

Sarah said, “Macon?”

“Sarah. I’m glad you’re awake,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m packing to leave.”

She sat up. Her face was creased down one side.

“But what about your back?” she asked. “And I’ve got all those appointments! And we were going to take a second honeymoon!”

“Sweetheart,” he said. He lowered himself cautiously till he was sitting on the bed. He picked up her hand. It stayed lifeless while she watched his face.

“You’re going back to that woman,” she said.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

“Why, Macon?”

“I just decided, Sarah. I thought about it most of last night. It wasn’t easy. It’s not the easy way out, believe me.”

She sat staring at him. She wore no expression.

“Well, I don’t want to miss the plane,” he said.

He inched to a standing position and hobbled into the bathroom for his shaving kit.

“You know what this is? It’s all due to that pill!” Sarah called after him. “You said yourself it knocks you out!”