The Accidental Tourist

"The young man in gauze is Ashley Demming," Sarah said. "You know Ashley.

Peter and Lindy Demming's son. My, he's aged poor

Lindy twenty years in the last six months, hasn't he? I don't think they're ever going to get over this."

"Ah, well," Macon said.

Then they were shown to a table.

Sarah ordered something called a White Lady and Macon ordered a sherry.

With their meal they had a bottle of wine. Macon wasn't used to drinking in the daytime; he grew a little muzzy. So did Sarah, evidently, for she drifted off in the middle of a sentence about upholstery fabrics. She touched his hand, which was lying on the tablecloth. "We ought to do this more often," she said.

"Yes, we ought to."

"You know what I missed most when we were separated? The little, habitual things. The Saturday errands. Going to Eddie's for coffee beans. Even things that used to seem tiresome, like the way you'd take forever in the hardware store."

When he folded her hand into a fist it was round, like a bird. It had no sharp angles.

"I'm not sure if you know this," she said, "but for a while I was seeing another man."

"Well, fine; whatever; eat your salad," he told her.

"No, I want to say it, Macon. He was just getting over the death of his wife, and I was getting over things too so of course . . . Well, we started out very slowly, we started as friends, but then he began talking about getting married someday. After we'd given ourselves some time, he meant. In fact I think he really loved me. He took it hard when I told him you'd moved back."

She looked straight at Macon when she said that, her eyes a sudden blue flash. He nodded.

"But there were these things I had trouble with," she said. "I mean good things; qualities I'd always wished for. He was a very dashing driver, for instance. Not unsafe; just dashing. At first, I liked that. Then bit by bit it began to feel wrong. 'Double-check your rearview mirror!' I wanted to tell him. 'Fasten your seatbelt! Inch past stop signs the way my husband does!' He never examined a restaurant bill before he paid it-shoot, he didn't even take his credit card receipt when he walked away from a table-and I thought of all the times I sat stewing while you totted up every little item. I thought, 'Why do I miss that? It's perverse!'"

Like "eck cetera," Macon thought.

Like Muriel saying, "eck cetera." And Macon wincing.

And the emptiness now, the thinness, when he heard it pronounced correctly.

He stroked the dimpled peaks that were Sarah's knuckles.

"Macon, I think that after a certain age people just don't have a choice," Sarah said. "You're who I'm with. It's too late for me to change. I've used up too much of my life now."

You mean to tell me you can just use a person up and then move on? Muriel had asked.

Evidently so, was the answer. For even if he had stayed with Muriel, then wouldn't Sarah have been left behind?

"After a certain age," he told Sarah, "it seems to me you can only choose what to lose."

"What?" she said.

"I mean there's going to be something you have to give up, whichever way you cut it."

"Well, of course," she said.

He supposed she'd always known that.

They finished their meal but they didn't order coffee because they were running late. Sarah had her class; she was studying with a sculptor on Saturdays. Macon called for the bill and paid it, self-consciously totaling it first. Then they stepped out into the sunshine. "What a pretty day," Sarah said. "It makes me want to play hooky."

"Why don't you?" Macon asked. If she didn't go to class, he wouldn't have to work on his guidebook.

But she said, "I can't disappoint Mr. Armistead."

They drove home, and she changed into a sweat suit and set off again.

Macon carried in the fertilizer, which Rose had poured into a bucket. It was something shredded that had no smell-or only a harsh, chemical smell, nothing like the truckloads of manure the men used to bring for his grandmother's camellias. He set it on the pantry floor and then he took the dog out. Then he made himself a cup of coffee to clear his head. He drank it at the kitchen sink, staring into the yard. The cat rubbed against his ankles and purred. The clock over the stove ticked steadily.

There was no other sound.

When the telephone rang, he was glad. He let it ring twice before he answered so as not to seem overeager. Then he picked up the receiver and said, "Hello?"

"Mr. Leary?"

"Yes!"

"This is Mrs. Morton calling, at Merkle Appliance Store. Are you aware that the maintenance policy on your hot water heater expires at the end of the month?"

"No, I hadn't realized," Macon said.

"You had a two-year policy at a cost of thirty-nine eighty-eight. Now to renew it for another two years the cost of course would be slightly higher since your hot water heater is older."

"Well, that makes sense," Macon said. "Gosh! How old is that thing by now?"

"Let's see. You purchased it three years ago this July."

"Well, I'd certainly like to keep the maintenance policy."

"Wonderful. I'll send you a new contract then, Mr. Leary, and thank you for-"