The Accidental Tourist

Then he returned to the hall and watched the couch lumbering toward him, borne by the first boy and another, just slightly older, who had an eagle tattooed on his forearm. Macon thought of Dominick Saddler's muscular, corded arms grappling beneath the hood of Muriel's car. The first boy spat as he approached the house, but Macon saw how young and benign his face was. "Aw, man," the second one said, stumbling over the doorstep.

Macon said, "That's all right," and gave them each a five-dollar bill when they'd placed the couch where he directed.

After they'd gone he sat down on the couch, which still had some sort of cellophane covering. He rubbed his hands on his knees. Edward barked in the kitchen. Helen padded in softly, stopped still, eyed the couch, and continued through the room with an offended air. Macon went on sitting.

When Ethan died, the police had asked Macon to identify the body. But Sarah, they suggested, might prefer to wait outside. Yes, Sarah had said; she would. She had taken a seat on a molded beige chair in the hallway.

Then she'd looked up at Macon and said, "Can you do this?"

"Yes," he'd told her, evenly. He had felt he was barely breathing; he was keeping himself very level, with most of the air emptied out of his lungs.

He had followed a man into a room. It was not as bad as it could have been because someone had folded a wad of toweling under the back of Ethan's head to hide the damage. Also it wasn't Ethan. Not the real Ethan. Odd how clear it suddenly became, once a person had died, that the body was the very least of him. This was simply an untenanted shell, although it bore a distant resemblance to Ethan-the same groove down the upper lip, same cowlick over the forehead. Macon had a sensation like pressing against a blank wall, willing with all his being something that could never happen: Please, please come back inside. But finally he said, "Yes. That is my son."

He'd returned to Sarah and given her a nod. Sarah had risen and put her arms around him. Later, when they were alone in their motel, she'd asked him what he had seen. "Not really much of anything, sweetheart," he had told her. She kept at him. Was Ethan . . . well, hurt-looking? Scared? He said, "No, he was nothing." He said, "Let me get you some tea."

"I don't want tea, I want to hear!" she'd said. "What are you hiding?" He had the impression she was blaming him for something. Over the next few weeks it seemed she grew to hold him responsible, like a bearer of bad tidings-the only one who could say for a fact that Ethan had truly died.

She made several references to Macon's chilliness, to his appalling calm that night in the hospital morgue. Twice she expressed some doubt as to whether, in fact, he was really capable of distinguishing Ethan from some similar boy. In fact, that may not have been Ethan at all. It may have been somebody else who had died. She should have ascertained for herself.

She was the mother, after all; she knew her child far better; what did Macon know?

Macon said, "Sarah. Listen. I will tell you as much as I can. He was very pale and still. You wouldn't believe how still. He didn't have any expression. His eyes were closed. There was nothing bloody or gruesome, just a sense of ... futility. I mean I wondered what the purpose had been. His arms were down by his sides and I thought about last spring when he started lifting weights. I thought, 'Is this what it comes to?

Lift weights and take vitamins and build yourself up and then-nothing?' "

He hadn't been prepared for Sarah's response. "So what are you saying?"

she asked him. "We die in the end, so why bother to live in the first place? Is that what you're saying?"

"No-" he said.

"It all comes down to a question of economy?" she asked.

"No, Sarah. Wait," he had said.

Thinking back on that conversation now, he began to believe that people could, in fact, be used up-could use each other up, could be of no further help to each other and maybe even do harm to each other. He began to think that who you are when you're with somebody may matter more than whether you love her.

Lord knows how long he sat there.

Edward had been barking in the kitchen all this time, but now he went into a frenzy. Somebody must have knocked. Macon rose and went to the front of the house, where he found Julian standing on the porch with a file folder. "Oh. It's you," Macon said.

"What's all that barking I hear?"

"Don't worry, he's shut in the kitchen. Come on in."

He held the screen door open and Julian stepped inside. "Thought I'd bring you the material for Paris," Julian said.

"I see," Macon said. But he suspected he was really here for some other reason. Probably hoping to hurry the Canada book. "Well, I was just this minute touching up my conclusion," he said, leading the way to the living room. And then, nastily, "Few details here and there I'm not entirely happy with; may be a little while yet ..."