The Accidental Tourist

Somehow, his role had sunk all the way through to the heart. Even internally, by now, he was a fairly chilly man, and if you didn't count his son (who was easy, easy; a child is no test at all), there was not one person in his life whom he really agonized over.

When he thought about this now, it was a relief to remind himself that he did miss Sarah, after all. But then his relief seemed unfeeling too, and he groaned and shook his head and tugged his hair in great handfuls.

Some woman phoned and said, "Macon?" He could tell at once it wasn't Sarah. Sarah's voice was light and breathy; this one was rough, tough, wiry. "It's Muriel," she said.

"Muriel," he said.

"Muriel Pritchett."

"Ah, yes," he said, but he still had no clue who she was.

"From the vet's?" she asked. "Who got on so good with your dog?"

"Oh, the vet's!"

He saw her, if dimly. He saw her saying her own name, the long u sound and the p drawing up her dark red mouth.

"I was just wondering how Edward was."

Macon glanced over at Edward. The two of them were in the study, where Macon had managed to type half a page. Edward lay flat on his stomach with his legs straight out behind him-short, pudgy legs like the drumsticks of a dressed Long Island duckling. "He looks all right to me,"

Macon said.

"I mean, is he biting?"

"Well, not lately, but he's developed this new symptom. He gets angry if I leave the house. He starts barking and showing his teeth."

"I still think he ought to be trained."

"Oh, you know, he's four and a half and I suppose-"

"That's not too old! I could do it in no time. Tell you what, maybe I could just come around and discuss it. You and me could have a drink or something and talk about what his problems are."

"Well, I really don't think-"

"Or you could come to my place. I'd fix you supper."

Macon wondered how it would help Edward to be dragged to supper at some stranger's house.

"Macon? What do you say?" she asked.

"Oh, why, um ... I think for now I'll just try to manage on my own."

"Well, I can understand that," she said. "Believe me. I've been through that stage. So what I'll do is, I'll wait for you to get in touch. You do still have my card, don't you?"

Macon said he did, although he had no idea where it had got to.

"I don't want to be pushy!" she said.

"No, well . . ." Macon said. Then he hung up and went back to his guidebook.

He was still on the introduction, and it was already the end of August.

How would he meet his deadline? The back of the desk chair hit his spine in just the wrong place. The s key kept sticking. The typewriter tapped out audible words. "Inimitable," it said. His typing sounded just like Sarah saying "inimitable." "You in your inimitable way . . ." she told him. He gave a quick shake of his head. Generally food in England is not as jarring as in other foreign countries. Nice cooked vegetables, things in white sauce, pudding for dessert ... I don't know why some travelers complain about English food.

In September, he decided to alter his system of dressing. If he wore sweat suits at home-the zipper-free kind, nothing to scratch or bind him-he could go from one shower to the next without changing clothes. The sweat suit would serve as both pajamas and day wear.

He bought a couple of them, medium gray. The first night he wore one to bed he enjoyed the feel of it, and he liked not having to dress the next morning. In fact, it occurred to him that he might as well wear the same outfit two days in a row; skip his shower on alternate evenings. Talk about saving energy! In the morning all he had to do was shave. He wondered if he ought to grow a beard.

Around noon of the second day, though, he started feeling a little low.

He was sitting at his typewriter and something made him notice his posture-stooped and sloppy. He blamed the sweat suit. He rose and went to the full-length mirror in the hall. His reflection reminded him of a patient in a mental hospital. Part of the trouble, perhaps, was his shoes-regular black tie shoes intended for dressier clothes. Should he buy sneakers? But he would hate to be mistaken for a jogger. He noticed that without a belt around his waist, he tended to let his stomach stick out. He stood up straighter. That evening when it was time to wash the first sweat suit, he used extra-hot water to shrink out some of the bagginess.

He felt much worse in the morning. It had been a warm night and he woke up sticky and cross. He couldn't face the thought of popcorn for breakfast. He laundered a load of sheets and then, in the midst of hanging them, found himself standing motionless with his head bowed, both wrists dangling over the clothesline as if he himself had been pinned there. "Buck up," he said aloud. His voice sounded creaky, out of practice.