The Accidental Tourist

The telephone in the living room gave a nipped squeak and then a full ring. Nobody seemed to notice. Rose laid a king on Porter's queen and Porter said, "Stinker." The telephone rang again and then again. In the middle of the fourth ring, it fell silent. "Hypodermic," Rose told Porter, and she topped the king with an ace.

"You're a real stinker, Rose."

In the portrait on the end wall, the Leary children gazed out with their veiled eyes. It occurred to Macon that they were sitting in much the same positions here this evening: Charles and Porter on either side of him, Rose perched in the foreground. Was there any real change? He felt a jolt of something very close to panic. Here he still was! The same as ever!

What have I gone and done? he wondered, and he swallowed thickly and looked at his own empty hands.

"Help! Help! Call off your dog!"

Macon stopped typing and lifted his head. The voice came from somewhere out front, rising above a string of sharp, excited yelps. But Edward was taking a walk with Porter. This must be some other dog.

"Call him off, dammit!"

Macon rose, propping himself on his crutches, and made his way to the window. Sure enough, it was Edward. He seemed to have treed somebody in the giant magnolia to the right of the walk. He was barking so hard that he kept popping off the ground perfectly level, all four feet at once, like one of those pull toys that bounce straight up in the air when you squeeze a rubber bulb.

"Edward! Stop that!" Macon shouted.

Edward didn't stop. He might not even have heard. Macon stubbed out to the hall, opened the front door, and said, "Come here this instant!"

Edward barely skipped a beat.

It was a Saturday morning in early October, pale gray and cool. Macon felt the coolness creeping up his cut-off pants leg as he crossed the porch. When he dropped one crutch and took hold of the iron railing to descend the steps, he found the metal beaded with moisture.

He hopped over to the magnolia, leaned down precariously, and grabbed the leash that Edward was trailing. Without much effort, he reeled it in; Edward was already losing interest. Macon peered into the inky depths of the magnolia. "Who is that?" he asked.

"This is your employer, Macon."

"Julian?"

Julian lowered himself from one of the magnolia's weak, sprawling branches. He had a line of dirt across the front of his slacks. His white-blond hair, usually so neat it made him look like a shirt ad, stuck out at several angles. "Macon," he said, "I really hate a man with an obnoxious dog. I don't hate just the dog, I hate the man who owns him."

"Well, I'm sorry about this. I thought he was off on a walk."

"You send him on walks by himself?"

"No, no . . ."

"A dog who takes solitary strolls," Julian said. "Only Macon Leary would have one." He brushed off the sleeves of his suede blazer. Then he said, "What happened to your leg?"

"I broke it."

"Well, I see that, but how?"

"It's kind of hard to explain," Macon told him.

They started toward the house, with Edward trotting docilely alongside.

Julian supported Macon as they climbed the steps. He was an athletic-looking man with a casual, sauntering style-a boater. You could tell he was a boater by his nose, which was raw across the tip even this late in the year. No one so startlingly blond, so vividly flushed in the face, should expose himself to sunburn, Macon always told him. But that was Julian for you: reckless. A dashing sailor, a speedy driver, a frequenter of singles bars, he was the kind of man who would make a purchase without consulting Consumer Reports. He never seemed to have a moment's self-doubt and was proceeding into the house now as jauntily as if he'd been invited, first retrieving Macon's other crutch and then holding the door open and waving him ahead.

"How'd you find me, anyway?" Macon asked.

"Why, are you in hiding?"

"No, of course not."

Julian surveyed the entrance hall, which all at once struck Macon as slightly dowdy. The satin lampshade on the table had dozens of long vertical rents; it seemed to be rotting off its frame.

"Your neighbor told me where you were," Julian said finally.

"Oh. Garner."

"I stopped by your house when I couldn't reach you by phone. Do you know how late you're running with this guidebook?"

"Well, you can see I've had an accident," Macon said.

"Everybody's held up, waiting for the manuscript. I keep telling them I expect it momentarily, but-"

"Any moment," Macon said.

"Huh?"

"You expect it any moment."

"Yes, and all I've seen so far is two chapters mailed in with no explanation."

Julian led the way to the living room as he spoke. He selected the most comfortable chair and sat down. "Where's Sarah?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Your wife, Macon."

"Oh. Um, she and I are . . ."

Macon should have practiced saying it out loud. The word "separated" was too bald; it was something that happened to other people. He crossed to the couch and made a great business of settling himself and arranging his crutches at his side. Then he said, "She's got this apartment downtown."

"You've split?"