The Accidental Tourist

"Some of my teachers told me I should go to college," she said. "This one in particular, well she wasn't a teacher but a librarian, I worked in the library for her, shelving books and things; she said, 'Muriel, why don't you go on to Towson State?' But I don't know . . . and now I tell my sister, 'You be thinking of college, hear? Don't drop out like I dropped out.' I've got this little sister? Claire? Her hair never turned. She's blond as an angel. Here's what's funny, though: she couldn't care less. Braids her hair back any old how to keep it out of her eyes. Wears raggy jeans and forgets to shave her legs. Doesn't it always work that way? My folks believe she's wonderful. She's the good one and I'm the bad one. It's not her fault, though; I don't blame Claire. People just get fixed in these certain frames of other people's opinions, don't you find that's true? Claire was always Mary in the Nativity Scene at Christmas. Boys in her grade school were always proposing, but there I was in high school and no one proposed to me, I can tell you. Aren't high school boys just so frustrating? I mean they'd invite me out and all, like to drive-in movies and things, and they'd act so tense and secret, sneaking one arm around my shoulder inch by inch like they thought I wouldn't notice and then dropping a hand down, you know how they do, lower and lower while all the time staring straight ahead at the movie like it was the most fascinating spectacle they'd ever seen in their lives. You just had to feel sorry for them. But then Monday morning there they were like nothing had taken place, real boisterous and horsing around with their friends and nudging each other when I walked past but not so much as saying hello to me. You think that didn't hurt my feelings? Not one boy in all that time treated me like a steady girlfriend. They'd ask me out on Saturday night and expect me to be so nice to them, but you think they ever ate lunch with me next Monday in the school cafeteria, or walked me from class to class?" "

She glanced down at Edward. Abruptly, she slapped her hip; her black vinyl raincoat made a buckling sound. "That's the 'heel' command," she told Macon. She started walking. Edward followed uncertainly. Macon stayed behind. It had been hard enough getting down the front porch steps.

"He's supposed to match his pace to anything," she called back. "Slow, fast, anything I do." She speeded up. When Edward crossed in front of her, she walked right into him. When he dawdled, she yanked his leash.

She tip-tapped briskly eastward, her coat a stiff, swaying triangle beneath the smaller triangle of her hair blowing back. Macon waited, ankle-deep in wet leaves.

On the return trip, Edward kept close to Muriel's left side. "I think he's got the hang of it," she called. She arrived in front of Macon and offered him the leash. "Now you."

He attempted to slap his hip-which was difficult, on crutches. Then he set off. He was agonizingly slow and Edward kept pulling ahead. "Yank that leash!" Muriel said, clicking along behind. "He knows what he's supposed to do. Contrary thing."

Edward fell into step, finally, although he gazed off in a bored, lofty way. "Don't forget to cluck," Muriel said. "Every little minute, you have to praise him." Her heels made a scraping sound behind them. "Once I worked with this dog that had never in her life been housebroken. Two years old and not one bit housebroken and the owners were losing their minds. First I can't figure it out; then it comes to me. That dog thought she wasn't supposed to piddle anyplace, not indoors or outdoors, either one. See, no one had ever praised her when she did it right. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I had to catch her peeing outdoors which wasn't easy, believe me, because she was all the time ashamed and trying to hide it, and then I praised her to bits and after a while she caught on."

They reached the corner. "Now, when you stop, he has to sit," she said.

"But how will I practice?" Macon asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm on these crutches."

"So? It's good exercise for your leg," she said. She didn't ask how the leg had been broken. Come to think of it, there was something impervious about her, in spite of all her interest in his private life. She said, "Practice lots, ten minutes a session."

"Ten minutes!"

"Now let's start back."

She led the way, her angular, sashaying walk broken by the jolt of her sharp heels. Macon and Edward followed. When they reached the house, she asked what time it was. "Eight fifty," Macon said severely. He mistrusted women who wore no watches.

"I have to get going. That will be five dollars, please, and the four cents you owe me from yesterday."