The Accidental Tourist

"What do you mean, then?"

"You've lost the center of your life, Macon."

"Yes, I know that," Macon said, and it seemed that Ethan stood just slightly to the left, his bright head nearly level with the old man's.

But his grandfather said, "No, no," and made an impatient, shaking-off gesture and went over to the bureau. (In this dream, Macon was not in the sun porch but upstairs in his boyhood bedroom, with the bureau whose cut-glass knobs Rose had stolen long ago to use as dishes for her dolls.)

"It's Sarah I mean," his grandfather said, picking up a hairbrush. "Where is Sarah?"

"She's left me, Grandfather."

"Why, Sarah's the best of all of us!" his grandfather said. "You want to sit in this old house and rot, boy? It's time we started digging out! How long are we going to stay fixed here?"

Macon opened his eyes. It wasn't morning yet. The sun porch was fuzzy as blotting paper.

There was still a sense of his grandfather in the air. His little shaking-off gesture was one that Macon had forgotten entirely; it had reappeared on its own. But Grandfather Leary would never have said in real life what he'd said in the dream. He had liked Sarah well enough, but he seemed to view wives as extraneous, and he'd attended each of his grandsons' weddings with a resigned and tolerant expression. He wouldn't have thought of any woman as a "center." Except, perhaps, Macon thought suddenly, his own wife, Grandmother Leary. After whose death-why, yes, immediately after-his mind had first begun to wander.

Macon lay awake till dawn. It was a relief to hear the first stirrings overhead. Then he got up and shaved and dressed and sent Edward out for the paper. By the time Rose came downstairs, he had started the coffee perking. This seemed to make her anxious. "Did you use the morning beans or the evening beans?" she asked.

"The morning beans," he assured her. "Everything's under control."

She moved around the kitchen raising shades, setting the table, opening a carton of eggs. "So today's the day you get your cast off," she said.

"Looks that way."

"And this afternoon's your New York trip."

"Oh, well . . ."he said vaguely, and then he asked if she wanted a bacon coupon he'd spotted in the paper.

She persisted: "Isn't it this afternoon you're going?"

"Well, yes."

The fact of the matter was, he was leaving for New York without having made any arrangements for Edward. The old place wouldn't accept him, the new place had that Muriel woman . . . and in Macon's opinion, Edward was best off at home with the family. Rose, no doubt, would disagree. He held his breath, but Rose started humming "Clementine" and breaking eggs into a skillet.

At nine o'clock, in an office down on St. Paul Street, the doctor removed Macon's cast with a tiny, purring electric saw. Macon's leg emerged dead-white and wrinkled and ugly. When he stood up, his ankle wobbled. He still had a limp. Also, he'd forgotten to bring different trousers and he was forced to parade back through the other patients in his one-legged summer khakis, exposing his repulsive-looking shin. He wondered if he'd ever return to his old, unbroken self.

Driving him home, Rose finally thought to ask where he planned to board Edward. "Why, I'm leaving him with you," Macon said, acting surprised.

"With me? Oh, Macon, you know how out of hand he gets."

"What could happen in such a short time? I'll be home by tomorrow night.

If worst comes to worst you could lock him in the pantry; toss him some kibble now and then till I get back."

"I don't like this at all," Rose said.

"It's visitors that set him off. It's not as if you're expecting any visitors."

"Oh, no," she said, and then she let the subject drop, thank heaven. He'd been fearing more of a battle.

He took a shower, and he dressed in his traveling suit. Then he had an early lunch. Just before noon Rose drove him down to the railroad station, since he didn't yet trust his clutch foot. When he stepped from the car, his leg threatened to buckle. "Wait!" he said to Rose, who was handing his bag out after him. "Do you suppose I'm up to this?"

"I'm sure you are," she said, without giving it anywhere near enough thought. She pulled the passenger door shut, waved at him, and drove off.

In the period since Macon's last train trip, something wonderful had happened to the railroad station. A skylight in shades of watery, blue arched gently overhead. Pale globe lamps hung from brass hooks. The carpenters' partitions that had divided the waiting room for so long had disappeared, revealing polished wooden benches. Macon stood bewildered at the brand-new, gleaming ticket window. Maybe, he thought, travel was not so bad. Maybe he'd got it all wrong. He felt a little sprig of hopefulness beginning.