The Accidental Tourist

He stepped over to the telephone and lifted the receiver. It was cool to the touch; she hadn't talked long. He fumbled through his pockets, found coins and dropped them in. But there was no one he could contact. He didn't know a soul in all New York. Instead he called home, miraculously summoning up his credit card number. He worried his family would let the phone ring-it was a habit, by now-but Charles answered. "Leary."

"Charles?"

"Macon!" Charles said, unusually animated.

"Charles, I'm up on top of this building and a sort of ... silly thing has happened. Listen: You've got to get me out of here."

"YOM out! What are you talking about? You've got to get me out!"

"Pardon?"

"I'm shut in the pantry; your dog has me cornered."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry, but. . . Charles, it's like some kind of illness. I don't think I can manage the elevator and I doubt I could manage a stairway either and-"

"Macon, do you hear that barking? That's Edward. Edward has me treed, I tell you, and you have to come home this instant."

"But I'm in New York! I'm up on top of this building and I can't get down!"

"Every time I open the door he comes roaring over and I slam the door and he attacks it, he must have clawed halfway through it by now."

Macon made himself take a deep breath. He said, "Charles, could I speak to Rose?"

"She's out."

"Oh."

"How do you think I got into this?" Charles asked. "Julian came to take her to dinner and-"

"Julian?"

"Isn't that his name?"

"Julian my boss?"

"Yes, and Edward went into one of his fits; so Rose said, 'Quick, shut him in the pantry.' So I grabbed his leash and he turned on me and nearly took my hand off. So I shut myself in the pantry instead and Rose must have left by then so-"

"Isn't Porter there?"

"It's his visitation night."

Macon imagined how safe the pantry must feel, with Rose's jams lined up in alphabetical order and the black dial telephone so ancient that the number on its face was still the old Tuxedo exchange. What he wouldn't give to be there!

Now he had a new symptom. His chest had developed a flutter that bore no resemblance to a normal heartbeat.

"If you don't get me out of this I'm going to call for the police to come shoot him," Charles said.

"No! Don't do that!"

"I can't just sit here waiting for him to break through."

"He won't break through. You could open the door and walk right past him.

Believe me, Charles. Please: I'm up on top of this building and-"

"Maybe you don't know that I'm prone to claustrophobia," Charles said.

One possibility, Macon decided, was to tell the restaurant people he was having a coronary. A coronary was so respectable. They would send for an ambulance and he would be, yes, carried-just what he needed. Or he wouldn't have to be carried but only touched, a mere human touch upon his arm, a hand on his shoulder, something to put him back in connection with the rest of the world. He hadn't felt another person's touch in so long.

"I'll tell them about the key in the mailbox so they won't have to break down the door," Charles said.

"What? Who?"

"The police, and I'll tell them to-Macon, I'm sorry but you knew that dog would have to be done away with sooner or later."

"Don't do it!" Macon shouted.

A man emerging from the restroom glanced in his direction.

Macon lowered his voice and said, "He was Ethan's."

"Does that mean he's allowed to tear my throat out?"

"Listen. Let's not be hasty. Let's think this through. Now, I'm going to

... I'm going to telephone Sarah. I'm going to ask her to come over and take charge of Edward. Are you listening, Charles?"

"But what if he attacks her too?" Charles asked.

"He won't, believe me. Now, don't do anything till she comes, you understand? Don't do anything hasty."

"Well . . ." Charles said doubtfully.

Macon hung up and took his wallet from his pocket. He rummaged through the business cards and torn-off snippets of paper, some of them yellow with age, that he kept in the secret compartment. When he found Sarah's number he punched it in with a trembling finger and held his breath. Sarah, he would say, I'm up on top of this building andShe didn't answer.

That possibility hadn't occurred to him. He listened to her phone ring.

What now? What on earth now?

Finally he hung up. He sifted despairingly through the other numbers in his wallet-dentist, pharmacist, animal trainer . . .

Animal trainer?

He thought at first of someone from a circus-a brawny man in satin tights. Then he saw the name: Muriel Pritchett. The card was handwritten, even hand-cut, crookedly snipped from a larger piece of paper.

He called her. She answered at once. "Hel-lo," roughly, like a weary barmaid.

"Muriel? It's Macon Leary," he told her.

"Oh! How you doing?"

"I'm fine. Or, rather . . . See, the trouble is, Edward's got my brother cornered in the pantry, overreacting, Charles I mean, he always overreacts, and here I am on top of this building in New York and I'm having this kind of, um, disturbance, you know? I was looking down at the city and it was miles away, miles, I can't describe to you how-"