The Accidental Tourist

She meant, he supposed, to give him the best of her. And so she had. But the best of her was not that child's Shirley Temple hairdo. It was her fierceness-her spiky, pugnacious fierceness as she fought her way toward the camera with her chin set awry and her eyes bright slits of determination. He thanked her. He said he would keep it forever.

You would have to say that he was living with her now. He began to spend all his time at her house, to contribute toward her rent and her groceries. He kept his shaving things in her bathroom and squeezed his clothes among the dresses in her closet. But there wasn't one particular point at which he made the shift. No, this was a matter of day by day.

First there was that long Christmas vacation when Alexander was home alone; so why shouldn't Macon stay on with him once he'd spent the night there? And why not fetch his typewriter and work at the kitchen table?

And then why not remain for supper, and after that for bed?

Though if you needed to put a date on it, you might say he truly moved in the afternoon he moved Edward in. He'd just got back from a business trip-an exhausting blitz of five southern cities, not one of which was any warmer than Baltimore-and he stopped by Rose's house to check the animals. The cat was fine, Rose said. (She had to speak above Edward's yelps; he was frantic with joy and relief.) The cat had probably not noticed Macon was missing. But Edward, well . . . "He spends a lot of time sitting in the hall," she said, "staring at the door. He keeps his head cocked and he waits for you to come back."

That did it. He brought Edward with him when he returned to Singleton Street.

"What do you think?" he asked Muriel. "Could we keep him just a day or two? See if Alexander can take it, without any shots?"

"I can take it!" Alexander said. "It's cats that get to me; not dogs."

Muriel looked doubtful, but she said they could give it a try.

Meanwhile, Edward darted madly all over the house snuffling into corners and under furniture. Then he sat in front of Muriel and grinned up at her. He reminded Macon of a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher; all his fantasies were realized, here he was at last.

For the first few hours they tried to keep him in a separate part of the house, which of course was hopeless. He had to follow Macon wherever he went, and also he developed an immediate interest in Alexander. Lacking a ball, he kept dropping small objects at Alexander's feet and then stepping back to look expectantly into his face. "He wants to play fetch," Macon explained. Alexander picked up a matchbook and tossed it, angling his arm behind him in a prissy way. While Edward went tearing after it, Macon made a mental note to buy a ball first thing in the morning and teach Alexander how to throw.

Alexander watched TV and Edward snoozed on the couch beside him, curled like a little blond cashew nut with a squinty, blissful expression on his face. Alexander hugged him and buried his face in Edward's ruff. "Watch it," Macon told him. He had no idea what to do if Alexander started wheezing. But Alexander didn't wheeze. By bedtime he just had a stuffy nose, and he usually had that anyhow.

Macon liked to believe that Alexander didn't know he and Muriel slept together. "Well, that's just plain ridiculous," Muriel said. "Where does he imagine you spend the night-on the living room couch?"

"Maybe," he said. "I'm sure he has some explanation. Or maybe he doesn't.

All I'm saying is, we shouldn't hit him in the face with it. Let him think what he wants to think."

So every morning, Macon rose and dressed before Alexander woke. He started fixing breakfast and then roused him. "Seven o'clock! Time to get up! Go call your mother, will you?" In the past, he learned, Muriel had often stayed in bed while Alexander woke on his own and got ready for school. Sometimes he left the house while she was still asleep. Macon thought that was shocking. Now he made a full breakfast, and he insisted that Muriel sit at the table with them. Muriel claimed breakfast made her sick to her stomach. Alexander said it made him sick, too, but Macon said that was just too bad. "Ninety-eight percent of all A students eat eggs in the morning," he said (making it up as he went along). "Ninety-nine percent drink milk." He untied his apron and sat down. "Are you listening, Alexander?"

"I'll throw up if I drink milk."

"That's all in your head."

"Tell him, Mama!"

"He throws up," Muriel said gloomily. She sat hunched at the table in her long silk robe, resting her chin on one hand. "It's something to do with enzymes," she said. She yawned. Her hair, growing out of its permanent at last, hung down her back in even ripples like the crimps on a bobby pin.