The Accidental Tourist

Mrs. Patel-out of her luminous sari for once, clumsy and unromantic in tight, bulgy Calvin Klein jeans-was sweeping the puddles off her front steps. And Mrs. Saddler stood in front of the hardware store waiting for it to open. "I don't guess you'd have seen Dominick," she said to Muriel.

"Not lately."

"Last night he never came home," Mrs. Saddler said. "That boy just worries the daylights out of me. He's not what you would call bad," she told Macon, "but he's worrisome, know what I mean? When he's at home he's so much at home, those big noisy boots all over the place, but then when he's away he's so much away. You wouldn't believe how the house feels: just empty. Just echoing."

"He'll be back," Muriel said. "Tonight's his turn to have the car."

"Oh, and when he's out with the car it's worst of all," Mrs. Saddler said. "Then every siren I hear, I wonder if it's Dommie. I know how he screeches round corners! I know those fast girls he goes out with!"

They left her still standing there, distractedly fingering her coin purse, although the hardware-store owner had unlocked his door by now and was cranking down his awnings.

Outside a shop called Re-Runs, they ordered Edward to stay. He obeyed, looking put upon, while they went in. Muriel sifted through stacks of curled, brittle shoes that had hardened into the shapes of other people's feet. She shucked off her own shoes and stepped into a pair of silver evening sandals. "What do you think?" she asked Macon.

"I thought you were looking for slippers."

"But what do you think of these?"

"I can live without them," he said.

He was feeling bored because Re-Runs carried nothing but clothes.

Muriel abandoned the shoes and they went next door to Garage Sale Incorporated. Macon tried to invent a need for a rusty metal Rolodex file he found in a heap of tire chains. Could he use it for his guidebooks in some way? And make it tax-deductible. Muriel picked up a tan vinyl suitcase with rounded edges; it reminded Macon of a partly sucked caramel. "Should I get this?" she asked.

"I thought you wanted slippers."

"But for travel."

"Since when do you travel?"

"I know where you're going next," she said. She came closer to him, both hands clutching the suitcase handle. She looked like a very young girl at a bus stop, say, or out hitching a ride on the highway. "I wanted to ask if I could come with you."

"To Canada?"

"I mean the next place after that. France."

He set down the Rolodex. (Mention of France always depressed him.)

"Julian said!" she reminded him. "He said it's getting to be time to go to France again."

"You know I can't afford to bring you."

Muriel replaced the suitcase and they left the shop. "But just this once," she said, hurrying along beside him. "It wouldn't cost much!"

Macon retrieved Edward's leash and motioned him up. "It would cost a mint," he said, "not to mention that you'd have to miss work."

"No, I wouldn't. I've quit."

He looked over at her. "Quit?"

"Well, at the Meow-Bow. Then things like George and the dog training I'll just rearrange; if I was to travel I could just-"

"You quit the Meow-Bow?"

"So what?"

He couldn't explain the sudden weight that fell on him.

"It's not like it really paid much," Muriel said. "And you do buy most of the groceries now and help me with the rent and all; it's not like I needed the money. Besides, it took so much time! Time I could spend with you and Alexander! Why, I was coming home nights literally dead with exhaustion, Macon."

They passed Methylene's Beauty Salon, an insurance agency, a paint-stripping shop. Edward gave an interested glance at a large, jowly tomcat basking on the hood of a pickup.

"Figuratively," Macon said.

"Huh?"

"You were figuratively dead with exhaustion. Jesus, Muriel, you're so imprecise. You're so sloppy. And how could you quit your job like that?

How could you just assume like that? You never even warned me!"

"Oh, don't make such a big deal about it," Muriel said.

They arrived at her favorite shop-a nameless little hole in the wall with a tumble of dusty hats in the window. Muriel started through the door but Macon stayed where he was. "Aren't you coming in?" she asked him.

"I'll wait here."

"But it's the place with all the gadgets!"

He said nothing. She sighed and disappeared.

Seeing her go was like shucking off a great, dragging burden.

He squatted to scratch behind Edward's ears, and then he rose and studied a sun-bleached election poster as if it held some fascinating coded message. Two black women passed him, pulling wire carts full of laundry.

"It was just as warm as this selfsame day I'm speaking to you but she wore a very very fur coat . . ."

"May-con."

He turned toward the door of the shop.

"Oh, Maay-con!"

He saw a mitten, one of those children's mittens designed to look like a puppet. The palm was a red felt mouth that widened to squeak, "Macon, please don't be angry with Muriel."

Macon groaned.

"Come into this nice store with her," the puppet urged.

"Muriel, I think Edward's getting restless now."