The Accidental Tourist

They drove home, and she changed into a sweat suit and set off again. Macon carried in the fertilizer, which Rose had poured into a bucket. It was something shredded that had no smell — or only a harsh, chemical smell, nothing like the truckloads of manure the men used to bring for his grandmother’s camellias. He set it on the pantry floor and then he took the dog out. Then he made himself a cup of coffee to clear his head. He drank it at the kitchen sink, staring into the yard. The cat rubbed against his ankles and purred. The clock over the stove ticked steadily. There was no other sound.

When the telephone rang, he was glad. He let it ring twice before he answered so as not to seem overeager. Then he picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Leary?”

“Yes!”

“This is Mrs. Morton calling, at Merkle Appliance Store. Are you aware that the maintenance policy on your hot water heater expires at the end of the month?”

“No, I hadn’t realized,” Macon said.

“You had a two-year policy at a cost of thirty-nine eighty-eight. Now to renew it for another two years the cost of course would be slightly higher since your hot water heater is older.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Macon said. “Gosh! How old is that thing by now?”

“Let’s see. You purchased it three years ago this July.”

“Well, I’d certainly like to keep the maintenance policy.”

“Wonderful. I’ll send you a new contract then, Mr. Leary, and thank you for—”

“And would that still include replacement of the tank?” Macon asked.

“Oh, yes. Every part is covered.”

“And they’d still do the yearly checkups.”

“Why, yes.”

“I’ve always liked that. A lot of the other stores don’t offer it; I remember from when I was shopping around.”

“So I’ll send you the contract, Mr.—”

“But I would have to arrange for the checkup myself, as I recall.”

“Yes, the customer schedules the checkup.”

“Maybe I’ll just schedule it now. Could I do that?”

“That’s a whole different department, Mr. Leary. I’ll mail you out the contract and you can read all about it. Bye bye.”

She hung up.

Macon hung up too.

He thought a while.

He had an urge to go on talking; anyone would do. But he couldn’t think what number to dial. Finally he called the time lady. She answered before the first ring was completed. (She had no worries about seeming overeager.) “At the tone,” she said, “the time will be one. forty-nine. And ten seconds.” What a voice. So melodious, so well modulated. “At the tone the time will be one. forty-nine. And twenty seconds.”

He listened for over a minute, and then the call was cut off. The line clicked and the dial tone started. This made him feel rebuffed, although he knew he was being foolish. He bent to pat the cat. The cat allowed it briefly before walking away.

There was nothing to do but sit down at his typewriter.

He was behind schedule with this guidebook. Next week he was supposed to start on France, and he still hadn’t finished the conclusion to the Canada book. He blamed it on the season. Who could sit alone indoors when everything outside was blooming? Travelers should be forewarned, he typed, but then he fell to admiring a spray of white azaleas that trembled on the ledge of his open window. A bee crawled among the blossoms, buzzing. He hadn’t known the bees were out yet. Did Muriel know? Would she recall what a single bee could do to Alexander?

. should be forewarned, he read over, but his concentration was shot now.

She was so careless, so unthinking; how could he have put up with her? That unsanitary habit she had of licking her finger before she turned a magazine page; her tendency to use the word “enormity” as if it referred to size. There wasn’t a chance in this world that she’d remember about bee stings.

He reached for the phone on his desk and dialed her number. “Muriel?”

“What,” she said flatly.

“This is Macon.”

“Yes, I know.”

He paused. He said, “Um, it’s bee season, Muriel.”

“So?”

“I wasn’t sure you were aware. I mean summer just creeps up, I know how summer creeps up, and I was wondering if you’d thought about Alexander’s shots.”

“Don’t you believe I can manage that much for myself?” she screeched.

“Oh. Well.”

“What do you think I am, some sort of ninny? Don’t you think I know the simplest dumbest thing?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure, you see, that—”

“A fine one you are! Ditch that child without a word of farewell and then call me up on the telephone to see if I’m raising him right!”

“I just wanted to—”

“Criticize, criticize! Tell me Oodles of Noodles is not a balanced meal and then go off and desert him and then have the nerve to call me up and tell me I’m not a good mother!”

“No, wait, Muriel—”

“Dominick is dead,” she said.

“What?”

“Not that you would care. He died.”

Macon noticed how the sounds in the room had stopped. “Dominick Saddler?” he asked.

“It was his night to take my car and he went to a party in Cockeysville and coming home he crashed into a guardrail.”

“Oh, no.”

“The girl he had with him didn’t get so much as a scratch.”