The Accidental Tourist

“I was just wondering,” she told him. She tore off his copy, in that splay-fingered style of hers, and put the rest of the bill in a drawer. “I don’t know if I mentioned before that it so happens I train dogs.”

“Is that right,” Macon said.

He looked toward the door where the first girl had disappeared. It always made him nervous when they took too long bringing Edward. What were they doing back there — getting rid of some evidence?

“My speciality is dogs that bite,” the woman said.

“Specialty.”

“Pardon?”

“Webster prefers ‘specialty.’ ”

She gave him a blank look.

“That must be a dangerous job,” Macon said politely.

“Oh, not for me! I’m not scared of a thing in this world.”

There was a scuffling sound at the door behind her. Edward burst through, followed by the girl with the ponytail. Edward was giving sharp yelps and flinging himself about so joyfully that when Macon bent to pat him, he couldn’t really connect.

“Now, stop that,” the girl told Edward. She was trying to buckle his collar. Meanwhile, the woman behind the counter was saying, “Biters, barkers, deaf dogs, timid dogs, dogs that haven’t been treated right, dogs that have learned bad habits, dogs that grew up in pet shops and don’t trust human beings. I can handle all of those.”

“Well, good,” Macon said.

“Not that he would bite me, of course,” the woman said. “He just fell in love with me, like I think I was telling you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Macon said.

“But I could train him in no time not to bite other people. You think it over and call me. Muriel, remember? Muriel Pritchett. Let me give you my card.”

She handed him a salmon-pink business card that she seemed to have pulled out of nowhere. He had to fight his way around Edward to accept it. “I studied with a man who used to train attack dogs,” she said. “This is not some amateur you’re looking at.”

“Well, I’ll bear that in mind,” Macon said. “Thank you very much.”

“Or just call for no reason! Call and talk.”

“Talk?”

“Sure! Talk about Edward, his problems, talk about. anything! Pick up the phone and just talk. Don’t you ever get the urge to do that?”

“Not really,” Macon said.

Then Edward gave a particularly piercing yelp, and the two of them rushed home.

Well, of course she wasn’t there. He knew it the instant he stepped inside the house, when he smelled that stale hot air and heard the muffled denseness of a place with every window shut. Really he’d known it all along. He’d been fooling himself. He’d been making up fairy tales.

The cat streaked past him and escaped out the door, yowling accusingly. The dog hurtled into the dining room to roll about on the rug and get rid of the scent of the kennel. But there was no rug — only bare, linty floor, and Edward stopped short, looking foolish. Macon knew just how he felt.

He put away the milk and went upstairs to unpack. He took a shower, treading the day’s dirty clothes underfoot, and prepared for bed. When he turned off the light in the bathroom, the sight of his laundry dripping over the tub reminded him of travel. Where was the real difference? Accidental Tourist at Home, he thought, and he slid wearily into his body bag.

four

When the phone rang, Macon dreamed it was Ethan. He dreamed Ethan was calling from camp, wondering why they’d never come to get him. “But we thought you were dead,” Macon said, and Ethan said — in that clear voice of his that cracked on the high notes—“Why would you think that?” The phone rang again and Macon woke up. There was a thud of disappointment somewhere inside his rib cage. He understood why people said hearts “sank.”

In slow motion, he reached for the receiver. “Yes,” he said.

“Macon! Welcome back!”

It was Julian Edge, Macon’s boss, his usual loud and sprightly self even this early in the morning. “Oh,” Macon said.

“How was the trip?”

“It was okay.”

“You just get in last night?”

“Yes.”

“Find any super new places?”

“Well, ‘super’ would be putting it a bit strongly.”

“So now I guess you start writing it up.”

Macon said nothing.

“Just when do you figure to bring me a manuscript?” Julian asked.

“I don’t know,” Macon said.

“Soon, do you figure?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a pause.

“I guess I woke you,” Julian said.

“Yes.”

“Macon Leary in bed,” Julian said. He made it sound like the title of something. Julian was younger than Macon and brasher, breezier, not a serious man. He seemed to enjoy pretending that Macon was some kind of character. “So anyway, can I expect it by the end of the month?”

“No,” Macon said.

“Why not?”

“I’m not organized.”

“Not organized! What’s to organize? All you have to do is retype your old one, basically.”

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Macon said.

“Look. Fellow. Here it is—” Julian’s voice grew fainter. He’d be drawing back to frown at his flashy gold calendar watch with the perforated leather racing band. “Here it is the third of August. I want this thing on the stands by October. That means I’d need your manuscript by August thirty-first.”

“I can’t do it,” Macon said.