The Accidental Tourist

He felt much worse in the morning. It had been a warm night and he woke up sticky and cross. He couldn’t face the thought of popcorn for breakfast. He laundered a load of sheets and then, in the midst of hanging them, found himself standing motionless with his head bowed, both wrists dangling over the clothesline as if he himself had been pinned there. “Buck up,” he said aloud. His voice sounded creaky, out of practice.

This was his day for grocery shopping — Tuesday, when the supermarket was least crowded with other human beings. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to get going. He dreaded all that business with the address books, the three tabbed books he shopped with. (One held data from Consumer Reports — the top-rated brand of bread, for instance, listed under B. In another he noted prices, and in the third he filed his coupons.) He kept having to stop and riffle through them, muttering prices under his breath, comparing house brands to cents-off name brands. Oh, everything seemed so complicated. Why bother? Why eat at all, in fact?

On the other hand, he needed milk. And Edward was low on dog food, and Helen was completely out of cat food.

He did something he’d never done before. He telephoned The Market Basket, a small, expensive grocery that delivered. And he didn’t order just emergency rations. No, he called in the whole week’s list. “Shall we bring this to the front or the back?” the clerk asked in her tinselly voice.

“The back,” Macon said. “No, wait. Bring the perishables to the back, but put the dog food next to the coal chute.”

“Coal chute,” the clerk repeated, apparently writing it down.

“The coal chute at the side of the house. But not the cat food; that goes in back with the perishables.”

“Well, wait now—”

“And the upstairs items at the front of the house.”

“What upstairs items?”

“Toothpaste, Ivory soap, dog biscuits. ”

“I thought you said the dog biscuits went to the coal chute.”

“Not the dog biscuits, the dog food! It’s the food that goes to the coal chute, dammit.”

“Now, look here,” the clerk said. “There’s no call to be rude.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Macon told her, “but I just want the simplest thing, it seems to me: one puny box of Milkbone biscuits up beside my bed. If I give Edward my buttered popcorn it upsets his stomach. Otherwise I wouldn’t mind; it’s not as if I’m hoarding it all for myself or something, but he has this sensitivity to fats and I’m the only one in the house, it’s me who has to clean up if he gets sick. I’m the only one to do it; I’m all alone; it’s just me; it seems everybody’s just. fled from me, I don’t know, I’ve lost them, I’m left standing here saying, ‘Where’d they go? Where is everybody? Oh, God, what did I do that was so bad?’ ”

His voice was not behaving right and he hung up. He stood over the telephone rubbing his forehead. Had he given her his name? Or not. He couldn’t remember. Please, please, let him not have given her his name.

He was falling apart; that much was obvious. He would have to get a grip on himself. First thing: out of this sweat suit. It was some kind of jinx. He clapped his hands together briskly, and then he climbed the stairs. In the bathroom, he yanked off the sweat suit and dropped it into the tub. Yesterday’s hung from the shower curtain rod, still damp. There wasn’t a chance it would be dry by tonight. What a mistake! He felt like a fool. He’d come within an inch, within a hairsbreadth of turning into one of those pathetic creatures you see on the loose from time to time — unwashed, unshaven, shapeless, talking to themselves, padding along in their institutional garb.

Neatly dressed now in a white shirt and khakis, he gathered the damp sweat suit and carried it down to the basement. It would make good winter pajamas, at least. He put it in the dryer, wedged the exhaust tube in the window again, and set the dials. Better to consume a little energy than to fall into despair over a soggy sweat suit.

At the top of the basement stairs, Edward was complaining. He was hungry, but not brave enough to descend the stairs on his own. When he caught sight of Macon he lay flat, with his nose poking over the topmost step, and put on a hopeful expression. “Coward,” Macon told him. He scooped Edward up in both arms and turned to lumber back down. Edward’s teeth started chattering — a ticketytick like rice in a cup. It occurred to Macon that Edward might know something he didn’t. Was the basement haunted, or what? It had been weeks now, and Edward was still so frightened that sometimes, set in front of his food, he just stood there dismally and made a puddle without bothering to lift his leg. “You’re being very silly, Edward,” Macon told him.