The Accidental Tourist

Macon groaned. “Yes,” he said, “I never know how to behave at these times.”

“Then you mow your lawn like nothing has happened.”

“The grass did keep on growing, Garner.”

“We was all dying to do it for you.”

“Well, thanks,” Macon said, “but I enjoyed the work.”

“See what I mean?”

Macon said, “Now, wait. Just to insert some logic into this discussion—”

“That’s exactly what I mean!”

“You started out talking about Sarah. You’ve switched to how I disappoint the neighbors.”

“What’s the difference? You might not know this, Macon, but you come across as a person that charges ahead on your own somewhat. Just look at the way you walk! The way you, like, lunge, lope on down the street with your head running clear in front of your body. If a fellow wants to stop you and, I don’t know, offer his condolences, he’d be liable to get plowed down. Now, I know you care, and you know you care, but how does it look to the others? I ask you! No wonder she up and left.”

“Garner, I appreciate your thoughts on this,” Macon said, “but Sarah’s fully aware that I care. I’m not as tongue-tied as you like to make out. And this isn’t one of those open-shut, can-this-marriage-be-saved deals, either. I mean, you’re just plain goddamned wrong, Garner.”

“Well,” Garner said. He looked down at his cap, and after a moment he jammed it abruptly on his head. “I guess I’ll fetch your mail in, then,” he said.

“Right. Thanks.”

Garner rose to his feet and shuffled out. His leaving alerted Edward, who started barking all over again. There was an empty spell during which Macon looked down at his cast and listened to the soap opera from the living room. Meanwhile Edward whined at the door and paced back and forth, clicking his toenails. Then Garner returned. “Mostly catalogs,” he said, flinging his load on the table. He brought with him the smell of fresh air and dry leaves. “Brenda said we might as well not bother with the newspapers; just throw them out.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Macon said.

He stood up and they shook hands. Garner’s fingers were crisp and intricately shaped, like crumpled paper. “Thanks for stopping by,” Macon told him.

“Any time,” Garner said, looking elsewhere.

Macon said, “I didn’t mean, you know — I hope I didn’t sound short-tempered.”

“Naw,” Garner said. He lifted an arm and let it drop. “Shoot. Don’t think a thing about it.” Then he turned to leave.

As soon as he did, Macon thought of a flood of other things he should have mentioned. It wasn’t all his fault, he wanted to say. Sarah had a little to do with it too. What Sarah needed was a rock, he wanted to say; someone who wouldn’t crumble. Otherwise, why had she picked him to marry? But he held his peace and watched Garner walk out. There was something pitiable about the two sharp cords that ran down the back of Garner’s neck, cupping a little ditch of mapped brown skin between them.

When his brothers came home from work, the house took on a relaxed, relieved atmosphere. Rose drew the living room curtains and lit a few soft lamps. Charles and Porter changed into sweaters. Macon started mixing his special salad dressing. He believed that if you pulverized the spices first with a marble mortar and pestle, it made all the difference. The others agreed that no one else’s dressing tasted as good as Macon’s. “Since you’ve been gone,” Charles told him, “we’ve had to buy that bottled stuff from the grocery store.” He made it sound as if Macon had been gone a few weeks or so — as if his entire marriage had been just a brief trip elsewhere.

For supper they had Rose’s pot roast, a salad with Macon’s dressing, and baked potatoes. Baked potatoes had always been their favorite food. They had learned to fix them as children, and even after they were big enough to cook a balanced meal they used to exist solely on baked potatoes whenever Alicia left them to their own devices. There was something about the smell of a roasting Idaho that was so cozy, and also, well, conservative, was the way Macon put it to himself. He thought back on years and years of winter evenings: the kitchen windows black outside, the corners furry with gathering darkness, the four of them seated at the chipped enamel table meticulously filling scooped-out potato skins with butter. You let the butter melt in the skins while you mashed and seasoned the floury insides; the skins were saved till last. It was almost a ritual. He recalled that once, during one of their mother’s longer absences, her friend Eliza had served them what she called potato boats — restuffed, not a bit like the genuine article. The children, with pinched, fastidious expressions, had emptied the stuffing and proceeded as usual with the skins, pretending to overlook her mistake. The skins should be crisp. They should not be salted. The pepper should be freshly ground. Paprika was acceptable, but only if it was American. Hungarian paprika had too distinctive a taste. Personally, Macon could do without paprika altogether.