The Accidental Tourist

She was standing over them, pad and pencil poised. Sarah started flipping hastily through the menu, so Macon said, “A dry sherry, please.” Then he and the waitress turned back to Sarah. “Oh, my,” Sarah said. “Let me see. Well, how about a Rob Roy. Yes, a Rob Roy would be nice, with extra cherries.”

That was something else he’d forgotten — how she loved to order complicated drinks in restaurants. He felt the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“So,” Sarah said when the waitress had gone. “Why would Rose be building a cat door? I thought they didn’t have any pets.”

“No, this is for our cat. Helen. Helen and I have been staying there.”

“What for?”

“Well, because of my leg.”

Sarah said nothing.

“I mean, can you see me managing those steps at home?” Macon asked her. “Taking Edward for walks? Lugging the trash cans out?”

But she was busy shucking off her coat. Beneath it she wore a gathered wool dress in an indeterminate color. (The candlelight turned everything to shades of sepia, like an old-fashioned photograph.) Macon had time to wonder if he’d given her the wrong idea. It sounded, perhaps, as if he were complaining — as if he were reproaching her for leaving him alone.

“But really,” he said, “I’ve been getting along wonderfully.”

“Good,” Sarah said, and she smiled at him and went back to her menu.

Their drinks were set before them on little cardboard disks embossed with crabs. The waitress said, “Ready to order, dearies?”

“Well,” Sarah said, “I think I’ll have the hot antipasto and the beef Pierre.”

The waitress, looking startled, peered over Sarah’s shoulder at the menu. (Sarah had never seemed to realize what the Old Bay Restaurant was all about.) “Here,” Sarah said, pointing, “and here.”

“If you say so,” the waitress said, writing it down.

“I’ll just have the, you know,” Macon said. “Crab soup, shrimp salad platter. ” He handed back his menu. “Sarah, do you want wine?”

“No, thank you.”

When they were alone again, she said, “How long have you been at your family’s?”

“Since September,” Macon said.

“September! Your leg’s been broken all that time?”

He nodded and took a sip of his drink. “Tomorrow I get the cast off,” he said.

“And is Edward over there too?”

He nodded again.

“Was it Edward who bit your hand?”

“Well, yes.”

He wondered if she’d act like the others, urge him to call the S.P.C.A.; but instead she meditatively plucked a cherry off the plastic sword from her drink. “I guess he’s been upset,” she said.

“Yes, he has, in fact,” Macon said. “He’s not himself at all.”

“Poor Edward.”

“He’s getting kind of out of control, to tell the truth.”

“He always did have a sensitivity to change,” Sarah said.

Macon took heart. “Actually, he’s been attacking right and left,” he told her. “I had to hire a special trainer. But she was too harsh; let’s face it, she was brutal. She nearly strangled him when he tried to bite her.”

“Ridiculous,” Sarah said. “He was only frightened. When Edward’s frightened he attacks; that’s just the way he is. There’s no point scaring him more.”

Macon felt a sudden rush of love.

Oh, he’d raged at her and hated her and entirely forgotten her, at different times. He’d had moments when he imagined he’d never cared for her to begin with; only went after her because everybody else had. But the fact was, she was his best friend. The two of them had been through things that no one else in the world knew of. She was embedded in his life. It was much too late to root her out.

“What he wants,” she was saying, “is a sense of routine. That’s all he needs: reassurance.”

“Sarah,” he said, “it’s been awful living apart.”

She looked at him. Some trick of light made her eyes appear a darker blue, almost black.

“Hasn’t it?” he said.

She lowered her glass. She said, “I asked you here for a reason, Macon.”

He could tell it was something he didn’t want to hear.

She said, “We need to spell out the details of our separation.” “We’ve been separated; what’s to spell out?” he asked.

“I meant in a legal way.”

“Legal. I see.”

“Now, according to the state of Maryland—”

“I think you ought to come home.”

Their first course arrived, placed before them by a hand that, as far as Macon was concerned, was not attached to a body. Condiment bottles were shifted needlessly; a metal stand full of sugar packets was moved a half-inch over. “Anything else?” the waitress asked.

“No!” Macon said. “Thank you.”

She left.

He said, “Sarah?”

“It’s not possible,” she told him.

She was sliding a single pearl up and down the chain at her throat. He had given her that pearl when they were courting. Was there any significance in her wearing it this evening? Or maybe she cared so little now, it hadn’t even occurred to her to leave it off. Yes, that was more likely.

“Listen,” he said. “Don’t say no before you hear me out. Have you ever considered we might have another baby?”

He had shocked her, he saw; she drew in a breath. (He had shocked himself.)

“Why not?‘ he asked her. “We’re not too old.”

“Oh, Macon.”