The Accidental Tourist

She didn’t answer, and so the last word rang in the air for moments afterward. Subtract. A flat, sharp, empty sound that dampened Macon’s spirits.

At supper she was too quiet; even Alexander was quiet, and excused himself the minute he’d finished his BLT. Macon, though, hung around the kitchen. Muriel was running a sinkful of water. He said, “Shall I dry?” Without any sort of warning, she whirled and flung a wet sponge in his face. Macon said, “Muriel?”

“Just get out!” she shouted, tears spiking her lashes, and she turned away again and plunged her hands into water so hot that it steamed. Macon retreated. He went into the living room where Alexander was watching TV, and Alexander moved over on the couch to give him space. He didn’t say anything, but Macon could tell he’d heard from the way he tensed at each clatter in the kitchen. After a while the clatters died down. Macon and Alexander looked at each other. There was a silence; a single murmuring voice. Macon rose and returned to the kitchen, walking more quietly than usual and keeping a weather eye out, the way a cat creeps back after it’s been dumped from someone’s lap.

Muriel was talking on the phone with her mother. Her voice was gay and chirpy but just a shade thicker than usual, as if she were recovering from a cold. “So anyhow,” she said, “I asked what kind of trouble her dog is giving her and the lady’s like, ‘Oh, no trouble,’ so I ask her, ‘Well, what’s his problem, then?’ and the lady’s like, ‘No real problem.’ I say, ‘Ma’am. You must have called me here for some reason.’ She says, ‘Oh. Well. That.’ She says, ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I was wondering about when he makes.’ I say, ‘Makes?’ She says, ‘Yes, when he makes number one. He makes like little girl dogs do, he doesn’t lift his leg.’ I say to her, ‘Now let me see if I’ve got this straight. You have called me here to teach your dog to lift his leg when he tinkles.’ ”

Her free hand kept flying out while she talked, as if she imagined her mother could see her. Macon came up behind her and put his arms around her, and she leaned back against him. “Oh, there’s never a dull moment, I tell you,” she said into the phone.

That night he dreamed he was traveling in a foreign country, only it seemed to be a medley of all the countries he’d ever been to and even some he hadn’t. The sterile vast spaces of Charles de Gaulle airport chittered with those tiny birds he’d seen inside the terminal at Brussels; and when he stepped outdoors he was in Julian’s green map of Hawaii with native dancers, oversized, swaying near the dots that marked various tourist attractions. Meanwhile his own voice, neutral and monotonous, murmured steadily: In Germanythe commercial traveler must be punctual for all appointments,in Switzerland he should be five minutes early, in Italy delays of several hours are not uncommon.

He woke. It was pitch dark, but through the open window he heard distant laughter, a strain of music, faint cheers as if some sort of game were going on. He squinted at the clock radio: three thirty. Who would be playing a game at this hour? And on this street — this worn, sad street where nothing went right for anyone, where the men had dead-end jobs or none at all and the women were running to fat and the children were turning out badly. But another cheer went up, and someone sang a line from a song. Macon found himself smiling. He turned toward Muriel and closed his eyes; he slept dreamlessly the rest of the night.

The mailman rang the doorbell and presented a long, tube-shaped package addressed to Macon. “What’s this?” Macon asked. He returned to the living room, frowning down at the label. Muriel was reading a paperback book called Beauty Tips from the Stars. She glanced up and said, “Why not open it and find out.”

“Oh? Is this some of your doing?”

She only turned a page.

Another plea for the France trip, he supposed. He pulled off the tape on one end and shook the package till a cylinder of glossy paper slid out. When he unrolled it, he found a full-color photo of two puppies in a basket, with DR. MACK’S PETVITES above it and a calendar for January below it.

“I don’t understand,” he said to Muriel.

She turned another page.

“Why would you send me a calendar for a year that’s half gone?”

“Maybe there’s something written on it,” she told him.

He flipped through February, March, April. Nothing there. May. Then June: a scribble of red ink across a Saturday, “Wedding,” he read out. “Wedding? Whose wedding?”

“Ours?” she asked him.

“Oh, Muriel. ”

“You’ll be separated a year then, Macon. You’ll be able to get your divorce.”

“But, Muriel—”

“I always did want to have a June wedding.”