The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler [138]
Later there was another knock, after he had dragged himself back to bed, and Muriel said, “Macon? Macon?” He kept absolutely silent. She went away.
The air grew fuzzy and then dark. The man on the side of the bureau faded. Footsteps crossed the floor above him.
He had often wondered how many people died in hotels. The law of averages said some would, right? And some who had no close relatives—say one of his readers, a salesman without a family— well, what was done about such people? Was there some kind of potters’ field for unknown travelers?
He could lie in only two positions—on his left side or on his back—and switching from one to the other meant waking up, consciously deciding to undertake the ordeal, plotting his strategy. Then he returned to a fretful, semi-consciousness.
He dreamed he was seated on an airplane next to a woman dressed all in gray, a very narrow, starched, thin-lipped woman, and he tried to hold perfectly still because he sensed she disapproved of movement. It was a rule of hers; he knew that somehow. But he grew more and more uncomfortable, and so he decided to confront her. He said, “Ma’am?” She turned her eyes on him, mild, mournful eyes under finely arched brows. “Miss MacIntosh!” he said. He woke in a spasm of pain. He felt as if a tiny, cruel hand had snatched up part of his back and wrung it out.
When the waiter brought his breakfast in the morning, the chambermaid came along. She must keep grueling hours, Macon thought. But he was glad to see her. She and the waiter fussed over him, mixing his hot milk and coffee, and the waiter helped him into the bathroom while the chambermaid changed his sheets. He thanked them over and over; “Merci,” he said clumsily. He wished he knew the French for “I don’t know why you’re being so kind.” After they left he ate all of his rolls, which the chambermaid had thoughtfully buttered and spread with strawberry jam. Then he turned on the TV for company and got back in bed.
He was sorry about the TV when he heard the knock on the door, because he thought it was Muriel and she would hear. But it seemed early for Muriel to be awake. And then a key turned in the lock, and in walked Sarah.
He said, “Sarah?”
She wore a beige suit, and she carried two pieces of matched luggage, and she brought a kind of breeze of efficiency with her. “Now, everything’s taken care of,” she told him. “I’m going to make your day trips for you.” She set down her suitcases, kissed his forehead, and picked up a glass from his breakfast table. As she went off to the bathroom she said, “We’ve rescheduled the other cities and I start on them tomorrow.”
“But how did you get here so soon?” he asked.
She came out of the bathroom; the glass was full of water. “You have Rose to thank for that,” she said, switching off the T V. “Rose is just a wizard. She’s revamped that entire office. Here’s a pill from Dr. Levitt.”
“You know I don’t take pills,” he said.
“This time you do,” she told him. She helped him rise up on one elbow. “You’re going to sleep as much as you can, so your back has a chance to heal. Swallow.”
The pill was tiny and very bitter. He could taste it even after he’d lain down again.
“Is the pain bad?” she asked him.
“Kind of.”
“How’ve you been getting your meals?”
“Well, breakfast comes anyway, of course. That’s about it.”
“I’ll ask about room service,” she told him, picking up the phone. “Since I’ll be gone so . . . What’s the matter with the telephone?”
“It’s dead.”
“I’ll go tell the desk. Can I bring you anything while I’m out?”
“No, thank you.”
When she left, he almost wondered if he’d imagined her. Except that her suitcases sat next to his bed, sleek and creamy—the same ones she kept on the closet