The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler [34]
“Well, I’m sorry about this. I thought he was off on a walk.”
“You send him on walks by himself?”
“No, no . . .”
“A dog who takes solitary strolls,” Julian said. “Only Macon Leary would have one.” He brushed off the sleeves of his suede blazer. Then he said, “What happened to your leg?”
“I broke it.”
“Well, I see that, but how?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Macon told him.
They started toward the house, with Edward trotting docilely alongside. Julian supported Macon as they climbed the steps. He was an athletic-looking man with a casual, sauntering style—a boater. You could tell he was a boater by his nose, which was raw across the tip even this late in the year. No one so startlingly blond, so vividly flushed in the face, should expose himself to sunburn, Macon always told him. But that was Julian for you: reckless. A dashing sailor, a speedy driver, a frequenter of singles bars, he was the kind of man who would make a purchase without consulting Consumer Reports. He never seemed to have a moment’s self-doubt and was proceeding into the house now as jauntily as if he’d been invited, first retrieving Macon’s other crutch and then holding the door open and waving him ahead.
“How’d you find me, anyway?” Macon asked.
“Why, are you hiding?”
“No, of course not.”
Julian surveyed the entrance hall, which all at once struck Macon as slightly dowdy. The satin lampshade on the table had dozens of long vertical rents; it seemed to be rotting off its frame.
“Your neighbor told me where you were,” Julian said finally.
“Oh, Garner.”
“I stopped by your house when I couldn’t reach you by phone. Do you know how late you’re running with this guidebook?”
“Well, you can see I’ve had an accident,” Macon said.
“Everybody’s held up, waiting for the manuscript. I keep telling them I expect it momentarily, but—”
“Any moment,” Macon said.
“Huh?”
“You expect it any moment.”
“Yes, and all I’ve seen so far is two chapters mailed in with no explanation.”
Julian led the way to the living room as he spoke. He selected the most comfortable chair and sat down. “Where’s Sarah?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Your wife, Macon.”
“Oh. Um, she and I are . . .”
Macon should have practiced saying it out loud. The word “separated” was too bald; it was something that happened to other people. He crossed to the couch and made a great business of settling himself and arranging his crutches at his side. Then he said, “She’s got this apartment downtown.”
“You’ve split?”
Macon nodded.
“Jesus.”
Edward nosed Macon’s palm bossily, demanding a pat. Macon was grateful to have something to do.
“Well, Jesus, Macon, what went wrong?” Julian asked.
“Nothing!” Macon told him. His voice was a little too loud. He lowered it. “I mean, that’s not something I can answer,” he said.
“Oh. Excuse me.”
“No, I mean . . . there is no answer. It turns out these things can happen for no particular reason.”
“Well, you’ve been under a strain, you two,” Julian said. “Shoot, with what happened and all . . . She’ll be back, once she’s gotten over it. Or not gotten over it of course but, you know . . .”
“Maybe so,” Macon said. He felt embarrassed for Julian, who kept jiggling one Docksider. He said, “What did you think of those first two chapters?”
Julian opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by the dog. Edward had flown to the hall and was barking furiously. There was a clang that Macon recognized as the sound of the front door swinging open and hitting the radiator. “Hush, now,” he heard Rose tell Edward. She crossed the hall and looked into the living room.
Julian got to his feet. Macon said, “Julian Edge, this is my sister Rose. And this,” he said as Charles arrived behind her, “is my brother Charles.”
Neither Rose nor Charles could shake hands; they were carrying the groceries. They stood in the center of the room, hugging brown paper bags, while Julian went into