The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler [48]
“Rita’s bringing croissants,” Julian said into the phone. “Joe is making his quiche.” Then he caught sight of Macon. “Macon!” he said. “Stefanie, I’ll get back to you.” He hung up. “How’s the leg? Here, have a seat.”
He dumped a stack of yachting magazines off a chair. Macon sat down and handed over his folder. “Here’s the rest of the material on England,” he said.
“Well, finally!”
“This edition as I see it is going to run about ten or twelve pages longer than the last one,” Macon said. “It’s adding the business women that does it—listing which hotels offer elevator escorts, which ones serve drinks in the lobbies . . . I think I ought to be paid more.”
“I’ll talk it over with Marvin,” Julian said, flipping through the manuscript.
Macon sighed. Julian spent money like water but Marvin was more cautious.
“So now you’re on the U.S. again,” Julian said.
“Well, if you say so.”
“I hope it’s not going to take you long.”
“I can only go so fast,” Macon said. “The U.S. has more cities.”
“Yes, I realize that. In fact I might print this edition in sections: northeast, mid-Atlantic, and so forth; I don’t know . . .” But then he changed the subject. (He had a rather skittery mind.) “Did I tell you my new idea? Doctor friend of mine is looking into it: AccidentalTourist in Poor Health. A list of American-trained doctors and dentists in every foreign capital, plus maybe some suggestions for basic medical supplies: aspirin, Merck Manual—”
“Oh, not a Merck Manual away from home!” Macon said. “Every hangnail could be cancer, when you’re reading a Merck Manual.”
“Well, I’ll make a note of that,” Julian said (without so much as lifting a pencil). “Aren’t you going to ask me to autograph your cast? It’s so white.”
“I like it white,” Macon said. “I polish it with shoe polish.”
“I didn’t realize you could do that.”
“I use the liquid kind. It’s the brand with a nurse’s face on the label, if you ever need to know.”
“Accidental Tourist on Crutches,” Julian said, and he rocked back happily in his chair.
Macon could tell he was about to start his Macon Leary act. He got hastily to his feet and said, “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”
“So soon? Why don’t we have a drink?”
“No, thanks, I can’t. My sister’s picking me up as soon as she gets done with her errand.”
“Ah,” Julian said. “What kind of errand?”
Macon looked at him suspiciously.
“Well? Dry cleaner’s? Shoe repair?”
“Just an ordinary errand, Julian. Nothing special.”
“Hardware store? Pharmacy?”
“No.”
“So what is it?”
“Uh . . . she had to buy Furniture Food.”
Julian’s chair rocked so far back, Macon thought he was going to tip over. He wished he would, in fact. “Macon, do me a favor,” Julian said. “Couldn’t you just once invite me to a family dinner?”
“We’re really not much for socializing,” Macon told him.
“It wouldn’t have to be fancy. Just whatever you eat normally. What do you eat normally? Or I’ll bring the meal myself. You could lock the dog up . . . what’s his name again?”
“Edward.”
“Edward. Ha! And I’ll come spend the evening.”
“Oh, well,” Macon said vaguely. He arranged himself on his crutches.
“Why don’t I step outside and wait with you.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Macon said.
He couldn’t bear for Julian to see his sister’s little basin hat.
He pegged out to the curb and stood there, gazing in the direction Rose should be coming from. He supposed she was lost again. The cold was already creeping through the stretched-out sock he wore over his cast.
The trouble was, he decided, Julian had never had anything happen to him. His ruddy, cheerful face was unscarred by anything but sunburn; his only interest was a ridiculously inefficient form of transportation.