The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler [8]
Yes, he had said that. A crumb catcher, he’d said. Unsanitary. Then why did he feel this sudden, wrenching need to keep the rug for himself?
“Macon, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“So would you mind if I came and got it?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Oh, good. My apartment has these bare floors and you’ve no idea how—”
She would stop by for the rug and he’d invite her in. He’d offer her a glass of sherry. They would sit on the couch with their sherry and he would say, “Sarah, have you missed me?” Or no, he’d say, “I’ve missed you, Sarah.”
She would say . . .
She said, “I thought I’d drop over Saturday morning, if that’s convenient.”
But people don’t drink sherry in the morning.
And besides: He wouldn’t even be here then. “I leave for England tomorrow afternoon,” he said.
“Oh, is it time for England again?”
“Maybe you could come this evening.”
“No, my car’s in the shop.”
“Your car? What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, I was driving along and . . . you know that little red light on the lefthand side of the dash?”
“What, the oil pressure light?”
“Yes, and so I thought, ‘Well, I’ll be late for the dentist if I stop and see to it now and anyway, the car does seem to be running all right, so—’ ”
“Wait. Are you saying the light lit up? And then you went on driving?”
“Well, nothing sounded any different and nothing acted any different, so I figured—”
“Jesus, Sarah.”
“What’s so terrible about that?”
“You’ve probably ruined the engine.”
“No, I did not ruin the engine, for your information. I just need this single, simple repair job but unfortunately it’s going to take a few days to do it. Well, never mind. I’ve got a house key. I’ll just let myself in on Saturday.”
“Maybe I could bring the rug over.”
“I’ll wait till Saturday.”
“That way I could see your apartment,” Macon said. “I’ve never been inside, you know.”
“No, it’s not fixed up yet.”
“I don’t care if it’s fixed up.”
“It’s a disaster. Nothing’s been done.”
“How could nothing be done? You’ve been living there over a month.”
“Well, I’m not so wonderfully perfectly efficient as you are, Macon.”
“You wouldn’t have to be efficient to—”
“Some days,” Sarah said, “I can’t even make it out of my bathrobe.”
Macon was silent.
“I should have agreed to teach summer school,” Sarah said. “Something to give some shape to things. I open my eyes in the morning and think, ‘Why bother getting up?’ ”
“Me too,” Macon said.
“Why bother eating? Why bother breathing?”
“Me too, sweetheart.”
“Macon, do you suppose that person has any idea? I want to go see him in prison, Macon. I want to sit on the other side of the grid or the screen or whatever they have and I’ll say, ‘Look at me. Look. Look at what you did. You didn’t just kill the people you shot; you killed other people besides. What you did goes on and on forever. You didn’t just kill my son; you killed me; you killed my husband. I mean I can’t even manage to put up my curtains; do you understand what you did?’ Then when I’m sure that he does understand, that he really does realize, that he feels just terrible, I’m going to open my purse and pull out a gun and shoot him between the eyes.”
“Oh, well, sweetheart—”
“You think I’m just raving, don’t you. But Macon, I swear, I can feel that little kick against my palm when I fire the gun. I’ve never fired a gun in my life—Lord, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a gun. Isn’t it odd? Ethan’s seen one; Ethan’s had an experience you and I have no notion of. But sometimes I hold my hand out with the thumb cocked like when kids play cowboy, and I fold my trigger finger and feel what a satisfaction it would be.”
“Sarah, it’s bad for you to talk like this.”
“Oh? How am I supposed to talk?”
“I mean if you let yourself get angry you’ll be . . . consumed. You’ll burn up. It’s not productive.”
“Oh, productive! Well, goodness, no, let’s not waste our time on anything unproductive.”
Macon massaged his forehead. He said, “Sarah, I just feel we can’t afford to have these thoughts.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No, it is not easy for me to say, dammit—”
“Just shut the door, Macon.