The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler [9]
“Goddammit, Sarah—”
“Don’t you curse at me, Macon Leary!”
They paused.
Macon said, “Well.”
Sarah said, “Well, anyhow.”
“So I guess you’ll come by while I’m gone,” he said.
“If that’s all right.”
“Yes, certainly,” he said.
Although he felt a curious uneasiness when he hung up, as if he were letting a stranger come. As if she might walk off with more than just the dining room rug.
For his trip to England, he dressed in his most comfortable suit. One suit is plenty, he counseled in his guidebooks, if you take along some travel-size packets of spot remover. (Macon knew every item that came in travel-size packets, from deodorant to shoe polish.) The suit should be a medium gray. Gray not only hides the dirt; it’s handy for sudden funerals and other formal events. At the same time, it isn’t too somber for everyday.
He packed a minimum of clothes and a shaving kit. A copy of his most recent guide to England. A novel to read on the plane.
Bring only what fits in a carry-on bag. Checking your luggage is asking for trouble. Add several travel-size packets of detergent so you won’t fall into the hands of foreign laundries.
When he’d finished packing, he sat on the couch to rest. Or not to rest, exactly, but to collect himself—like a man taking several deep breaths before diving into a river.
The furniture was all straight lines and soothing curves. Dust motes hung in a slant of sunlight. What a peaceful life he led here! If this were any other day he’d be making some instant coffee. He would drop the spoon in the sink and stand sipping from his mug while the cat wove between his feet. Then maybe he’d open the mail. Those acts seemed dear and gentle now. How could he have complained of boredom? At home he had everything set up around him so he hardly needed to think. On trips even the smallest task required effort and decisions.
When it was two hours till takeoff, he stood up. The airport was a thirty-minute drive at the most, but he hated feeling rushed. He made a final tour of the house, stopping off at the downstairs bathroom—the last real bathroom (was how he thought of it) that he’d see for the next week. He whistled for the dog. He picked up his bag and stepped out the front door. The heat slammed into him like something solid.
The dog was going with him only as far as the vet’s. If he’d known that, he never would have jumped into the car. He sat next to Macon, panting enthusiastically, his keg-shaped body alert with expectation. Macon talked to him in what he hoped was an un-alarming tone. “Hot, isn’t it, Edward. You want the air conditioner on?” He adjusted the controls. “There now. Feeling better?” He heard something unctuous in his voice. Maybe Edward did, too, for he stopped panting and gave Macon a sudden suspicious look. Macon decided to say no more.
They rolled through the neighborhood, down streets roofed over with trees. They turned into a sunnier section full of stores and service stations. As they neared Murray Avenue, Edward started whimpering. In the parking lot of the Murray Avenue Veterinary Hospital, he somehow became a much smaller animal.
Macon got out of the car and walked around to open the door. When he took hold of Edward’s collar, Edward dug his toenails into the upholstery. He had to be dragged all the way to the building, scritching across the hot concrete.
The waiting room was empty. A goldfish tank bubbled in one corner, with a full-color poster above it illustrating the life cycle of the heartworm. There was a girl on a stool behind the counter, a waifish little person in a halter top.
“I’ve brought my dog for boarding,” Macon said. He had to raise his voice to be heard above Edward’s moans.
Chewing her gum steadily, the girl handed him a printed form and a pencil. “Ever been here before?” she asked.
“Yes, often.”
“What’s the last name?”
“Leary.”
“Leary. Leary,” she said, riffling through