The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler Read Free Book Online Page B

scent of the kennel. But there was no rug—only bare, linty floor, and Edward stopped short, looking foolish. Macon knew just how he felt.
    He put away the milk and went upstairs to unpack. He took a shower, treading the day’s dirty clothes underfoot, and prepared for bed. When he turned off the light in the bathroom, the sight of his laundry dripping over the tub reminded him of travel. Where was the real difference?
Accidental Tourist at Home,
he thought, and he slid wearily into his body bag.

four
    When the phone rang, Macon dreamed it was Ethan. He dreamed Ethan was calling from camp, wondering why they’d never come to get him. “But we thought you were dead,” Macon said, and Ethan said—in that clear voice of his that cracked on the high notes—“Why would you think
that
?” The phone rang again and Macon woke up. There was a thud of disappointment somewhere inside his rib cage. He understood why people said hearts “sank.”
    In slow motion, he reached for the receiver. “Yes,” he said.
    “Macon! Welcome back!”
    It was Julian Edge, Macon’s boss, his usual loud and sprightly self even this early in the morning. “Oh,” Macon said.
    “How was the trip?”
    “It was okay.”
    “You just get in last night?”
    “Yes.”
    “Find any super new places?”
    “Well, ‘super’ would be putting it a bit strongly.”
    “So now I guess you start writing it up.”
    Macon said nothing.
    “Just when do you figure to bring me a manuscript?” Julian asked.
    “I don’t know,” Macon said.
    “Soon, do you figure?”
    “I don’t know.”
    There was a pause.
    “I guess I woke you,” Julian said.
    “Yes.”
    “Macon Leary in bed,” Julian said. He made it sound like the title of something. Julian was younger than Macon and brasher, breezier, not a serious man. He seemed to enjoy pretending that Macon was some kind of character. “So anyway, can I expect it by the end of the month?”
    “No,” Macon said.
    “Why not?”
    “I’m not organized.”
    “Not organized! What’s to organize? All you have to do is retype your old one, basically.”
    “There’s a lot more to it than that,” Macon said.
    “Look. Fellow. Here it is—” Julian’s voice grew fainter. He’d be drawing back to frown at his flashy gold calendar watch with the perforated leather racing band. “Here it is the third of August. I want this thing on the stands by October. That means I’d need your manuscript by August thirty-first.”
    “I can’t do it,” Macon said.
    In fact, it amazed him he’d found the strength to carry on this conversation.
    “August thirty-first, Macon. That’s four full weeks away.”
    “It’s not enough,” Macon said.
    “Not enough,” Julian said. “Well. All right, then: mid-September. It’s going to knock a good many things out of whack, but I’ll give you till mid-September. How’s that?”
    “I don’t know,” Macon said.
    The dullness of his voice interested him. He felt strangely distant from himself. Julian might have sensed this, for after another pause he said, “Hey. Pal. Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine,” Macon told him.
    “I know you’ve been through a lot, pal—”
    “I’m fine! Just fine! What could be wrong? All I need is time to get organized. I’ll have the manuscript in by September fifteenth. Possibly earlier. Yes, very possibly earlier. Maybe the end of August. All right?”
    Then he hung up.
    But his study was so dim and close, and it gave off the salty, inky smell of mental fidgeting. He walked in and felt overwhelmed by his task, as if finally chaos had triumphed. He turned around and walked out again.
    Maybe he couldn’t get his guidebook organized, but organizing the household was another matter entirely. There was something fulfilling about that, something consoling—or more than consoling; it gave him the sense of warding off a danger. Over the next week or so, he traveled through the rooms setting up new systems. He radically rearranged all