Music for Torching

TEN

SUNDAY MORNING. Two dogs knock over a trash can, dragging garbage across the grass. Squirrels jump from tree to tree, a cat slinks around the corner of the house, someone's sprinkler kicks on-things bubble beneath the surface.

Elaine is awake, alert, vigilant. She hears everything: the cracks and creaks, the shifting of the foundation, the even engine of Paul's breathing. She has been up half the night, afraid to go downstairs, afraid the cop is out there, watching. She had a strange dream and woke up thinking Paul was Pat. In the middle of the night, she sat up and took a look. Paul was Paul. The splash from the streetlight, the spill of the moon, gathered on Paul's shiny dome, giving his scrubbed skull a blue glow. A vein in his temple pulsed, his eye twitched. Elaine took a deep breath, turned over, and went back to sleep. She dreamed that every morning when she woke up someone different was in her bed: Pat, the cop, the workman with the broken fingers, the architect, Ted Talmadge. Every day someone new was pressed up against her-naked. Elaine dreamed she had no way of stopping it, she dreamed that she had no control.

Again Elaine woke up. Again she looked; still Paul. She got out of bed, walked down the hall, and checked on Sammy.

"Leave me alone," Sammy said in his sleep.

Standing over him, she cast a shadow across the bed, a dark cloud over the comforter's blue sky. She stepped back.

"Don't close the door," he mumbled.

"Door's open," Elaine said, leaving.

Elaine went back to bed and lay there, waiting.

A noise: tires, the slam of a car door, the sound of her mother's voice. "Try the kitchen door."

Her father asking, "Do you have a key?"

"If I had a key, why would I send you around to the other side of the house. Blow the horn."

There is a single shy beep, simultaneously splitting the air and struggling to be unobtrusive.

"More," her mother says.

The beep is followed by a second solid blast.

Sammy staggers into Elaine's bedroom. "Grandma's here," he says. "She beeped right under my head."

"Why don't you go down and let her in?"

He is in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes, a sleepy boy. "I don't like her," he says. "She squeezes too hard."

The horn blows again.

"I'm not here," Sammy says, crawling in next to Paul, pulling the covers over his head.

"All right," Elaine says. "All right."

Paul stirs in his sleep.

"My parents are here," she tells him. He rolls away.

"House of sleepyheads," her mother says, pushing ahead of her father and into the house. "Good thing we didn't call before we came." "It's Sunday morning," Elaine says.

"It's nine o'clock," her mother says.

"We brought brunch," her father says. He is holding bags of groceries and a white bakery box tied with string.

"You've already been to the store?" Elaine asks.

"I'll tell you a secret," her mother says. "When you get older, you need less sleep."

"You need less of everything," her father says, putting the bags down.

"I brought your father so you can see for yourself," her mother says.

"See what?"

"Exactly," her mother says. "I want you to see how he is." She says it right in front of him.

"She thinks I am something," her father says. "The fact is, I just am, and that annoys her."

"The kitchen, by the way, looks very nice. Do you want to show your father what you're doing with the house?"

"We're not finished," Elaine says.

"Well, I want him to see something," her mother says, leading her father into the living room. "Look at this sofa, these pillows. Everyone has to do something about where they sit." She sits down, patting the cushion next to her. He sits beside her. "You can feel it," she says. "The stuffing goes, you sink lower and lower until it takes a crane to get you out. This is how it is on our sofa. Some Saturday night I'm going to sit down and not be able to get up-it makes me think I'm an old woman."

"You are an old woman," her father says.

"Not that old." She peels herself off the sofa with some difficulty and goes back into the kitchen.

Elaine sits next to her father. "You haven't been here in a long time," she says, realizing that she hasn't seen him in months. He looks older and a little frail.

"I like it at home," he says. "Your mother always wants to get out of the house. She just wants to go, I don't think she cares where. Go, I tell her. Go without me. For thirty-five years I left the house every morning; now I want to stay home."

"He just sits there. Some days he just sits all day," her mother throws in from the kitchen.

"So what if I sit? What's wrong with sitting? I earned the right to sit."

"You didn't call me yesterday after I left," her mother says to Elaine. "You have to be careful what you promise people."

"I didn't say I would," Elaine says.

"You said, 'I'll talk to you later.'" Her mother goes on, "I call you every day."

"You call me because you want my attention-you want a lot of my attention."

"That's my way of paying attention. You're always disappointed in me, I can never do enough."

"The feeling is mutual."

"Elaine, I am the way I am. I'm almost seventy years old. The only way I'm going to have a personality transplant is if, God forbid, I have a stroke; otherwise, this is what you get. Would you like some coffee? I brought some of my own from home. I grind the beans every day."

"Are you depressed?" Elaine whispers to her father, hoping her mother won't hear.

He bends toward her. "How would I know?" he whispers back.

"Do you feel unhappy?"

"I feel nothing," he says. "Sometimes a twinge in my back, a little bursitis, but other than that, nothing." He pauses. "It isn't always perfect. Your mother still wants perfection. She still wants everything she never had," he adds loudly. "She won't die without it."

"I will die without it, that's the problem," her mother says.

"Mother, what do you want?" Elaine calls into the kitchen.

"Everything. I want everything, all the best, and you should want it, too."

Her mother sweeps into the living room-a force of nature, her determination evident in the flare of her nostrils, the flash of her eyes, the tightness of her lips. She is fierce. "Where's your family? Why haven't they come down? Rally the troops," her mother says, clapping her hands.

Elaine goes upstairs. Sammy is still in the bed. She uncovers him. "Time to get up," she says.

"No," he says.

"Yes," she says.

Paul is in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.

"You look at yourself more than anyone I know," Elaine says. "What do you see?"

"Decay," Paul says. "The early signs of rot."

"Breakfast is ready," Elaine says.

"I'm almost done," he says.

There's a little pile of pills on the dresser-mental candy. She can't remember which color does what. She picks two, orange and blue. She dresses. Sammy still has not moved. Elaine goes to make the bed; she pulls the sheets up over him, pretending he's not there. She fluffs the pillows. "Paul," she calls. "Paul, there's a problem with the bed."

"What now?" he asks, not realizing it's a joke.

"There's an inexplicable lump in the middle. Maybe you can do something about it."

"Can't it wait?"

"I don't think so," Elaine says. "I think you ought to deal with it before breakfast."

"Give me a minute," he says, "and I'll take a look."

Sammy giggles.

Elaine knocks on Daniel's door. She pretends her hand is a horn, she pretends that she's playing reveille, she blows hard. "Rise and shine," she says. "Chow's on."

"Where are your filters?" her mother asks when Elaine returns.

"In the drawer below the toaster oven-on the right."

Elaine could go blind and no one would notice. She's memorized where everything is. She could navigate the house for years before anyone caught on. The problem would be something simple, like laundry.

Paul bounds down the stairs, his flat feet clomping like hooves. "Morning," Paul says. "Long time no see. How've you been?" Paul slaps her father on the back.

"I saw that Robertson got Van Kamp," her father says to Paul.

"Only after they gave up Raleigh," Paul says. "And Donaldson is out on his ass."

"Yeah, where'd he go?"

"Organic farming," Paul says.

"Jumped ship?" her father asks-he's the retired guy talking to the working guy, looking for a taste of the old life, a sip of the juice. Paul tries to give him some.

"No, he's gone into organic farming," Paul says.

"I've never heard that one before," her father says. "What does it mean?"

"He gave up everything and started a chicken farm."

The conversation stops, and then her father tries again. "Do you still talk to that other fella?"

"Which one?"

"The guy with the."

"Henry?" Elaine says. Her head hurts-maybe orange and blue were a bad combination. She takes a couple of aspirin.

"That's the one-how's he doing?"

"He's gotten into rock climbing," Paul says.

"What's that mean? Why don't I understand what you're talking about?"

"It's very literal," Elaine says. "He left his wife and has a new girlfriend, and they've been going hiking."

"Oh," her father says. "I thought you were talking in some kind of a code."

"He can get a little paranoid," her mother says. "Where's your dining room table?"

"Elaine axed it," Paul says.

"Mom," Daniel yells downstairs. "Where's my plastic cast?"

"Your what?"

"You know, the white mold I made at Scouts."

"Your plaster cast?" Elaine corrects. She remembers it. She remembers finding it on Daniel's desk, she remembers Paul smashing it, thinking there was some hidden treasure buried within. She remembers dusty white smoke rising, rubble, small pieces on the floor.

She looks at Paul. He goes to the bottom of the stairs.

"Maybe you left it at the Meaderses'," he says.

"No," Daniel says. "It was here. You didn't take it, did you?"

"Just because you can't find something doesn't mean I took it."

"Paul," Elaine says, stopping him before it gets worse.

Her parents stand in the kitchen-oblivious.

"Weird," Daniel says, coming to the top of the stairs.

"It happens," Elaine yells. "Chow's on. Get Sammy."

"Samster, the hamster boy," Daniel says. "Come and get it."

"This is great," Paul says as they squeeze in around the kitchen table. "Elaine doesn't usually make a real breakfast."

"Don't touch me," Sammy says, sitting down.

"It's early for tomatoes, but I'm a sucker," her mother says, loading her plate.

"A sucker for anything that costs double what it should," her father says, digging in.

"Does anyone need me to make eggs? I can make eggs if anyone wants them. I brought a dozen."

"This is fine," Elaine says. "We're fine."

"Could someone pass the onion?" her father says.

"Now, that's what you shouldn't be eating," her mother says. "All day it'll repeat on you."

Elaine listens to her parents "not fighting-talking." She has the sensation of something pecking at her, pinching, biting off pieces of her flesh. She hears her mother's voice and hates it.

"Sam, come here, I have something to show you," her father summons Sammy.

"Don't go," Daniel says. "He's going to make your ears excrete money."

"That's a big word," Paul says.

"'Money'?" Daniel says.

"'Excrete,'" Paul says.

Daniel squeezes the two halves of his bagel together-cream cheese oozes out.

The phone rings, it's Joan. "Will you be home later? I have a little something for you. I was thinking of dropping by at around six. How does that sound?"

Elaine watches her father pluck a quarter from Sammy's ear.

"Excrete," Daniel says.

"Fine," Elaine tells Joan. "Great."

In the living room, after brunch, Elaine's father pulls a cigar from his shirt pocket.

"Since when do you smoke?" Paul asks.

"It's his new passion," her mother says.

"For years I was too busy to enjoy anything. That's what retirement is about, discovering pleasure," he says, clipping the tip.

"We just had the house cleaned," Elaine says.

Her father slides the cigar back into his pocket. "I'll wait," he says. "I'll have it later, in peace."

Elaine watches her father lower himself onto the living room sofa; he's a little stiff, unsure of himself.

Her mother goes to him. "Are you tired?" she asks. "Would you like to lie down for a few minutes before we go home?" She puts her hand on his forehead and then sweeps it back through his white hair. Elaine has never seen her mother behave this way before-solicitous.

"I'm all right," he says, waving her away.

Her mother bends and kisses her father. She gives him a long good one right on the lips, and Elaine is shocked. The kiss is so tender, sexual, surprising. Elaine's parents are lip to lip in her living room, and she's watching them with her eyes popping out like she's a kid-grossed out.

"Come on, old man, I'll take you home," her mother says, helping her father off the sofa.

"All right, old woman, let's go," he says.

"I put the leftovers in your fridge. You have plenty for tomorrow," her mother says.

"Thanks," Elaine says. She can't bring herself to hug or kiss either of them. She is glad her parents are leaving. They have frightened her. They can go home and do whatever they want, but here in her house she doesn't want them being affectionate, she doesn't want them getting along, she has no concept of them that way.

"Willy's here," Paul says, looking out the window.

Daniel opens the door.

"You got lucky last night, leaving before the liver," Willy says, stepping in. "Organ meat, can't be beat."

Paul and Elaine are still sitting in the living room.

"Hello, Willy," Paul says over his shoulder.

"Hello," Willy says.

And no one says anything else.

"What's going on?" Willy asks.

"My grandparents just left. We're all kind of burned out," Daniel says. "Come up to my room."

Elaine pictures the two of them fondling the Ziploc bags, flipping through fat-girl magazines. "Why don't you go outside? It's such a nice day, play outside."

Despite the distractions, Elaine is thinking about yesterday, about Pat yelling "Freeze," about the cop with the red balloon, about the way she went racing to the school, looking for the guidance counselor. She thinks about the hammer and nails. She fixates on the idea that the police will investigate-they'll find the hammer with her fingerprints and bust her. She feels a sense of impending doom; something is about to happen, something she's not going to like.

"I've got to go out for a minute," she tells Paul. "Be back soon."

He looks at her.

"What?" she says.

"You tell me," he says.

They stare. Bastard, bitch, prick, cunt.

There is the constant fear of being found out, exposed. What does he know? What is she getting at?

"I just need a minute alone," she says.

"You are alone, Elaine, everyone has gone on their merry way."

"Just let me go," she says. "I'll be right back."

"Take the videos," he says.

"Can I go?" Sammy asks. "I want to go."

There's a pause.

"Sure," Elaine says. "Of course you can go." She offers Paul the same opportunity. "Would you like to come along for the ride?" "Absolutely not," he says.

Elaine goes. She gets in the car and goes with Sammy.

She passes Pat and George's house. They are home, both cars are in the driveway. She hovers in the middle of the street, idling with no particular plan in mind. She hovers until she feels conspicuous and then steps on the gas. She wonders why everything seems catastrophic, why she's always holding her breath, waiting for something to change her life.

"Where are you taking me?" Sammy asks.

"Video store."

"Why are we going this way?"

"For a change," she says.

"Are you kidnapping me?"

"What are you talking about?" Elaine asks.

"I don't know," he says.

"Well then, stop it," she says.

They return the movies, and on the way home Elaine swings by the vocational school.

"Have I been here before?" Sammy asks.

"Have you?" Elaine pulls into the empty lot and parks. "I have to check on something, about the house." She plants an explanation in Sammy's brain, something Sammy can repeat if Paul asks what they did. "Stay here," she says, getting out of the car.

"Why?"

"It's really dusty, you won't be able to breathe." She is intentionally scaring him and hating herself for it.

"Hurry," he says.

"I will."

Elaine scurries across the grass to the split sides of the prefab house. She steps in. Her theme has been elaborated upon. Her FUCK THIS now reads FUCK THIS WHOLE FUCKING THING. And someone has woven string, a deep-red yarn, around the nails, connecting the dots. And someone else-she assumes-

has gone at it circling the phrase with black Magic Marker and, in a wobbly hand, offering the evaluation BAD ATTITUDE B-.

There must have been a party last night, a conclave of youth on the loose. Elaine looks for the hammer, the nails. Gone. All gone. She hopes they are being held in Allied hands. She hopes no one called the cops.

"What were you looking for?" Sammy asks when she gets back into the car.

"Details," she says. "Whenever you do something, you have to be sure to get the details right."

Paul. Paul is home alone. He is in front of the TV watching an extra videotape he bought for himself when he was shopping for McKendrick. Amateur porn: Neighborhood Women. There is something about the cheesy homemade quality of it that he finds appealing. He thinks of the date, and of Mrs. A. He closes his eyes and thinks of Elaine. He pictures himself lying out on the new deck, drinking, listening to the sound of the neighbor's Weed Whacker. He imagines Elaine giving him a little lap dance where the neighbors can see. He thinks of the lap dance, the deck, the warm air of a June afternoon. It's exciting up to a point, and then it isn't. He thinks of Elaine and wonders what's going on with her-has she done something? He swells with generosity. Goodie. Goodie if she did it, goodie for her if she got herself out of the house and got herself laid. He's engorged with the idea, generous to a point, and then he's wondering who it might be-could it be Henry? In a fit of jealousy, mad at Paul for doinking the date, could Henry have taken a dive with Elaine? Paul tries out a few other men-George, Mrs. Hansen's husband, the contractor-and decides that, yes, it's Henry, that's the one who makes the most sense.

When Paul hears Elaine come in, he turns off the TV, he holds the Sunday paper on his lap.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading," he says.

"Anything good?"

"Not really."

He gazes at her. "That was nice with your parents," he says.

She nods. "Things are getting back on track."

"We should try and enjoy ourselves a little," Paul says. "How about an early movie in Mamaroneck with the boys? Or a walk, we could walk down to the water?"

"It smells," she says. "There was an article about it in the paper: bacterial growth, a terrible smell."

"Remember." he says, thinking back to the night when they first moved here, the night they went to the movies and on the way home stopped down by the water, smoked a joint, and the cop came.

"Yes," she says, knowing what he's thinking.

He stands up. He reaches for her hand. He leads her upstairs.

"The boys were in Florida with your mother," she says.

"It's good to have them home," he says.

"Where's Daniel?"

"Somewhere outside with Willy," he says. "And Sammy?"

"Sitting on the front step," she says.

Paul and Elaine are upstairs fucking. A quickie-the kind of thing they used to enjoy.

Elaine is dry.

"Have you got anything? Any kind of lube?"

"Just you," she says.

"Oh," he says.

He licks her.

She sucks him.

They fuck. Elaine is on top.

"Mom," Sammy yells upstairs. "Mom, the people are here." "What people?" Paul asks.

"The people," Sammy shouts.

They keep fucking.

"They're here," Sammy says.

"Hurry," Elaine says.

"Help me," Paul says. His hands are on her hips, he's pulling her down, pressing her against him.

"This isn't about me," Elaine says, panting.

"What do you mean?"

"Just come, so we can find out who's here."

"Dad," Sammy whines.

"Coming," Paul bellows.

He comes. Elaine pops up off him and goes to the window. "It's Joan and Ted," she says.

"Did you come?" he asks, pressing against her from behind. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Another car pulls up. "What's going on?" Elaine wants to know. "How could you not know if you came or not?"

More cars arrive.

"Hurry," Elaine says as they're dressing.

"Surprise!" Joan throws her arms up in the air as Elaine and Paul come out the front door.

"Surprise!" Elaine says, imitating Joan.

"It's a housewarming," Joan says. "I planned it last night. We were just sitting there with nothing to do. The whole gang's

coming, isn't that great? Catherine and Hammy are back, and they're desperate to see everyone-they haven't seen a friendly face in a week."

The trunk of the car is open, and Ted is struggling to pull something out. "Joan," he says. "Joan, can you give me a hand?"

"I wasn't sure what you did or didn't have, what might have gotten damaged in the fire, so I brought everything," Joan says.

"The house isn't really ready," Elaine says. "The deck isn't finished."

"You're home, that's what matters," Joan says.

Paul interrupts. "Is Henry coming?" He needs to know. He's been obsessing about Henry, Henry and the date, Henry and Elaine, Henry on top.

"Any minute," Joan says.

The Nielsons' car pulls up. "It's George, one of the little M's, and.. who's that? That's not Pat," Joan says.

An unidentified woman is at the wheel.

"My cousin Lois," George says, opening the passenger door. "She's visiting from Syracuse." He hands over a pitcher of martinis. "She drove. I didn't want to bruise the gin."

A man Elaine doesn't know asks, "Are we staying in front or going around back?"

"The back is full of rocks," Elaine says.

He plunges the sharp stake of a bamboo torch into the ground.

"Our friends from Pelham, I asked them to join," Joan says, nodding toward the slightly younger couple. "We had plans for tonight," she whispers. "And I just couldn't cancel; I hate it when people cancel."

"Drinks? Who would like a drink?" George holds the pitcher high. "When it's empty, it's yours to keep," George says. "A housewarming gift from Pat and me." "Actually, we owe you a gift," Elaine says. She's been thinking that they need to get the Nielsons a really big thank-you present. What would do the trick? Something she can order from a catalog; Pat would appreciate that.

George shrugs. "Whatever feels right."

"Where's Pat?" Joan asks. "We can't have a party without Pat."

"You know how women are," George says, leaving the line dangling.

Elaine wonders, Did Pat tell George? Does he know more than he's letting on?

"Henry's here," Joan says. "Now, where's Paul?"

Paul hates Henry, he hates Elaine, he hates everybody. He meets Henry down by the curb and hands him a drink.

"How was rock climbing?" Elaine asks.

Henry smiles. "It was fantastic."

When the Montgomerys arrive, they all stop talking, they stare without meaning to.

"We're so glad you're here. How are you?" Joan asks before the Montgomerys are even out of the car.

Catherine and Hammy get out; their eleven-year-old daughter climbs out after them, she stares at the ground. Catherine and Hammy smile and wave, their hands traveling back and forth through the air, as if they're washing windows. "How are all of you?" they ask.

"Would you like a drink?" Paul gestures with the pitcher.

"Fill 'er up," Hammy says, closing the car door.

"We're so sorry about canceling last night," Catherine says.

"It's been a hell of a week," Hammy says.

"We missed you all so much," Catherine says. "We couldn't wait to get home."

"Back where we belong," Hammy says.

They've said the right thing; they've said nothing at all.

"How are you really?" Elaine asks again, privately, a few minutes later.

"How could I be?" Catherine says.

"You must be so relieved to have it over with," Joan butts in.

"It isn't over, it's just begun," Catherine says, and stops herself. She shouldn't say more, more would be too much. She sips her drink. "It's a mean martini."

"It's the onions," George says.

"Isn't it surprising none of us have had cancer yet?" Joan says, and no one knows what she's talking about.

Mrs. Hansen and her husband cross the street. "Fruit in vodka," Mrs. Hansen says, handing Elaine a large, foil-covered bowl. "My old standby. I've been soaking it all night."

Mrs. Hansen's husband, the hubcap, circulates through the crowd, presenting himself to everyone as "The Invisible Mister."

Liz, Jennifer, and a friend of Jennifer's cut through the yard. "We walked," Liz says. "It's further than you'd think."

"I haven't walked in years," Joan says.

Jennifer introduces her friend, Robert, a straitlaced kid except for a set of Frankenstein-like bumps or welts across his forehead. She leans toward Paul. "See the ridges above his eyes? He has barbells under his skin. Subcutaneous decorative jewelry-implants. Isn't it great? Way more subtle than piercing. You sort of see it and you sort of don't."

Paul stares.

"It's going to be wonderful," Catherine says, coming around the corner of the house. "French doors and a deck, who could ask for more?"

"Lots of people," Ted says.

They are suspended in a strangely golden hour, that odd expanse of time at the beginning of the summer when afternoons are elongated, holding off the dimming of the day.

Sammy and the Montgomery daughter playing with walkie- talkies. Elaine overhears Sammy ask, "What are you wearing?"

"A tiara," the girl says.

"And what's under it?" Sammy asks, not knowing what a tiara

is.

"Hair," the girl says.

Daniel and Willy have George's little M by her wrists and ankles. They swing her through the air-she squeals. One of her shoes falls off.

"Are you hurting her?" Paul asks.

"Willy, it's time to put her down and say good-bye. Time for you to go home," Elaine says.

Ted gets into his car and toots the horn to get everyone's attention. The friends gather round. Joan and Ted are grinning, so proud of themselves, clever-good at the game.

"We have a little something for you," Joan says to Elaine and Paul. "From all of us."

Ted pops the trunk.

"The piece de resistance," Joan says.

"Could someone give me a hand?" Ted asks.

George steps in, and he and Ted pull a big black orb from the trunk.

Elaine sees something black and round and thinks of the wrecking ball, the hard knocking against the house.

"A Weber kettle," George announces, in case anyone doesn't know.

"Top of the line," Ted says. "We wanted you to have the real thing."

"Let's get some legs on it," Ted says, reaching into the trunk for the missing parts.

"Welcome home." "To new beginnings," Catherine puts in, and they tap their glasses together; the tinkling clink of good glass for a moment sounds like the music of a wind chime.

"It could have happened to any one of us," Ted says. "And that's the truth."

Elaine and Paul look at each other for clues. Elaine finally sputters, "We're overwhelmed. Thank you, thank you so much."

The men set up the grill, filling the kettle with coals. Henry hands Paul a can of lighter fluid with a red ribbon on it. "Fire it up," he says.

Paul remembers squirting the fluid against the house, streaks of it splashing the back wall and evaporating. He remembers the excitement, the anxiety. He remembers coming home, after the fire, late at night in the dark, finding the house still standing. "My aim isn't always true," Paul says.

"It all depends on how full your container is and how hard you squeeze," George says.

"Go on," Ted says. "Hop on the horse."

And with the other men standing by, Paul squirts the stuff on the briquettes.

Henry strikes a match, a quick, fiery burst. He throws it in, and a flash of flame rises from the kettle.

"Bravo!" Joan says.

Showing off, Ted squirts a little more stuff onto the fire, and the flames shoot higher.

"Don't get reckless," Joan says. "That's how accidents happen. That's how this whole thing started."

The men hover around the grill, waiting for the coals to turn. The women press hamburger meat into patties.

George goes into the house to make more martinis; Elaine follows him in. She's come for something, she had a reason, she just can't remember what. It's dark. She turns on a few lights.

"Is Pat all right?" she asks.

"Fine," George says, stirring the pitcher. He pours himself a drink. He downs it and pours another. "She's fine." He adds a splash of vermouth to the pitcher. "That's the benefit of being the bartender," he says. "You get to sample the elixir. Where did Elvis die? All day I've been wondering, did he die on the throne?"

"Is this a joke?" Elaine asks.

"No," George says. "I'm just trying to remember if he died on the toilet."

Mrs. Hansen raps on the window. "Music," she shouts. "We need some music if we're going to dance." She's wearing a dandelion chain like a crown on her head-the Montgomery daughter made it for her.

George glances around the room for the stereo, for something to turn on.

"All that's here is TV," Elaine says.

They pull the TV stand close to the window, put it to a music station, and turn up the volume.

Outside, images flicker across the bushes.

"It's like we're in a movie," someone says.

"Martinis, get your martinis here," George calls as they return to the crowd. He taps his glass against the pitcher, ringing it like the ice-cream man.

The man from Pelham lights the bamboo torches, and the scene starts to look like a jungle party, a tribal gathering. The yard throbs with the smell of citronella, the scent of meat cooking taints the air. Cars drive by, slowing as they pass.

"This is perfect," Jennifer's friend tells Paul. "You're inverting the phenomenon of the backyard, playing the interiority of the back against the exteriority of the front-substituting private space for public, not worrying who might see, what they'll think. It's a radical gesture."

"Whatever you do, don't marry him," Mrs. Hansen whispers to Jennifer. "He'll reduce you to rubble."

"What happens next?" Elaine asks Catherine.

"You don't want to know," Catherine says.

Elaine squeezes Catherine's arm-giving her the go-ahead to continue. Liz and Joan stand by ready, waiting to hear.

"The only way they'll treat him is if they treat the whole family. We'd have to move up there and go into residential family therapy."

"You'd move?" Joan asks, missing the point.

"And if you don't agree?" Elaine asks.

"The state may try and charge him as an adult."

"They couldn't really do that, could they?" Joan says. "It seems kind of extreme, doesn't it?"

"He ate somebody's fingers," someone says.

"There but for the grace of God go I," George says, flipping hamburgers. The men have been listening in.

Hammy's lip trembles.

The light fades, big birds gather on the electric lines. They call to each other.

"Listen to the birds," Elaine says. And they all do.

"It's a wonderful life," Mrs. Hansen says.

"Who's to judge?" Mrs. Hansen's hubcap says, raising his glass. "We all have so many damned opinions, so much we think we know. We don't know anything."

They are all so glad to be back together again. They feel the warmth, the heat, the flicker of the flames. None are what they seem, none are what you think, none are what you'd want them to be. They all are both more and less-deeply human.

"I'm so happy to be here," Catherine says; then she begins to cry and runs into the house.

"It's been a week," Paul whispers to Elaine, who hasn't for a minute forgotten. "Almost this time of night. I squirted the stuff and lit the flame, I fanned the fire and you kicked the grill," Paul says.

"We started the fire that burst the bubble that burned the house and so on and so forth," Elaine finishes the tune for him.

"Do they know what happened?" Paul asks.

"I don't think so," Elaine murmurs.

"Are you embarrassed about the grill?"

"A little. Aren't you?"

"Dinner is served," George says, taking the burgers off the fire.

The children come out from around back covered in dirt. They've invented a game called Making Clouds that involves spinning in circles and kicking up loose soil-they're filthy.

"What were you thinking?" the parents ask, smacking at their children, beating the dirt off their clothing. The children, dizzy with delight, woozy from spinning, laugh hysterically and fall down on the grass.

Catherine is back. She's washed her face, powdered her nose, and taken some sort of little pill that the doctor ordered.

"Whatever does the trick," Mrs. Hansen says, laying a line of mustard down her dog.

"Delicious," Joan pronounces, and they all agree. "I'm so glad I had the idea."

It is dark now. The light of the fire, the glow of the torches, plays off their faces, staining them an orangey yellow. The adults have Mrs. Hansen's famous fruit in vodka, and the children make themselves silly and sick on s'mores-sandwiches of chocolate, toasted marshmallows, and graham crackers. "Excrete," Daniel says, mushing everything together, repeating his theme for the day. White sticky stuff oozes over his fingers.

"How many have you had?" Elaine asks, wondering how he'll sleep.

"Didn't count," he says.

"Were the burgers cooked enough?" Liz asks. "I ate mine, but I thought it was raw in the middle."

"Would anyone like an after-dinner drink?" Paul asks. "What goes good with hamburger?"

"Brandy," George says.

They sit on the grass, drinking, having a look at the stars. "Isn't it nice to sit outside?" Ted says. "We're never just outside for no reason."

"Especially in the dark," Joan says. "I hate being in the dark."

There is the wash of headlights across the party, a car pulls into the driveway, the door slams.

"That's Pat," George says.

Crossing the grass, she calls ahead, "I'm off schedule."

"We're finished," Elaine calls back.

"You missed dinner," Joan says.

"Would you like a drink?" George asks his wife. "I just made a fresh pitcher."

Elaine goes into the kitchen to get Pat a glass; Pat follows her. The cabinet is empty, the glasses are all dirty, the only thing on the shelf is a Curious George mug. "I have very little to offer you," Elaine says.

"I'm sorry I left so abruptly yesterday." Pat presses against her. "I'm a little in love with you."

Elaine washes a dirty glass. "Wine? Martini? Seltzer?"

"What are we going to do?" Pat asks.

Elaine slides away from her. "Paul and I are fixing the house, we're making everything good again. There's nothing else to do," Elaine says, handing Pat the empty glass.

In the yard, there is the sound of crickets and the whoosh of someone's sprinkler kicking on. "He's going to have the best grass," Paul says.

"There's something cursed about that house. No one stays," Liz says. "It's always turning over."

"Who lives there now?" Joan asks.

"Someone with a baby," Elaine says, sitting down again. "That's all we know. We see them wheeling him around sometimes."

"There's the Big Dipper," George says, pointing up. And they watch the sky. It is bigger than they are, and it is calming, and they are quiet.

"There goes the space shuttle," Daniel says as a plane passes.

"Really?" Sammy asks.

"Not really," Liz says. "It's a plane out of La Guardia, a night flight to Europe filled with bankers, movie stars, and runaways."

They all take a few deep breaths. They drain their glasses, stretch out their arms and legs, and say, "This is so relaxing, I am so relaxed. For the first time in a long time I feel as though I don't have a care in the world."

Mrs. Hansen's hubcap pulls out a pack of sparklers and gives one to each person.

"To summer," they say, lighting up, tapping the sparklers against each other, toasting. The sparks are bright white, phosphorescent, clean and clear. They are a sweet explosion firing the night, evaporating in the air. "To all things bright and beautiful."

"Touche," Ted says, sword fighting with Paul.

And then they have had enough.

"Big day tomorrow," George says, bringing things to a close. "Back to work, back to school. I almost forgot-your things are in my car." He goes down to the car and returns with a box of clothes. "Back to you," he says.

Under the torchlight Elaine can see that they are perfectly pressed. "Thank you," she says to Pat. "For everything, always."

"Damn knees," Ted says, trying to get up off the grass.

"Call you tomorrow," Liz says, walking off with Jennifer and Robert.

In the end, the goal is to be left with something: a spouse, children, even parents if you can manage it. The goal is not to be left alone, not to be left old, poor, and on the street. Everyone thinks it could happen to them, everyone worries that they might drift so far from reality as not to be welcomed back-think of bag ladies, men living on steam grates, the Montgomery boy. Everyone secretly knows that it's something that could happen at any moment-an error or an accident.

Paul and Elaine are left alone with the grill.

"What now?" Elaine asks.

Paul looks at Elaine.

"Any ideas?"

They could do it again. It would be harder to explain a second time around. They would have to do a better job, they would have to make it spectacular and inescapable, they would have to be committed.

"Put the lid on it," Paul says. "It'll burn itself out."

"And the torches?"

"They'll be out by morning," Paul says.

The boys appear out of the darkness, and all four of them-Paul, Elaine, Sammy, and Daniel-go on a hunt, scouring the field of debris, gathering glasses and plates, knives and forks, ketchup, mustard. They carry things into the house, they go from the dark into the light. Everything is fiercely illuminated-they struggle to adjust.

Sammy covers his eyes.

"The mayonnaise is still out there somewhere," Paul says, sending Daniel on a reconnaissance mission, back into the night.

"It turned out okay, didn't it?" Elaine says to Paul as she's loading the dishwasher. "We have such nice friends. I don't think they want to hurt us," Elaine says-and it comes out sounding strange.

"Why hurt us?" Paul wonders.

"Because that's what people do, they constantly try to knock each other down and mow each other over." She adds the soap.

Daniel returns with the jar of mayonnaise, blades of grass

stuck to the rim. "The top is missing in action," he reports, his mouth rimmed with marshmallow glue and graham-cracker crumbs.

"Thanks," Paul says, slipping the mayo into the refrigerator topless.

"Nine o'clock, baths and bed," Elaine announces to the boys. She's determined to have tomorrow go right. She's taken a lesson from Pat: plan ahead. "Tick-tock, I bought you each an alarm clock." She gives them to the children like gifts. "All set, ready to ring. Breakfast in the kitchen at seven, attendance will be taken."

Later, as she's tucking Sammy in, his skin still warm from the tub, his hair still damp, his smell still the milky sweet of a child, she lets her head dip into his neck, she breathes deeply. "Good night," she whispers in his ear. "Sleep tight, pray that nothing knocks or bites."