Music for Torching

ELEVEN

ELAINE IS MAKING PANCAKES.

Paul comes into the kitchen showered, shaved, ready to work. "No fat," he says.

"No lumps," she says, stirring the batter.

There is a hiss as she sprays the frying pan. "No stick," she says. Elaine pours batter into the pan. It spreads into small circles.

"Don't burn the blueberries," he says.

"Why would I?"

She has set the table. She has poured glasses of orange juice and milk. She has made a pot of coffee using the grind that her mother left her. She is determined to make things good again.

"Coffee?" She has an apron around her waist, her hair in a bun. She is their Aunt Jemima, their Mrs. Butterworth-she is cooking.

Elaine has had a revelation: She doesn't have to wait for something to happen; she can make something happen. She has some control. If she doesn't like the way things are, she can change them. That's why she's making breakfast. Pop-Tarts are no longer an option. She's hoping that the boys haven't yet unlearned what they learned last week. She's hoping that she can take advantage of the habits of other people's houses. She's playing a home version of the When in Rome Game. She has taken a lesson from Pat: act normal.

"Are they up?"

"I hear water running," Paul says.

Sweat breaks out above Elaine's lip. She feels thin, wobbly, dehydrated.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

She was sick in the night. For two hours, she sat in the bathroom, wondering which end would erupt first, hoping not both at the same time. Paul was good; he held her forehead, he brought her a cold washcloth and a drink of water. "What do you need?" he asked. "What can I do?"

"I felt poisoned," Elaine tells him this morning. "I think it was the hamburger."

"Who brought the hamburger?"

"Joan," she says. Elaine can't decide whether or not to mention it to Joan when she calls to thank her for the grill. Would it be impolite to ask, Was anyone in your house sick last night?

"Don't tell her," Paul says, reading Elaine's mind. "You're the only one who got sick; the rest of us are fine. I doubt she was trying to kill you."

Elaine shakes her head. The idea that Joan was trying to kill her had never occurred to her.

Paul comes to the stove, he stands over her, watching her cook. "Don't let the fruit get gooey."

She slaps the spatula into his hand and walks away. "Flip 'em when the bubbles pop," she says, trying to maintain the momentum, the good cheer of a Monday morning. She sits at the kitchen table and puts her head between her legs.

She sees Sammy's shoes first-red sneakers. "Good morning," she says. "Did you sleep well?" "The alarm scared me," Sammy whines. "Why can't you wake me up?"

"It's your job to wake yourself up, you're a big boy now," Elaine says, talking into her knees.

"Two pancakes or three?" Paul asks him.

"Three," Sammy says.

"Why are you bent over?" Daniel quizzes as he walks in-black Nikes in the lead.

"Just taking a moment," Elaine says, lifting her head.

Paul is at the stove. He has tucked a dish towel under his chin in an effort to keep himself clean. He is serving the children first and then himself. "Can I get you anything?" he asks Elaine. "A pancake? Some toast?"

"You're burning the pan," Elaine says, seeing smoke rise from the stove. "Turn the fire down."

"Is there any caviar?" Daniel asks. "Caviar is good on pancakes, right? Isn't that how it's served, on little pancakes?"

"Blinis," Paul says. "The little pancakes are called blinis."

"It's not a breakfast food," Elaine says. "You should never ask for caviar-it's rude. Always wait until it's offered, and then just take a little bit. It's not something to be piggish about. It's a delicacy."

"I thought fish was good for you-brain food. Willy's sister eats a can of tuna every morning, and she gets straight A's." Daniel rolls up a pancake like a tortilla and stuffs it into his mouth.

"Use a fork," Elaine says.

"Pass the syrup," Paul says. They eat as though they have always eaten breakfast at the table together, as though it's nothing out of the ordinary. There is no rebellion, no threat of a coup or a sick-out; no one is demanding Pop-Tarts in bed.

"It's so bright in here I almost need sunglasses," Daniel says.

"It's shiny," Sammy says, sweeping a pancake through a slick of syrup.

"It's a bright and shiny day," Elaine says. "A perfect day, inside and out."

The workers arrive. They strap on their tool belts at the curb and let their hammers dangle. They come carrying cups of coffee and bags from Dunkin' Donuts. Elaine hears them outside talking about lumber, talking about what they did on Saturday night-bowling, movies, dinner at a sister's house, kids. She likes the sound of their voices, she likes listening in.

"Are we going to live here forever?" Sammy asks.

No one knows what to say-what's forever?

"We're not planning on going anywhere," Elaine says.

"Why?" Paul asks.

"Nate's moving."

"Really?" Paul says. Where is Mrs. Apple going? Will he go with her? And why is he the last to find out? "Where?" Paul asks.

"Somewhere," Sammy says.

"Exactly where is somewhere?" Paul leans in; he wants to shake Sammy until the words fall out of his mouth, exact quotes. "How do you know that Nate is moving?" he asks. His intensity is a giveaway.

Sammy shrugs. "I made it up," he confesses.

"You made it up? Why? Why would you do that?"

Sammy shrugs again. Dipping his finger in syrup, he licks it.

Elaine watches this display, she watches Paul. "Too bad," she says.

The phone rings. Elaine picks up.

"Good morning, Elaine, it's Bud Johnson calling from wood- shop. I just wanted to see how you're doing." "Can I call you back in about twenty minutes?" Elaine asks.

She is annoyed. She's annoyed with Paul and Sammy and whatever this weird game is about Nate's family. She's annoyed with Bud-where was he on Saturday when she needed him? To hell with all of you is what she feels like saying.

"Who was that?" Paul quizzes.

"What do you care who?"

"Why don't you want to tell me? Why don't you just say who it was-is it a secret?"

"No, Paul, it's not a secret. Do you have a secret?" She waits. "Am I allowed a life of my own? You certainly have one. I don't quiz you about who you talk to at the office, do I? Consider this house my office," she says.

"So that was a work-related call?"

Elaine nods.

"Contractor?"

"Yes," she says.

"I don't think so," he says. "The contractor is right outside. I saw him go by a minute ago."

Elaine doesn't respond.

"Architect?"

Sammy spills his milk; a white flood spreads across the table, soaking the place mats, running over the edge onto the floor. "Sorry," he says.

Paul and Elaine have done it again. They have done exactly what they don't want to do, reverted to their standard behavior-acting like jerks. The kid had to spill his milk to create a distraction.

"Don't worry," Elaine tells Sammy. "It's not your fault. It was a bad glass."

"Bad glass," Paul says, mocking her.

"Is everyone finished?" Elaine asks. "Are we all done?"

"Just tell me who that was," Paul says.

"No," she says, clearing the table.

"I can't believe you're being like this-it's so unlike you."

"Thank God I'm being unlike myself," she says. "There's hope yet." She turns her back to him and does the dishes.

"Okay, I'm an ass," Paul says on his way out. "That's the truth. The pancakes were great, Elaine. Really good." He pulls the dish towel out from under his chin. "Come on, guys," he says to the boys. "I'll drop you on my way. Do you have your stuff?" The boys cram things into their knapsacks. "Wasn't that a good breakfast? Didn't Mommy do a good job?"

"Fuck off," Elaine hisses.

Sammy burps.

Kissing the children good-bye, sending them out into the world with a peck and a pat, Elaine is learning how it's done. "Goodbye," she says, "good-bye, good-bye," closing the door behind them, quickly.

"Feel better," Paul says through the glass. "I'll call you later."

Elaine is fighting a foul mood. Despite her morning flurry of activity, her insight, her determination to stay upbeat and positive, the smallest things bring her down. As soon as they are gone, she steps outside. She has taught herself a new trick: Whenever she starts to sink, to get caught in a whirl, she must do something different, anything, it doesn't matter what, as long as it's active. She steps out of the house; the world opens in front of her. She stands on the kitchen steps, breathing deeply. Elaine wants so badly for everything to be good that she doesn't care how awful she really feels.

The workman with the crushed fingers waves when he sees her. His fingers, taped together with white adhesive, cut through the air, like a flag of surrender. "You were right," he says. "They were broken. Shows you what a hammer can do when you really swing it."

Inside, the phone rings.

"Your mother told me to call," her father says.

"Is Mom all right?" Her father rarely calls unless there's a problem.

"She told me to tell you for myself how nice it was to see you and what beautiful boys you have."

"Where is she?" Elaine can't help but think something must be wrong.

"Gallivanting," her father says.

"Tell her to call me when she comes in," Elaine says.

"I don't have to tell her, she'll do it automatically. Your mother is entirely predictable and I never can tell what she's going to do next, that's what keeps her beautiful. She's always a surprise."

"Okay, Dad," Elaine says, having heard enough. "I'll talk to you later."

While she's got the phone in her hand, she calls Joan to thank her. For what-food poisoning? "It was so nice of you," Elaine says. "Such a warmhearted gesture."

"It was a good idea, I'm glad I thought of it," Joan says.

Elaine's Call Waiting beeps. "That's my other line-gotta go."

It's Bud Johnson again. "I had a break between classes. I thought I'd try once more. Is this a good time?"

"It's fine," Elaine says.

"I went over your tests." He speaks with the seriousness of a specialist.

She holds her breath waiting for the diagnosis, waiting to hear that she has cancer or some other kind of career-counseling failure.

"Well," he says, hedging, "I think the results explain why you're so unhappy in the house all day, all alone."

"Yes," Elaine says, still waiting.

"You're a people person," he says.

She's still waiting, thinking there's more.

"People make you happy. You feel better when you're with people. Yes?" Bud says.

"Yes," Elaine repeats, giving Bud Johnson's word enormous weight. "That makes sense." She doesn't like to be left alone. When Paul and the boys leave in the morning, she feels as though she's under house arrest, they are free to go and she has detention. "I like people."

"I thought so," he says proudly. "Should we meet again?" he asks. "Should we put our heads together and talk about where to go from here?"

"Sure," she says. "Why not?" She won't say no to anything.

"How about Wednesday afternoon?"

Elaine hangs up. She has to step outside again. Once more, she is in a whirl, a dangerous spin. With the regularity of a cuckoo clock, she steps out onto the kitchen steps. Every hour there is more light, things glow as though the intensity of the day is being turned up; the grass is fluorescent green, what's left of the geraniums are a vibrant red, and the forsythia along the driveway is spilling Technicolor yellow across the gravel. Elaine thinks she smells honeysuckle. She remembers, as a child, plucking the flowers and sucking syrup.

It is getting hot out. Hot and humid. The men in the backyard are hammering, hard and fast, working to get as much done as they can before it gets too hot, before something happens. There is the threat of a storm later. She knows. She read it in the paper.

Elaine wanders from the driveway to the curb. She looks down the sidewalk-the concrete footpath cuts through the landscape, stretching out in front of her for miles.

"Don't go anywhere," Mrs. Hansen calls from across the street. "I'm on my way over."

Self-improvement. A renovation of the soul. Paul is on his way to work. He wants to be a better person. He wants not to run, not to cave in under pressure, not to sweat the small stuff; he wants to live without fear, not in a constant state of inexplicable panic. Perspective and priority, efficiency and competency. He is always tripping over his own feet. He is his own worst enemy. He wants to do better.

And he wants not to hate Elaine.

Why is he such an asshole? What does he get out of it? Is there pleasure in pulling the rug out from under? Does it make him look bigger, better? What does it mean to cripple yourself, your wife, and your children with bitterness, with spite, with envy, with the overwhelming energy of your anxiety? Does he want them to fail? Will that make him feel good? Will it make him feel safer if they never pass him, if they're never more than he is? Isn't the goal to raise children that have more and do more than you? Why not inspire them, elevate them, encourage them? It has to be easier.

Sammy spilled his milk-it was Paul's fault. Paul was causing trouble. Everything is Paul's fault. He takes a breath. He coaxes and coaches himself. It's fine, he tells himself, it's better than you think. The house is getting fixed, the weekend was nice, the family is back together. And despite how strange things have been, Elaine appears to feel somewhat warmly toward him. She appears to have hope. They are gathering a second wind, a new lease on life.

He continues talking to himself. It's Monday morning, you're on the train, on the way to work. You ate pancakes for breakfast, you walked your boys to school, you had a good time, you played a game they invented-You Call It.

They started off in a line arranged by height, shortest to tallest, with Sammy in the lead.

"Age," Daniel called out. "Oldest first," and they switched places, filing themselves accordingly.

"Funniest walk," Sammy yelled, and they did their odd walks, waddling down the sidewalk like a family of palsied ducks.

"IQ," Daniel called, and they stumbled out of order, weaving stupidly, crashing into each other, all of it part of the joke. Sammy laughed wildly.

"Fattest to thinnest," Daniel called, and Paul took the lead.

"Bluest eyes," Paul said, and Sammy stepped in front.

Father and sons, brothers, boys, men.

"Don't play without me," Sammy said when they dropped him at school.

"Wouldn't think of it," Paul said.

Daniel and Paul stood at the bottom of the school steps, watching Sammy go in, and then they walked on. There were things Paul wanted to ask Daniel: Do you really think Meaders is something special? Does Willy strike you as a little weird? How serious is the Scouting thing? And what's the deal with you and the fat girls? A thousand things he wanted to know, but he asked nothing, opting to savor the moment, the relative calm.

On the train, the palm kisser, Mr. Mental Candy, comes up from behind and sits down next to Paul.

"Did you eat your candy?"

"Most of it."

"Favorite color?"

"Couldn't really tell the difference," Paul says.

"Try two of something, that'll show you. Want some more?"

Paul puts out his hand. "Is it addictive?"

"Only if you like the way it makes you feel," the palm kisser says, filling both of Paul's hands.

"What's that mean?" "You should come visit me sometime. Take a dip in my pool."

"Out in the country?" Paul asks, sliding the pills into his pocket.

"Or at the office. I'm in the water a lot. It helps me think. I tread water while I make decisions. I like to stay fluid, liquid, calm. I have a lap pool in my office-we're on the first floor."

"Any thoughts on desk chairs?" Paul asks, seeing that the guy obviously has a certain flair for things.

"Some are better than others," the man says.

"What do you sit on?"

"A cushion," the man says.

Paul nods. Why did he ask?

The train pulls into the 125th Street station.

"We're almost there," Paul says.

"You are your own beginning. Every day, every hour, every minute, you start again. There is no point wishing you were someone else, you are who you are-start there," the palm kisser offers.

"I was just thinking the same thing," Paul says.

The palm kisser looks at him, checking to see if Paul is teasing.

"Seriously," Paul says. "Something right along that line-odd, isn't it?"

"Or not," the palm kisser says.

The train pulls in. "Grand Central Station, New York City," the conductor announces.

The palm kisser bends. Paul thinks he's going to kiss Paul's hand again, maybe put his head in Paul's lap. Paul pulls away, abruptly. The palm kisser bends and picks a quarter off the floor. "Accept the things you find," he says.

Paul hurries off the train.

Monolithic skyscrapers push out of the ground, steely and

strong. Shafts of light cut between the buildings, punctuating the boulevard. Park Avenue is like a Grand Canal filled with shining black town cars-gondolas of good fortune. Every morning the streets are filled with Pauls-scrubbed and polished men in thousand-dollar suits thinking they are something. One hundred thousand offices, a million windowless cubicles, creativity and commerce. The metropolis hums-sings of the spirit, of the romance of trade, of the glory of the great game-things bought and sold. Paul is flooded with the anticipation of doing a good day's work.

He takes off his jacket, hangs it over his shoulder, using his finger as the hook, and strides up Park Avenue. He makes a right onto Fiftieth Street.

She is there, waiting outside the building. He doesn't notice until it is too late-he swerves, he goes out wide on the sidewalk. He walks past the entrance, pretending he doesn't see her. He walks around the block. On Friday, he dismissed her. He phoned her and told her it had to stop.

"Why are you calling me?" she said. "Are you afraid to see me?"

"No," he lied. "I'm calling to tell you that I can't see you, I can't talk to you, I can't do this anymore. It's too much."

"What makes you think you can just call me up and say something like that, that you can dictate the way things are going to be?"

"I'm not dictating."

"What about me? Don't I have a say in this?"

He didn't say anything.

"You don't boss me," she said. "I do what I want-that's who I am."

"This is not a negotiation," Paul said. "I have to go now." He hung up, drenched in sweat.

Paul comes around the corner again, sticking close to the edge of the building, hoping all she wants to do is scare him, hoping she'll be gone when he gets to the door.

She's still there. Waiting. She calls out, "Forgot where you work? Thought I'd just disappear?"

"It's Monday morning," he says, as though that gives him some immunity. "You're not supposed to be here," he clarifies.

"Free country," she says.

"Henry's very upset," Paul says. "You're not being nice to him. You should call him."

"He's not the one telling me to fuck off," she says loudly.

Paul tries to slip past her and into the revolving door. She blocks his way.

"Stop it," he says. "I have to go to work. You're harassing me."

"No," she shouts, snapping like a thing suddenly sprung. "You're harassing me." She speaks sharply enough that heads turn.

"Leave the girl alone," someone says.

Cold panic, Paul sees the way things can get turned around.

"I'm going to work," he hisses.

She presses into the revolving door ahead of him, turning to face him, talking through the glass. He goes around twice, hoping she'll finish quickly, hoping to lose her along the way.

"What makes you think you can dictate the way things are going to be?" she says, repeating her Friday line.

"I'm not dictating," he says, his breath fogging the glass. "I'm simply telling you that I can't see you anymore."

"You don't make the rules," she says.

"Leave me alone," he whispers as he slips out of the revolving door and into the marble lobby. "Go away."

She follows him. He ignores her. He makes himself steely. He gets into a crowded elevator. She crams in after him. This is exactly why it has to stop. She has no control, no reason, no logic. She rides up. Paul's tattoo is suddenly itching, burning as though it recognizes danger. He worries what she'll do when they get to his floor. Will she get off when he does? Will she follow him, biting at his heels? Will someone have to call security? Will he have to have her removed like a malignancy? Will she ruin everything?

At the forty-fourth floor the doors open. Paul gets off. She stays on.

"See you later," she says as the elevator doors close.

"Would you like a muffin?" his secretary asks.

Paul stares. He has no idea what she's talking about.

"A breakfast muffin? Corn, blueberry, bran?"

He shakes his head no.

"A doughnut then?"

"I had pancakes," he says, and goes into his office.

He needs a moment to gather himself. He calls Mrs. Apple. He dials and hangs up. He can't talk to her; he knows he will blurt-Why are you moving? He will accuse-Why am I the last to find out? He will defend-I'm just wondering about my time, trying to plan my days.

How can he ask without seeming to have formed an attachment, without seeming to cling, which is the one thing that isn't allowed? No expectations. No attachments.

Paul looks out his window. Across the street the windows are being washed, an urban ballet, men on a rig, descending-har- nesses, ropes, safety belts.

His secretary buzzes. "You've been summoned," she says. "Down the hall."

"Pardon?"

"Mr. Warburton has asked to see you."

Do they fire people on Monday mornings? He thinks of

the palm kisser's advice: begin again. He stands up, dips his hand into his pocket, and pulls out a fistful of pills. With no idea of which is for what, he takes three-yellow, red, blue-figuring he's covering all the bases, primary colors.

The big guy is behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, his tie thrown over his shoulder. He's pushing paint around on a glossy white piece of fingerpaint paper. He raises his hands, flashing his palms at Paul. Dipped in red, the lines of his palms are thrown into relief-heart, health, long life. "The sensation is incredible," Warburton says, squirting paint through his fingers. "This is what work should be about, getting your hands dirty. I'm doing the quarterly report." Using his index finger, he cuts an arrow through the red. "Things are going up," he says.

"Looks good," Paul says.

"It's so much fun," Warburton says, grinning, and then he gets serious. He wipes his hands on a paper towel. "Have you given any thought to our discussion last week?"

Paul raises his eyebrows. He doesn't want to give anything away, doesn't want to assume, presume, or be disappointed. "Which discussion?"

"The empty office," Warburton says.

Paul nods. "I'm looking into desk chairs. I'm thinking a cushion might be just the thing."

Warburton gives him the nod. "Will a cushion be high enough?"

"I may need a pile."

"Whatever it takes," Warburton says, and then he's back to painting. "Whenever you're ready it's yours. And by the end of the week I'd like to have your thoughts on fat. How do you make people think fat is good?" He stops. He meets Paul eye to eye. "Have you heard the stories about fat substitutes and anal leakage? Are they true? I want you to investigate, personally."

Paul sits at his desk in an anxious stupor. He conjures the sensation of good work, productivity, and pride, the dream of the office. Images move through his mind, flashbacks, juxtapositions: the boy with the barbells in his brows, the date, the palm kiss- er-"Every minute is a new beginning." Paul looks at his watch; several new beginnings tick by. He takes out his paper and paints. He dips in.

A package arrives; his secretary buzzes. "B and B Office Supply. Shall I sign for it?"

Paul steps out of his office. "Don't sign anything. Don't open anything. Send it back. I didn't order anything." He thinks of ticking packages, Unabombers, mercenaries, girls gone mad, men at work with blown-off fingers, with stumps and stubs. "It's not worth the risk."

"You asked for it," the messenger says, trying to hand the package to Paul.

Paul refuses, he hides his hands behind his back. "I did not," Paul insists. As he's insisting, he remembers that he did order something last Friday, a portfolio for his watercolors. He remembers them saying they'd send it on Monday, but he can't say that now, he can't undo what's already being done; it's gone too far. He remains indignant. "This is a scam."

"Whatever," the messenger says. "I'll take it back. No skin off my dick."

"That's right. You'll take it back," Paul says, storming back into his office.

He sits at his desk. He cannot call Mrs. Apple, he cannot call Henry. He cannot go out for lunch; he is afraid she is out there, still waiting.

"I'm going to grab a sandwich," his secretary says. "Can I bring you anything?"

"Some soup would be good," Paul says. "Some crackers and a bottle of water."

"The prison diet. How about a bowl of gruel?" she teases.

He gives her a twenty. "My treat," he says.

Later, when the call comes, he will think it is the date, he will think it is a game she's playing-impersonating the school secretary.

"Okay, very funny," he'll say. "I'm hanging up now. Don't call back again. This is a place of business. This is not a joke."

And the phone will ring again immediately.

"This is an emergency, Mr. Weiss. I'm calling about your son Samuel."

"Enough is enough. Not funny."

"Mr. Weiss, there is a situation here at the school. The principal is on the phone with your wife now; the police have been called."

"What?" Paul will say, sobering.

"This is an emergency, Mr. Weiss. You are needed here at the school. We hope to have the situation under control shortly, but it would help to have both of you here."

"It's Monday afternoon, I'm in the city, at work. It'll take forty- five minutes, minimum."

"Mr. Weiss, never in my thirty years as school secretary have I had to make a call like this, and never in my imagination, if I had to make such a call, would it have gone this way. I'm telling you something is wrong. Get in a cab!" she says, and hangs up.

Paul calls Elaine-the line is busy.

He washes out his paintbrush, puts on his jacket, and dials again. The machine picks up; he hears the sound of his own voice. Everything has fallen out of order. "Are you in there? Elaine? Pick up," he says. "Pick up, pick up," he says, his voice increasingly panicked. "They called from Sammy's school. Did they call you, too? Elaine? Where are you? I'm getting in a cab. I'm on my way. I'll meet you there."

In the elevator, going down, he worries that she is still out there, waiting. The coast is clear; he is out the door and into a

cab. He is on his way as fast as he can, his chest squeezing, chemicals coursing through.

"Hurry," Paul tells the driver.

It is not an accident. If there had been an accident, they would have said so. If Sammy had had an asthma attack, they would have told him. Accidents and asthma don't require the police. The school secretary was so strange, so cryptic and insistent. It makes no sense. It must be something Sammy said or did. He must have insulted a teacher, stolen something, or pulled a fire alarm.

Suddenly, it occurs to Paul that it's not Sammy at all; it's Elaine and Paul. It's a setup. A sting. The police have been called-"it would help to have both of you here," the secretary said.

Show-and-tell. Smokey Bear. Fire prevention. The fire department must have paid a visit to the school. They must have given a lecture on not playing with matches. And Sammy must have spilled the beans. He must have told them the story about his mother sitting in the yard saying she couldn't do it anymore, his father coming home and finding nothing to eat. He must have told them how his father squirted the stuff against the house and how his mother kicked over the grill and how they all went out to dinner and ate steak and ice cream and how his father said, "Fuck the fat." He probably told them about driving home, seeing the fire engines blocking the street, then going to the motel, and how he woke up in the middle of the night not sure where he was and how his parents were in the bathroom talking. And then he must have told them how they drove home in the dark, how they slept in the car-how they lied.

Paul never thought Sammy would be the one, but that explains it, that explains it all. "It would help to have you both here.. The police have been called." The less they tell you, the worse it is.

Busted, framed, hung out to dry. They're going to arrest them-Paul and Elaine.

He wishes to hell he'd never given the cell phone back to Henry. He wonders if you're allowed to make calls from the back of a police cruiser. He wonders if you're really allowed only one call from the station after they arrest you. If you are, he would call Tom again. Not Henry, George, or Ted. Tom. Tom was so nice, so calm, so good about things the other night. He makes a deal with himself: As soon as he can, he will call Tom, and everything will be all right.

Will they handcuff him? Will people see them being taken away? Will it be thoroughly humiliating?

"Bet you don't take many people all the way out here." To distract himself, he makes conversation with the driver.

"More than you'd think," the cabdriver says. "I'm taking you, aren't I?" he adds, as if to prove Paul is just another sucker.

"You're taking me to my son's school," Paul says, as though there's a difference. "It's an emergency."

Paul plays a guessing game-how much will it cost, more or less than a hundred? He takes out his wallet and checks his cash supply. Will he need more? Will he have to stop? Later, Paul will think about the ways he wasted time, the things he ignored. Later, he will feel bad about everything. He will think it's all his fault.

"Hot for the beginning of June," Paul says.

"This is nothing," the driver says. "Just wait a couple of weeks, you'll be wishing we were back in January."

Paul rolls the windows down as far as they'll go. He looks straight ahead. He can't see through the Plexiglas divider. He is woozy, carsick. It will be over soon.

"People always want what they don't have," the driver says. "Why is that? Why aren't they ever satisfied? Human nature?"

Elaine is already gone.

The phone rang, an interruption. She stood over it, waiting to see if it was something she had to respond to. Incoming calls were almost always about other people's needs, rarely about what someone can give, mostly about things that can be taken.

She checked her watch-just after one.

"Mrs. Weiss, it's the Webster Avenue Elementary School. We're having some difficulty this afternoon. We need you to come down to the school." A bell rings in the background.

The school office-forgotten lunch money, an unsigned form, head lice.

"The principal asked me to call. She asked me to stress the urgency of the situation."

Elaine pictures Sammy gasping for air, powerless, terrified. She remembers him as a toddler, looking at her as if to ask, Why is this happening? "Fix it," he used to say. "Fix it." Halfway through the message, she can't stand it anymore; she picks up the phone. "Do you have his puffer?"

"Mrs. Weiss?"

"Yes."

"Did you get the message?"

"I just picked up," she says.

"One moment. I'll put the principal on."

"Do you have his medication?" Elaine implores. "Is he breathing?"

"It's not the asthma," the principal says, taking the phone. "He's having a problem with another student. They're in the cloakroom and won't come out."

Elaine is relieved-he's breathing.

"There's some question as to who's holding who and if they're armed."

"Armed?" "The police have been notified. My secretary has called your husband-he's en route."

"I don't understand," Elaine says. "Where is Sammy?"

"He's in the cloakroom," the principal says. "Please hurry."

The day twists, it turns, it starts in one place and ends in another. Elaine is moving backward and forward simultaneously. This is something Elaine can't control. She doesn't get to choose, to say yes or no.

She calls Paul; she gets his voice mail. "Are you there? Are you hiding at your desk? Are you out for lunch? Are you having an affair?" She stops and starts again. "We got a strange call. Something is happening to Sammy."

She hangs up and tries his secretary; she gets voice mail. "Fuck you. Fuck everyone." She runs out of the house.

A single police car is parked in front of the school.

Two by two, in long narrow lines, the children are being led out of the building and up the sidewalk to the farthest edge of the playground. It is a practiced procedure, like a fire drill or an Easter parade.

"Hold on to your buddy," the teachers call out.

Excited by the unexpected disruption, the children giggle, they wiggle, they dance.

"Don't let go," the teachers say. "Hold tight."

Elaine rushes up the front steps. The janitor blocks her. She tries to duck around him. Children are streaming out on either side. He holds up his broomstick, brandishing it like a sword. "This is an emergency evacuation," he says. "You can't go in."

She turns, spinning full circle, sweeping through a whirl of anxiety and indecision. Behind her is the semicircular driveway, the parking lot filled with cars. In front of her is the redbrick two-story school building. And Sammy. She hurls herself forward. The janitor puts his body between Elaine and the door. The children keep coming out, squeezing past them. He shakes his head no.

"I was called here. Let me in. I need to come in. I need to speak with someone."

"I'm sure they'll be with you directly," the janitor says.

Another group of students slips out.

"What grade is that?" Elaine asks.

"That's the fifth grade," the janitor says.

"Where is the fourth grade?"

"I don't know where anybody is," he says.

It is hot. She is panicked. She sweats profusely. "I'm the mother." She tries to sound authoritative. She stops one of the teachers. "Who's in charge? Where's the principal?"

The teacher points to a side door. Before the janitor can do or say anything, Elaine is in. It is cool and dark. There is the echo of a hundred small feet racing down the cinder-block halls. Controlled chaos. She sees the principal in the hallway ahead of her. The same bulletin boards that a few days ago were filled with hope and promise, celebrations of the future, things to come, now seem cold and menacing: RITES OF SPRING, SUMMER SAFETY TIPS.

"Where is Sammy? Where is my son?" Elaine yells.

The principal waits to answer until they are closer. "We believe they are in the cloakroom," the principal says, leading Elaine back outside.

"Believe?"

"Well, that's where the teacher saw them go."

"Can't someone go in and look?"

"We can't take any chances. He told us to go away. He threatened to shoot."

"Who?"

"Nate Warshofsky," the principal says.

"Nate?"

"I called his mother. She's not home. She doesn't have a job, does she? There's not a work number for her, is there?"

"No," Elaine says.

The principal is old. A couple of years ago there was a petition to force her to retire. Elaine fought against it. She thought the principal's age, her kindness and good faith were impressive qualities. She liked the way the principal ran the school, like a family rather than a corporation. The principal is shrinking; she is only about four foot ten. Her silver hair is twisted into a bun; it sits on top of her head like a brioche.

"When did this start?" Elaine asks.

The principal looks at her watch. "Less than an hour ago. I hoped we could handle it ourselves. Over the PA I asked Nate and Sammy to come down to the office. I said we would talk about things. I got no response. I went down the hall and knocked on the door and asked if I could come in. That's when he said, 'Go away, idiot.' I had Mrs. Goldmark, the teacher, try, and he threatened her even more explicitly."

Elaine looks bewildered.

The principal gestures to her breasts. "It's an issue."

Elaine nods.

"And so I called the police," the principal says, as though that's what logically follows.

"Did you offer them anything?" Elaine asks.

"Like what?"

"They're little boys. How about asking if they'd like to come down to the kitchen and have ice cream? I bet that would get them out right away. They both love ice cream."

"The boy is armed, people saw strange lumps under his clothing, he's got your son Sammy in the cloakroom. It's a hostage situation."

"Surely you have ice cream in there somewhere," Elaine says, not letting go.

"Let's not minimize the situation," the principal says.

"The batteries on the bullhorn are dead," the school secretary informs the principal. "But I found this." She waves a cone, like the kind cheerleaders use. She turns to Elaine. "I spoke with your husband; he's on his way." The secretary holds a clipboard filled with class lists, charts, plans, pressed close to her chest.

Elaine overhears the librarian talking to the gym teacher. "Why doesn't someone just march in there and tell him to behave? Hell, I'll do it. He's not going to shoot me," the gym teacher says. "I'll put him over my knees and give him what for-the trouble he's causing."

"The word no means nothing today," the librarian says.

Two more police cars pull up.

"What's the story?" the top cop asks.

The principal defers to the teacher, who apologizes in advance. "I'm a little rattled," Mrs. Goldmark says. "I've never seen a gun before."

Elaine can't help but notice that she's got huge breasts-tits like torpedoes, high and hard, mounted on her chest. Elaine doesn't remember her having a chest like that before. She guesses it's new. You get what you pay for-more for the money.

"It was a perfectly normal day," Mrs. Goldmark says. "They'd just come back from lunch and were settling down-they're always a little wild after recess. I noticed Nate was wearing a longsleeved flannel shirt. 'Aren't you warm?' I asked him. 'No,' he said. 'I'm hot, like I'm on fire, like I'm going to explode.' And then he laughed. 'Well, take a layer off,' I said. Then I turned away and wrote something on the blackboard. Next thing I know, he pulls out a gun, points it at Sammy, and says, 'I'll show you what history is.'" The teacher continues, "Then he grabbed the little girl next to him and kissed her."

"She'd never been kissed before," the school secretary says. "She's with the health aide now."

Elaine is listening to what they are saying, fitting one line into the next like Legos, trying to get it to add up. She stares; Mrs. Goldmark and her torpedo tits look like something out of a James Bond movie-and her roots are coming through, black beneath the blond.

Mrs. Goldmark goes on, "He told us all to get out of the room, and then he led Sammy into the cloakroom. He's definitely got something under his shirt-I don't know what, but there's something there. I instructed the children to remain calm, to collect their things, and to file out into the hall. They ran like maniacs."

"Did he bring anything unusual to school? Was he carrying anything this morning?" the cop asks.

"They all have knapsacks and gym bags," Mrs. Goldmark says, shaking her head. "The ones who go back and forth between parents sometimes come with suitcases."

"What's the status of the school?"

"We're evacuating, I've called for an early dismissal, we've ordered buses and crossing guards, and we've activated the telephone tree to notify parents."

"Which window is the classroom?"

The principal points to one on the first floor. "Four-B, fourth grade, second section."

The cop rubs his head. "I'm not very good with kids. I always say the wrong thing. How old are they?"

"Nine," the principal says.

The cop gets on his radio. "We're going to need backup down here. Find Macmillan and tell him I'll him call from a landline in a couple of minutes. I'm going to need to use your phone," he tells the principal. "I'm gonna call the Bomb Squad, and if I go on the radio with this, every nut-ball in hell will be here in ten minutes." He turns to the younger cop. "Search it,

room to room. Start on top and keep it very quiet, no radios, no talking. Make sure all the kids are out. Check closets and bathrooms, too. And then we're gonna need a zone out here, block it off. There's tape in the car."

"Who are you?" the cop asks Elaine.

"I'm the mother."

"Which mother?"

"Sammy's," Elaine says. "I came to pick Sammy up."

"The good boy or the bad boy?" the cop asks.

"The good boy," the teacher says.

Etherized by anxiety, Elaine's breath is light, shallow, at the top of her lungs. She is dizzy; her hands tingle.

It is morning. They are sitting at the kitchen table, eating blueberry pancakes. "Pass the syrup," Paul says. They eat breakfast, as though they've always eaten breakfast at the table together, as though it's nothing out of the ordinary. Sunlight floods the kitchen. "It's so bright in here I almost need sunglasses," Daniel says.

"It's shiny," Sammy says.

"It was a perfectly normal day," the teacher says.

The school secretary pops her trunk and takes out a pair of binoculars. "I'm a birder," she says, slightly self-conscious. "I keep them in my car." She takes a quick peek and then hands the binoculars to Elaine.

"Which window?" Elaine asks, not sure she wants to see.

"That one."

Elaine sees nothing. She adjusts the focus and sees chairs knocked over, things spilled, upset, as if people left in a hurry. There is a border of alphabet, cursive letters running around the top of the room, like decorative trim. On the blackboard is a paragraph that goes nowhere, an unfinished sentence. There is a map of the world and a globe on a stand.

"I'd like for this not to turn into a circus," the principal says, leading the cop into the school.

A yellow cab pulls into the driveway. The horn beeps. And beeps again, demanding, self-important, wrong-headed.

It's Paul.

"Elaine," he calls. "Elaine. Do you have any cash? I didn't stop for money."

She hands over her wallet.

"I'll need a receipt," Paul tells the driver. "Eighty-six seventy," he says, getting out of the car. "The whole way out I was playing a game with myself-How much would it cost? I guessed it would be about seventy-five. I gave him a hundred and ten. Was that enough? Too much? What do you think?"

Elaine can't answer-the sight of Paul drives her further in. "Nate and Sammy are in the cloakroom," she tells him, her voice flattened by the facts. "Nate has a gun. He has bulges under his clothes."

"Bulges?"

"Mysterious lumps. They're calling the Bomb Squad."

The radio crackles, and Elaine thinks of Sammy and Daniel in the backyard, the grass, the garden, the roots of trees, dirt in the Dumpster. Sammy and Daniel playing with walkie-talkies-what are you wearing? Red socks.

The younger cop is busy wrapping yellow crime scene tape around everything. It is the same kind of tape the fire department used at the house. He ties tape to the trees, the bike rack, the flagpole. He asks the passersby to take a step back, to give them some space.

Paul and Elaine stand inside the tape as though they are the thing being contained, quarantined, sealed off. They stand in the middle as though they are "it."

As much as the tape is to keep others out, to draw a line, a border, Elaine feels it is there to hold her in, to keep her corralled.

"I thought they were going to arrest us," Paul says. "I decided the whole thing-calling me at work, telling me to hurry, saying they needed us both-was a sting operation. I thought Sammy told them about the fire."

"Everything is not about you," Elaine says, raising the binoculars to her eyes, looking again.

"Can you see anything?"

"Pencils and pens. Notebook paper on the floor."

"Where would Nate get a gun?" She passes the binoculars to Paul.

"Gerald has guns," Paul says. "He goes to war camp on weekends. He shoots people with paint pellets."

"How do you know?"

"I know," he says, looking in.

Far away, there is the sound of sirens.

The top cop comes out of the school. "Let's keep this area here a quiet zone. All I want the boys to see out that window is their parents and an empty parking lot. And no radios, kill all the radios."

"My husband," Elaine says, introducing Paul.

"This isn't a holdup at 7-Eleven. It isn't like some irate employee at the post office went off. These are nine-year-olds," Paul charges.

The cop looks at Paul. He waits.

Paul tries again. "What seems to be the exact nature of the problem?"

"Last we heard, the boy had a gun aimed at your son's head," the cop says. "How well do you know the other boy? Does he have a history of mental illness?"

"We wouldn't know," Elaine says, looking at Paul.

"Any idea what could have prompted this?"

"We had a little fire at our house," Elaine says. "Sammy's been staying at Nate's."

"For how long?"

"Just this week."

"Do the boys get along?"

"They're boys," Paul offers, as though that explains it. He doesn't elaborate. He is thinking of what Sammy said that morning about Mrs. Apple moving.

"Nate kind of runs the show," Elaine says, looking at the cop. "He's not always nice."

"When was Nate mean?" Paul asks.

"I'm just saying there's some tension between them. Nate peed on Sammy the other day."

"He missed," Paul says.

"When you dropped Sammy at their house, you told me that Nate opened the door, said something crappy, and ran away," Elaine reminds Paul. "And Saturday, when Sammy came home, he said something about Nate making him do push-ups. It sounded weird, but I was tired, I didn't really pay attention," Elaine confesses to the cop. Mentally, she berates herself. She should have known something was wrong, she should have paid more attention, she should have been vigilant, ever on alert.

A television truck pulls up. Its antenna crawls into the air. The school buses start to arrive. Parents, having been notified via the telephone tree, are flocking to the school. There is a traffic jam as cars circle the block.

The secretary chases the principal around the parking lot. "You're needed at the top of the hill. They're boarding the buses, but they don't know what to do with the students whose mothers couldn't be reached. Can they send them home to empty houses?"

"There's only one of me," the principal says, throwing her arms up. "I'm doing the best I can."

"Are they handling this right?" Paul asks. "Can't they just shoot him with a tranquilizer dart?"

"This isn't Wild Kingdom," the secretary says.

In the distance, children are shouting, playing games, a ball is being tossed around. It is a perfect summer afternoon.

The Good Humor man has set up at the top of the hill. A Frisbee flies. The normalness of their behavior seems surreal, distracting, disrespectful. Elaine wants to scream, Don't you understand what is going on here? He's holding a gun to my son's head.

In a parked car, a dog barks.

She thinks of Sammy homesick in the middle of the night. Sammy in his Superman pajamas asleep on top of Paul and Elaine. Tender Sammy.

Nate's mother arrives. Elaine sees her coming. She sees her running across the parking lot toward them. And in the distance Elaine sees the cop, her cop, directing traffic. She thinks of Sammy, the cop, the red balloon.

"I was at aerobics. I got home. There was a message." She is out of breath, pink, flushed. She's still wearing her gym outfit. "I haven't showered," she says. "It was hard getting through."

"Mrs. Warshofsky?" the cop asks.

She nods.

"Apparently your son has taken another boy hostage. We believe he is armed. We need some information-are guns kept in your house?"

"My husband is a war buff," she explains.

What does that mean-a war buff? Elaine imagines asking Nate to let them change places, to let the mothers stand in. She imagines being in the cloakroom with Susan. What would they do-pull each other's hair? Elaine imagines slapping Susan, punching her, scratching her, clawing. It's all your fault, you fucking aerobic idiot.

"How many guns? What kind?" the cop is asking.

"Half dozen, assorted?" Susan looks at Paul. She is his Mrs. Apple. He is her Friday Fun.

"What other kinds of explosive devices does your husband collect: rifles, shotguns, grenades? Any ammunition of other types? Land mines? What does your son know about weaponry?"

"Where is your husband?" another cop asks.

"At a convention in Minneapolis. I don't have the number. He's supposed to be calling tonight."

"Does your son know how to fire a gun?"

She nods. "Yes."

Elaine is imploding, erupting internally. He knows how to fire a gun. Who are these people? What is happening here?

"What was he wearing this morning?" the cop continues. "Was he carrying bags with him? Do you know what the content of his bags would be? There are reports of bulges or lumps on his body or under his clothing. We're just trying to figure out what he's got with him in there."

Paul is struggling to say something. Elaine watches him. She remembers last week rushing from lunch with Liz to Pat's, rushing to get to the school play by two o'clock, sitting on the gray metal folding chair. She remembers watching the back of Susan's head. She remembers Nate as a hunter in the play-Sammy was a rhino, and Nate shot him.

"Could we send someone over to your house to take a look around?" the cop asks.

"Of course." Susan drops the keys into the cop's open hand. "There's a gun case in the family room, and then there's something in the dresser upstairs, on the right, under the socks."

"Do I need a search warrant?" the cop asks.

"She gave you the keys to the house," the top cop says.

"Sammy was a rhino, and Nate shot him," Elaine says. She feels herself start to cry. A small sound leaks out; she presses her fingers to her mouth and pushes it back in.

Paul doesn't know what to say. "We'll get it straightened out as quick as we can, and then we'll go home."

Elaine shakes her head. She doesn't believe anything Paul says.

The three parents are inside the tape, in the zone. Paul is in the middle, pulled in both directions. They are all there, in the same place at the same time.

Elaine stands with her fingers pressed to her mouth, afraid it's all going to fall out, endlessly spew. All she can do is press it back, push it down, swallow it.

It is clear.

Everything is out from under.

She knows.

Elaine wants to walk, to run. If it weren't for Sammy, she would turn and go, she would be already gone. "What have you done?" Elaine asks. "Have you done something awful? Is that what this is about? Is that her?"

Paul stares at the classroom window.

"I am very uncomfortable," Elaine says, mechanically. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here anymore."

The TV crew is interviewing the cafeteria lady. "Sammy likes my baking, my snickerdoodles. We're one of the few elementary schools that still cooks our own food. All the others are heat and eat. I've been here since 1972.."

The Bomb Squad arrives in a station wagon. Two plain-clothes cops and two German shepherds get out. The dogs are panting, they are excited. Their penises are pink and pointy. The cops take black boxes out of the back; they pull on special uniforms. The dogs sniff everything.

"I feel sick," Elaine says.

On the hood of a car the principal sketches a map of the school. On a piece of lined notebook paper, she draws a detailed layout of the classroom.

Nate's mother steps forward, striding across the parking lot and onto the grass. She stands outside the classroom window. "Nate, can you hear me? It's Mommy. This isn't a game, guns are not toys. Come on out, and I'll take you to FAO Schwarz. I'll buy you anything you want. Sammy is your friend. I'm sure you don't mean to upset him." She pauses. "It's three-thirty, Nate. Time to go home. You know what's for dinner? Fish sticks. And tartar sauce. You know how much you like tartar sauce." She yells at the building. Her voice echoes off the brick, slapping back at her. "Five minutes, Nate, I'll wait five minutes."

Elaine has started to move away. Without knowing, she has taken several steps back; she is drifting close to the edge, the yellow tape.

At the front of the crowd, Elaine sees Joan with Catherine Montgomery-their expressions frighten Elaine.

Daniel arrives with Willy. He ducks under the tape. "Mom?"

Elaine pulls him to her. Daniel's arms stay flat at his sides; it's the middle of the afternoon, they're in public, strangers are watching. Elaine squeezes him tight. "I hope I'm not a horrible mother," she says. "I may act distracted, but I do care-I care enormously. I care about the two of you so much that it's almost unbearable-do you know that?"

"I heard Nate's got a gun," Daniel says. "I heard he made a bomb."

"No one knows," Elaine says.

An ambulance pulls up and parks across the street. At a certain point it becomes hard to pretend that nothing is going on.

"Did you see all the people, Joan and Catherine? And Mrs. Hansen should be home from the dentist soon," she tells him.

The school bell rings, pealing, screaming, slamming off the walls of the empty building like an alarm. It scares the hell out of everyone.

"School's out," Daniel says.

"Excuse me," Paul says to the top cop. "Excuse me, I'm wondering if you could get this whole show to back up a bit. This is one of those games that kids play, and it's gotten a little out of hand. He's probably too embarrassed to come out. He's probably nervous as hell. You're making it hard to walk away. Could you ask them, could you ask everyone to take it back?"

Paul runs pathetically from person to person, begging them all to do something, urging them, imploring them.

"Patience is the key," the cop says. "There's nothing to be gained from rushing people to places they don't want to go."

"I just want it fixed," Elaine says.

The newscaster goes out live. "A disturbed little boy, a desperate cry for attention. A mother stands outside a school, pleading with her child. A hostage crisis."

"Can you shut up? Just shut up? You're making it worse. This is a private moment, and you're turning it into snack food," Paul shouts at the reporter.

"Understandably very agitated, the father of the boy that's being held hostage." The reporter speaks in a hushed whisper. "Two nine-year-olds in an afternoon showdown."

The heat continues to build. A thick breeze blows back the leaves, sweeping Elaine's hair off her face.

Jennifer has slipped in and is standing next to Daniel. Mrs. Hansen arrives with a wad of cotton still stuck in her cheek. "I came as soon as I heard."

Inside the classroom there is a dull thud, like the bang of a bass drum, a flash that catches the eyes outside. The cops duck behind parked cars, they draw their weapons, they aim and brace, ready to fire.

Inside the room there is a spray of sparks, a fountain of light, cascading colors.

"Fireworks," Elaine says, looking through the binoculars. "Fireworks," she says, remembering the time when the boys were with Paul's mother in Florida and Elaine and Paul stayed home and smoked crack. Elaine had the sensation of being a fountain, the fountain in front of the Plaza hotel. She was a Roman candle, a ball of light, a fantastic flame.

"Hold your fire," the top cop calls.

There are more small explosions-firecrackers snapping, a

couple of loud cherry-bomb bangs. And then there is a flood of yellow smoke. A sulfurous eruption, a urine-yellow cloud billowing, swelling, rising. Nate has opened the windows and tossed out smoke bombs. A diversionary tactic. When the smoke clears, the venetian blinds have been dropped and drawn.

The breeze shakes the blinds, they rattle-slithering snake.

For the moment, Elaine is only a witness. "There's smoke," she says. "Smoke isn't good."

"He's got asthma," Paul tells the top cop. "He can't breathe smoke."

The cops are too busy to listen. They are suiting up, putting on bulletproof vests, gas masks, riot gear.

Elaine looks out at the crowd.

Pat is there now, huddled with Joan and Catherine. "What can I do?" Pat mimes.

Elaine shakes her head-nothing. There's nothing she can do.

"This is exactly what I was saying," Paul tells the cops. "You'll scare them. You're scaring me. Right now, you and your men are frightening me. You're dealing with a nine-year-old, not some Middle Eastern mastermind. This is out of control."

"You can't guess what they're carrying," the cop says, tightening the strap of his vest.

"It's true, Gerald has all kinds of strange catalogs," Susan says.

"Remember the boy on Long Island who brought anthrax to school?"

"We have extra vests. If you want to put one on, you'll be covered if he fires out."

"He's not going to shoot us," Paul says.

Susan puts on a vest.

"This is not a movie," the secretary says, hiding behind her car.

"I don't care," Elaine says, refusing.

If Elaine were home, this would be one of those moments, time to do something different. She would step out of the house, she would stand on the steps, breathing.

A white truck pulls in. The back door opens, and men in high- tech uniforms pile out, carrying ropes and rifles.

"Is that the SWAT team?" Paul asks. As each new thing happens, the craziness compounds.

The top cop huddles with the SWAT team and the Bomb Squad, consulting the principal's diagram. "I want to close this situation down as quickly and quietly as I can." He makes his plan and then turns to Paul, Elaine, Susan-the parents. "We're going to send a little robot in. He's remote-control-operated, outfitted with a camera and a microphone so we can talk to the boys. He's unarmed. It's both an investigatory procedure and a negotiation tool."

"Does he have hands? Can he carry something?"

"Like what, a note?" the cop asks.

"Sammy's puffer," Elaine says, reaching into her purse, pulling out the spare, and handing it to the cop.

She watches them unload the robot from the back of the Bomb Squad station wagon. They set up a bank of four video monitors and walk the robot up and down the parking lot, testing the system. Before he goes in, the cop puts the puffer in the robot's claw.

One of the guys from the Bomb Squad, suited up like a scuba diver, waddles up the school steps carrying the robot in front of him as if it's a toddler.

He opens the front door and puts the robot down inside the school.

"Video up," the cop says, and four monitors fill with a robot's- eye view of cinder-block walls and bulletin boards. The picture is grainy, hard to define; the images look as though they're being transmitted from thousands of miles away, sent home from the moon.

The robot scans right and left.

"Let's go." Someone gives the signal, and the operator sends the robot forward.

"Take the first left and go down the hall," the cop whis- pers-high tension.

Elaine stares at the video feed; she fixates on the robot's claw, clutching Sammy's medicine.

In a gesture meant to be comforting, Paul reaches for Elaine's arm. He touches her-she shudders. "You frightened me," she says.

"Sorry."

Suddenly, the monitors go to what looks like a close-up of tile, a linoleum zoom.

"What happened?"

"Dunno," the operator says.

Two men from the SWAT team and the Bomb Squad guy go up the steps and into the school. A helmeted head appears on the monitors in extreme close-up. "The robot fell down," someone whispers into the microphone. "He tripped." The report booms out of the speakers, spilling across the parking lot.

The robot is set upright and is once again on his way. As the robot gets closer to the classroom, the cop starts to sing; a synthesized sound, like bad karaoke, comes out of the robot's speaker. A melange of Simon Garfunkel. "And here's to you, Mrs.."

"We want to warn the boys that R2D2's coming. It shouldn't be a surprise," one of the cops says.

"Did your kids like Star Wars?" the operator asks.

No one answers.

The robot pushes open the door to the classroom. "Hello. Anybody home?" The camera scans. The picture is dim. The robot moves toward the cloakroom.

"Can we get a little light?" the cop asks.

The operator flicks a switch that turns on a light on the robot's head-like a coal miner's helmet or an old-fashioned super-8 movie light. The picture zooms in on Sammy and Nate in the cloakroom, Nate with the gun.

"Hi, Nate, my name is Bob. That was a great fireworks show. I love fireworks." The robot speaks in a synthesized voice. "Do you mind if I come in?" The robot rolls forward. "I brought some medicine for Sammy."

"Does your son have unusually developed arm muscles?" the cop asks, watching Nate on the video feed.

"No."

"See those bulges under his shirt?" the cop asks.

"Canisters," a Bomb Squad guy says. "And there seems to be some wiring. Would your son know how to make a bomb?"

"I have no idea."

"Would you like to talk to him?" The cop hands her the microphone.

"Nate, it's Mom. Can you hear me?"

"You sound weird," Nate says. "Like the robot."

"That's our anonymous voice of authority," the cop explains. "We use it in situations where we have multiple negotiators. It gives us universal sound, a united front, and we don't reveal anyone's identity."

"Can you make it normal?"

The operator flicks a switch.

"Nate, it's Mom. Is that better? It's enough already. It's getting late. They have to lock up the school for the night. Everyone wants to go home and watch TV. Don't you want to go home?"

"I'm not going home," Nate says. "No one is going home."

Sammy leans forward. "I want to go home." He looks into the robot. "Fix it," he says.

"He's wheezing," Elaine says. "You can hear it?"

"Nathan, Sammy is sick. He needs to take his medicine now," Susan says.

The robot's claw extends, handing Sammy the inhaler. They watch while Sammy exhales and then inhales; they can hear the dull fart of the puffer expelling its stuff.

"Thank you," the robot says. "Is there anything that you need?" The robot pauses. "It's a beautiful afternoon, why not pull the shades up?" The robot moves toward the windows.

"Get out," Nate yells. "Get out of my house."

"What's on your mind, Nate?"

Nate grabs Sammy.

He raises the gun.

He pulls the trigger. Slow motion. Video feed. Black-and-white fragments.

Sammy.

His knees go out from under, his head snaps back, like he's dodging, but it's the bullet hitting his head, pushing through skin, scalp, skull, taking out bone, hair, brain-Sammy.

The bullet-the crooked, shattering, caplet-exits, landing on the floor with a small plinking sound that no one hears.

Sammy falling.

Nate, knocked back, bangs against the wall. He waves the gun wildly.

Outside, they hear the sound of the shot in stereo, real and recorded, muffled through the walls and windows of the school and oddly amplified by the robot's microphone, a big metallic bang exploding over the speakers.

They watch it on TV.

Close-up.

Sammy.

Daniel charges the building. He goes for the side entrance. No one is moving fast enough to stop him.

The air is thick and still; there is the suspension of time, long beats of waiting. Seconds stretch.

Elaine moans, low, animal, deep.

The newscaster whispers, "One has the sense that something awful has just occurred. Shots have been fired. A little boy may have been hit. This is quickly turning into an afternoon tragedy."

Susan blows into the microphone, her voice tentative, floating over the parking lot. "Nate? Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?"

Daniel is in the room. He appears on the monitor, screaming at Nate. "You little fucking jerk. You pathetic putz. Such a fucking asshole." He lifts Sammy up. "Get the fuck out of my way."

More shots. The monitor goes black.

"Nate?"

Elaine turns. Her arms are raised up-near her ears, terrified, protecting. She moves to run-the opposite way. A fireman catches her and points her in the right direction.

"We've lost audio and visual"-an official report.

And then Daniel is coming out of the building, holding Sammy in his arms. The front of his shirt is bright with blood. He's staggering. "Help me," he bleats. "Help me."

There is a stampede. Paramedics race across the parking lot. The SWAT team descends from the roof, breaking glass, crashing through windows; heavy hooves pound down the hall, moving on all fronts simultaneously. It is as though they could do nothing until something happened, and now they do everything-all at once.

Paul is rushing toward Daniel.

"I can't carry him," Daniel says, collapsing into Paul, knocking him down, like a football tackle.

The medics sort out the heap. They lay Sammy and Daniel out in the parking lot, between the yellow lines. They are cutting away Daniel's shirt, they are looking at Sammy's head.

Radios crackle. "We're gonna need a medevac chopper to shock trauma. We have a white male, nine years old, with a gunshot wound to the head."

"His head," Elaine says, stunned. "He shot him in the head." "He has a hard head," Paul says, pulling himself up. It's the stupidest thing he's ever said.

Paul and Elaine are at the edge of a human circle. They can't get closer; no one will let them in.

There are ten men bent over Sammy, men on their hands and knees, crawling.

"Pulse?"

"Rapid, one sixty-two."

"Blood pressure?"

"Trying to get it."

"Respiration?"

"Fast."

"Can we get something to pack it with?"

"There's bone missing."

"Where's the chopper?"

"ETA six minutes, landing on the lower school playground." "Oxygen."

"Can I get a line in?"

Fragments, bits and pieces.

"Did they find the eye?" someone asks.

There is no response.

It is beyond their control. Out of their hands.

"Why aren't they asking us any questions?" Elaine says to Paul. Paul has no answers.

"This one's fine," one of the paramedics says. Daniel sits up. "It was his brother's blood." His shirt is off. They're giving him oxygen. They're checking the other parts of him. "He's fine, just a little shocky."

"He's fine," Elaine says. "I heard them say he's fine."

Paul shakes his head.

Not Sammy.

"Should we bag him? Intubate?"

"Can we get an EKG?"

"He has asthma," Elaine tells a paramedic. "He uses a puffer. And he can't take penicillin, it gives him a terrible rash."

"What was the ammo? Hollow-point?"

"We don't know."

They stand helpless.

"Is he breathing?" Elaine asks, pleading, as she watches the paramedics squeezing the plastic ball.

"He's getting air."

"Could someone call my mother?" Elaine asks softly.

"Nate?"

The Bomb Squad has Nate. They're moving him to the playground at the top of the hill carefully-afraid he might explode.

They set him down in the outfield near second base.

Someone from the Bomb Squad approaches, takes out a pair of scissors, and cuts off Nate's shirt.

Nate, the boy bomb, has cans taped to his torso, cans taped up and down his arms: Raid, Magic Sizing, Reddi Wip, Easy-Off, Cheez Whiz. Cans and wires.

The trained dogs sniff him.

"Don't move."

People run up the side of the hill to see what's happening.

His mother is held back behind a line.

The area is sealed off.

"Arms and legs spread wide."

The man from the Bomb Squad cuts up one leg of Nate's pants and down the other. Nate's pants fall away; smoke bombs roll out of the pockets. Nate is on the playground in his underwear, a steak knife taped to his leg.

"He's got wires running from can to can, and it looks like three kinds of tape-silver duct, some sort of a black fiber, and what looks like regular old Scotch Magic. The cans appear to be attached by a white wire that ends in an outlet-I think he's done it with some sort of extension cord." The man pushes down Nate's socks with a pencil. "There's two sets of double-A batteries around the ankles."

"Check him for a timer." The squawk of the walkie-talkie.

"I hope they don't have to detonate him," an ambulance driver says. "In 'Nam, they medevaced a guy with a live grenade embedded in his head. It hit him and didn't detonate. The doc came out to the chopper pad, shot him full of morphine, and we set him off-like smashing pumpkins. Kaboom!"

"No timer."

"Go ahead and cut the wires."

The man from the Bomb Squad snips a wire, separating the spray starch from the Reddi Wip. Nothing happens. He reaches out and slowly pulls a piece of duct tape off Nate, peeling the cans away from Nate's skin.

Nate whines.

"Neutralized. Disarmed."

The chopper comes in over the hill. They hear it before they see it, thumping through the air.

Smoky red flares mark the spot.

It lands, kicking up a hot, dry wind.

"Stay with Mrs. Hansen," Paul yells at Daniel over the din.

The door slides open.

One, two, three, they lift Sammy off the ground. The medic holds the IV bags in his teeth, the oxygen tank under his arm. Whatever is not attached falls away, wrappers, scraps.

Sammy's head is swathed in an enormous wad of white gauze. There is a bandage over one eye. The other eye is open, pupil dilated, fixed as though it has seen something horrible.

"You did a good thing," Paul says, draping his jacket over Daniel's shoulders.

"Go," Daniel says.

Elaine is pulled into the helicopter after Sammy. She sits curled into the half seat by the door, the rivets of the low ceiling brushing her hair.

"It's all right," she tells Sammy. "You've had quite a hit in the head, but you're fine. Everything is fine."

The medic checks Sammy's vital signs. His helmet hides his face; he speaks into his headset. "Pulse one-twenty. Respiration shallow." He pumps the blood-pressure cuff.

Paul is last on board, crammed into a corner.

The door is slammed closed, locked. The whir is louder now, wings bladishly beating, a deafening metallic din.

The chopper takes off, thrusting up, hovering above foursquare, hopscotch, a diamond painted yellow.

Rising.

Pulling back on the scene.

"Chopper four, we are en route."

They are up and away, over the trees, clear of the wires, looking down on the familiar, a crooked cartography, houses, streets, the neighbors' yards, home. They are looking in on themselves from a peculiar perspective-everything in miniature, their lives made small.

Elaine is holding Sammy's hand; it is flaccid, unresponsive. He's getting whiter and whiter, and the gauze is staining red. When no one is looking, she pinches his finger, hard. Nothing happens.

"Pressure is falling," the medic says, pumping.

The sun glints off something metallic, a split second of shattering light.

Shiny, Elaine thinks.

They are into the blue.

Paul checks his watch-it beeps. Four forty-five.

Elaine looks at him. "It's over," she says.