Music for Torching

TWO

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Paul wakes up. "We have to go home. We have to go home, we have to go home," he says, knocking his head against the headboard like Dorothy clicking her heels in The Wizard of Oz.

Elaine is asleep. For the first time in years, she is sleeping well, without fear or worry. She sleeps well because the bed she is sleeping in is not her own, because it belongs to someone else, because it belongs to no one. They are in a motel room. There are no expectations, no demands. She sleeps well because she went to bed thinking she would never have to go home, thinking it was over and done-gone.

"We have to go back to the house," Paul says, waking her.

"We set the house on fire."

"Did we?"

Elaine looks at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It's only twelve-thirty," she says, disappointed. "I only slept for two hours."

Paul and Elaine are in the bathroom of the motel room. Paul has brought in the phone, pulling the short cord taut. The door is closed, the light is on. Elaine puts down the lid of the toilet and sits. Naked under the frail, flickering light, the poor fluorescence, they look at each other and at themselves, then look away. Elaine looks at the thin white towels, cracking grout, sink, commode, glasses wrapped in paper bags: SANITIZED FOR YOUR SAFETY, PROTECTION AND PLEASURE.

Paul hitches up his cock and balls and sits on the edge of the tub, one leg crossed over the other. "We have to do something," he says.

Their nakedness is like a joke, something contrived to make them seem more exposed, only it fails-their skin is only another ill-fitting layer, like clothing. It has lost its memory-the landscape of the body hangs loose, shapeless. They make no effort to disguise themselves, to hide themselves, and there is something to be said for the honesty, the extreme humanity of all this faulted flesh-it is heartbreaking.

"We need help," Paul says, further adjusting himself. "We have to do something, call someone."

"Who?"

"Someone we don't know, someone we don't see. Tom. I'll call Tom."

"Your college roommate?"

Paul is already dialing.

"And what are you going to tell him?"

"Tom," Paul says. "It's Paul." And then he stops. There is silence. He begins again. "I burned down the house," Paul says. "Now what do I do?"

"If you've done something horrible, don't tell me about it until I tell you the consequences," Tom says. "Arson," Tom says. "It's arson. Or if the fire spread, if other people's property was damaged, it could be worse. If someone was killed, if lives were lost, it could be murder."

Paul stands in the bathroom of the cheap motel-where in fact he has been before, but he can't tell Elaine that, he can't tell Elaine that he's done this all before, that at the motel across the street they know him well, but they know him as someone called Mr. Melon. He can't really tell Elaine anything, but there's no point in getting into that now. Paul stands listening to Tom's litany-the potential charges against him-all the while examining himself in the medicine-cabinet mirror, touching the scar on his neck from where Elaine nicked him with a carving knife.

"What if it was an accident?" Paul asks. "What if it was all a terrible accident?"

"They might knock it down to negligence."

"And do you go to jail for negligence?" The word "negligence" comes out sounding like "negligee," and Paul blushes. The hot pink of his face against the green glow of the light is not a good combination, and now Elaine is watching him, worrying that his blood pressure is up, worrying that he's having a heart attack, worrying that he'll die here and now in this bathroom and she'll be left with all the explaining to do. "Are you all right?" she whispers, and Paul waves her away.

"You won't go to jail for negligence, unless it's criminal," Tom is saying. "But your homeowner's won't cover."

Paul's anxiety level has affected his hearing-instead of "homeowner's" Paul hears "homo," and out of the blue, like some memory released, he remembers that all through sophomore year Tom would crawl into his bed at night, and although he had forgotten it, long since put it behind him, he suddenly misses Tom incredibly. He wishes Tom were with him now-Tom would take care of this mess, Tom would comfort him, Tom would forgive him. Instead he is with Elaine, who is looking at him peculi- arly-as though she hates him. He turns away. He steps into the empty tub, pulls the shower curtain closed, and whispers to Tom, "What do I do?"

"Get your story straight," Tom says. "Then call the police."

"I really appreciate it, Tom," Paul says. "It's really good

to talk to you. How have you been? Have you been good? Have you been well?"

"Fine," Tom says.

There's a knock on the door and Paul pulls back the shower curtain and glares at Elaine, who's glaring at him. They're both frightened, thinking they've been caught. Again, there's the knocking, this time followed by Sammy's small voice pleading, "Let me in, let me in, I have to go."

"If you could just keep this under your hat," Paul says to Tom. "If you could keep it between us, I'd really appreciate it."

"Call me," Tom says.

"I will," Paul says, hanging up.

Elaine opens the door, lets Sammy in, flips up the lid of the toilet, and together she and Paul stand watching the little boy about to pee.

Sammy glares at them. "Don't look," he says, and they turn away.

When he is done, they open the door to let him out. Sammy peers into the dark motel room, asking, "Where do I go? Which bed is mine?"

"We have to go home," Paul says again an hour later when they're still sitting naked and speechless in the bathroom and the glow of the fluorescence is casting a moldy shadow over them. "There's nothing else to do."

They dress in the dark. The swish-swishing of fabric, the furtive rustle that should be so sexy, is only sad.

"Time to go," Paul says, waking the children. "Time to go."

"Am I dreaming?" Daniel asks.

No one answers.

"Can they trace the motel?" Elaine asks as they're driving away.

"I paid cash and registered under a false name."

"How did you think of that?"

He doesn't bother to add that he didn't mean to register

with an alias, but rather did it reflexively. There's a large outdoor fruit market down the street. He thinks of this whole strip as Produce Way. He is the man with the big fruit basket, and his ladyfriends are Mrs. Apple, Ms. Pear, and Mrs. Plum. He looks at Elaine, Mrs. Lemon.

"What about the key?" Elaine asks.

"We'll drop it," he says. And when they pass a mailbox, he stops, and Elaine tosses the key in, trusting the tag that reads RETURN POSTAGE GUARANTEED. The key lands with a loud, metallic plunk, and it's as though she's paid the toll-been given the green light, go.

Paul drives fast, rushing to return to the scene as though there is some prospect or possibility that he can undo what they have done. He drives fearing the worst-not only have they set the house on fire, they have set the world on fire. He looks at the sky expecting to see it filled with the flames of subdivision. Turning a corner, swerving to avoid a cat, he is sure that every house will be burning, every tree consumed, the neighbors will be streaming out into the melting, molten streets, their arms thrown into the air beseeching the houses to smite themselves, to simply put themselves out. He drives toward his imagined inferno, asking himself, Why? Why? What is wrong with us? Why are we so unhappy? Why?

"Slow down," Elaine says, "slow down."

He ignores her. Tires squealing, he makes the turn that puts them on their final approach. The streets are empty, the sidewalks bare, the night itself calm and clear. On the surface everything is as it was, as it should be. Paul pulls into their driveway. The sound of gravel under the tires is thoroughly familiar-echoing safety and soundness. The headlights come to rest on the house, standing still against the night.

Paul pulls up the emergency brake and turns off the engine.

In the backseat, the two boys stir.

"We're home," Paul says.

Elaine had half hoped there would be nothing; a pile of coal, a load of smoldering cinder, the stem of the chimney. But instead, it is all there, no different, only dark, very dark. She stares at the house. "Now what?"

Paul gets out. The house is wrapped in yellow ribbon that reads CRIME SCENE, POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS. He tries to remember what yellow ribbon means-it is a song, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon," and it is something else, something about hostages or prisoners of war. He ducks under the tape and reaches for the doorknob, hesitantly, as though it might be hot, as though he might burn himself. It is neither here nor there, neither hot nor cold. He turns the knob and pushes against the door. Nothing happens.

Elaine cracks her window open. The air smells like an old campsite, damp cinders, musty smoke. "Maybe it's locked," she says.

He goes into his pocket for the key.

"Is it safe?"

"It's our house," he says.

"We tried to burn it down."

It is night and silent, and they don't have to speak very loudly in order to be heard-they call back and forth to each other in stage whispers to keep from disturbing the peace, to keep from waking the children.

"Should I call the police?" Paul asks.

"What did Tom say?"

"Call the police," Paul says.

"I'll wait here," Elaine says.

Paul takes off on foot, jogging in the direction of a pay phone.

Elaine sits in the car, thinking she is back to scratch, zero, square one. She's back to where she started, only now it is worse.

Now she will have to take care of the house, tend it like a sick person. She imagines running away; where would she go? Into the woods to live like a wildwoman on berries and nuts? Into the city to sleep on a steam grate? She thinks of running. She undoes her seat belt. She is reaching to unlock the door when she sees Paul coming back. She sees Paul coming and pictures herself taking off down the street-the streetlights like search-lights, constantly catching her. She sees Paul chasing her, not knowing why she is running, why he is chasing, except that it is his instinct to catch her, to drag her back.

A police car pulls up behind the car, blocking it-Elaine isn't going anywhere.

The cop aims his flashlight at Paul, cutting across the lawn. She wishes the cop would yell "Freeze!" and like in the game of Statues Paul would have to stop. But Paul would think it was a joke, he would keep coming. The cop would yell again, then pull his gun and take a couple of shots at Paul, and Elaine's problems would be over-or if not over, at least different.

She sits in the car tempted to scream: Rape! Fire! Murder!

She rolls down her window.

"May I see your license, sir?" the cop says, moving to meet Paul halfway across the lawn.

"I'm the one who called. Paul." he says, breathless from his brief exertion. "From the corner, from the pay phone, by the school." He points back behind him as though that says something.

"May I see you license, sir?"

Paul pulls out his wallet and hands over his license. The cop turns his flashlight on it.

"Is this your car, sir?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And your wife and children?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And is there anybody else living with you at this address?"

"No. Why?"

"Just filling out the paperwork."

"What happened?" Paul asks, a sharp edge in his voice. "We came home and the house was like this. What happened here? That's what I have to find out."

Elaine is impressed; Paul is playing upset very well. Then it occurs to her that he might not be playing, his distress may be entirely real, his questions genuine.

"I need to understand what went wrong," he demands. "Is that asking too much?"

"Where were you this evening?" the cop asks. "What time did you leave the house? Did you stop anywhere along the way? What time did you return? Were you and your wife and children all together? Was your house on fire when you left it?"

"Is this routine?"

"I can see that you're upset, sir, but I have to fill out the report."

"Everything I dreamed of, up in smoke." Paul's voice cracks. And while Elaine's sympathy was with him a minute ago, now she thinks he's making a spectacle of himself. She remains unmoved in the front seat.

The cop comes to her window. "Pardon me, ma'am," he says. "I just wanted to say hello. I believe we met one night a few years ago."

Elaine remembers.

"How have you been?" he asks.

"Fine," she says. "Just fine. And you?"

"I'm real sorry about the house," he says. "Thankfully, the damage is largely cosmetic."

"Really," Paul says, edging in. "So you think it's superficial?"

The cop shrugs. "I'm a cop, not a contractor. But I could walk you around it." He waves his flashlight.

"Good," Paul says. "That would be good. Are you coming?" he asks Elaine.

Elaine glances at the boys, sleeping in the backseat.

"They're safe enough," the cop says, answering a question that hasn't been asked.

The cop leads them around the perimeter of the house, the beam of his flashlight cutting back and forth across the grass like a tail wagging.

"I feel like a spy," Elaine says. "Like I'm sneaking something."

"It's like one of those historical house tours," the cop says, trying to add something. And they all fall silent.

They're in the backyard. The ground is damp, soggy. With every step there is a thick sucking sound. Their feet sink in. The charred, curdled smell of something gone awry hangs in the air.

"Burnt toast," Elaine says.

"Barbecue," the cop says, and again they are quiet.

The back of the house is black, the stone scorched. Ten feet above their heads the dining room window is blown out, the frame torn from the house.

"This is the worst of it," the cop says.

Elaine sees the grill on the ground, spilled onto its side, the debris of what earlier in the evening seemed so promising lies there like rot. She looks at Paul. "Remember," she says, thinking of seven o'clock when the fire was so thrilling, full of possibility. "Remember?"

Paul says nothing. He was the one who lit the match, who started the fire. Elaine leaned against him to kick the grill, to tip the flames onto the grass. Together they burned down the house, or so it had seemed-so they had hoped.

Elaine moves closer, poking at the grill with the toe of her shoe; the metal has been cooked, baked brittle. Now it is cold and crispy like it could crumble. Are houses like cars? she wonders. Do they ever declare them totaled?

"Can we go in?" Paul asks.

"Water and smoke," the cop says repeatedly when they are inside. "Water and smoke." And where Paul is comforted by the fact that the house has not been completely destroyed, Elaine is depressed. All their huffing and puffing barely blew the diningroom wall down. While Paul and the cop poke at the wall examining the damage, Elaine goes upstairs. There is a dim glow at the end of the hall-Sammy's ducky night-light running on backup batteries. She takes the duck by the neck, holds it in front of her like a candle, and makes her way back downstairs.

Outside, the horn beeps, cutting the night like a blast.

Paul, Elaine, and the cop hurry back to the car.

"Where am I?" Daniel asks. He's sitting up in the front seat.

"Home," Paul says.

"Why aren't we inside?"

"There was a fire," the cop says.

"Did I know that?" Daniel asks. "Am I awake? Am I weird?" Daniel drones.

"Shhhh, don't wake your brother," Elaine says, putting the duck down on the dashboard. It takes a nosedive, landing between the seats, the orange rubber feet poking up.

"Go back to sleep," Paul says, urging the boy into the backseat.

"Is there someone you'd like to call?" the cop asks Elaine. "A friend, a neighbor? Is there somewhere you'd like to go and spend the night?"

"We'll stay here," Paul says. "It's our house, our home." "First thing in the morning you'll want to call your insurance agent, and then come down to the station. This'll be typed. You can just give it your John Hancock."

What is it, Paul wants to know, a report or a confession? He wants to know but doesn't ask.

"Again," the cop says, handing Elaine his card, "I'm sorry about the house. If you need anything, if there's anything I can do, just call."

"What was that all about?" Paul asks when the cop takes off.

"Community service," Elaine says.

She and Paul get back into the car, they roll up the windows and lock the doors. Elaine turns off the duck. They tilt the seats back and close their eyes.

Elaine dreams that she is on a plane. She is on a plane at night, she is alone, she is happy, she is going, going, gone.

When she wakes up, Joan Talmadge and Catherine Montgomery are staring at her through the windshield. They tap on the glass.

"We thought you were dead," Catherine says.

Elaine tilts her seat up. Paul and the children are gone, the backseat is empty.

"We thought you were dead," Catherine repeats.

Elaine rolls down the window.

"Are you all right?" Joan asks.

Elaine nods.

"It was awful," Joan says. "I smelled smoke. 'Is something burning?' I asked Ted. 'Is something burning?' I asked Ted. 'Is something burning? I smell smoke.'"

"We heard the sirens," Catherine says. "I could feel the rumble of the fire trucks. 'Search,' we yelled at the fire chief, 'search.'" "I thought of you and the boys," Joan continues. "The car was gone, but that could have been Paul. Paul could have taken the car."

"Where is Paul?" Catherine asks.

"Right behind you," he says, coming up from the rear.

"You frightened us," Joan says, and it's not clear whether she means last night or now.

"Where were you?" Elaine asks, opening the car door.

"I took the boys for breakfast. I called the insurance agent. It's Memorial Day-there was a parade. I bought this legal pad. I'm making a list."

"What can we do?" Catherine asks.

"And I got a camera so we can document the damage," Paul says, waving a disposable camera.

"Oh," Catherine says, reaching for the camera, "let me take a picture of the two of you."

Paul stands next to Elaine, puts his arm around her, and Catherine snaps. Later, when Elaine picks up the film, the last picture, the thirty-sixth exposure, will be of a breast.

"Whose boob?" she'll ask Paul. "Do you recognize this tit?"

"Tit for tat," Paul will say, looking at the negatives. "It's the last frame. Maybe the guy at the store fired off the last shot. Who can tell?"

It is a holiday. Their friends and neighbors are slow to rise, they sleep late, paying the price for the night before.

"Cooler today, warmer tomorrow, then rain. That's the forecast," Paul says.

Mrs. Hansen from across the street brings over a mug of coffee for Elaine. "I would have been out earlier," she says. "But I drank too much last night. Sugar? Milk?" Elaine shakes her head. "I'm so sorry," Mrs. Hansen says. "About the house. I would have been out, but I drank. It's a federal holiday today," she says. "No bank, no mail, and the liquor store is closed."

In the front yard, the boys play competitive Houdini. They alternate tying each other to the maple tree with pieces of the crime scene tape, timing how long it takes each one to get free. So far, Sammy is winning with a minute thirty-seven.

In a kind of dislocated fugue, broken off from each other and themselves, Elaine and Paul wander back and forth, in and out and around the house, surveying the damage, the aftermath.

"Where does one begin?" Elaine asks.

"Not over the mouth," Paul shouts at Daniel, who's taken the game a bit too far and is now not only tying Sammy to the tree and blindfolding him but taping his mouth as well.

"Let him live," Elaine says, and it's not clear to whom she's talking.

Pat and George Nielson arrive, presiding over the situation like town elders. Even though they are all the same age, the Nielsons did everything first: married, had children, bought a house, a boat, a summer place.

"I don't know where to start," Elaine tells Pat.

"Why don't we go inside and see where you really are," Pat says, leading Elaine and Paul back into the house.

Inside, Elaine notices things she hadn't seen before: melted curtains, the dining room table cleaved in half, singed chairs, bubbly walls, blistered paint. She plucks a broken candlestick off the floor. "Broken," she says. "Everything is history."

"It can be fixed?" Paul asks.

"Who knows? I'm not an expert," Elaine says.

"Almost everything can be put back together, if you've got the pieces," Pat says.

George puts his hand on Paul's shoulder, steering him into the dining room, while Pat takes Elaine's elbow, easing her away. Like trainers, or chaperons, they take Paul and Elaine into separate corners and give them a few pointers, helpful hints, ways of winning, the art of war.

"Let's go upstairs and leave the big things to the boys," Pat says.

"They sure knew how to build 'em," Paul says, showing George the hole in the dining room wall. "If it was new," he says, "you can bet the whole thing would have gone up like a wad of paper, but these old ones, they're built to last."

"Smoke damage," Elaine says, opening the closet doors. "Everything stinks."

"Spring cleaning," Pat says, opening windows. "Make the best of the worst. Make two piles-one to go to the dry cleaner and one to give away. Remember, tax deductions for donations. My golden rule: If you didn't wear it this year or last, you certainly won't wear it next."

"Give it away," Elaine says in a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Give it all away." She begins pulling things out of the closets and throwing them onto the king-size bed. And then she is down on her knees digging through old shoes, flinging them out behind her, pair after pair. "If the shoe fits, wear it," she says. "These never fit, none of these ever fit, fucking shoes, fucking everything."

Pat Nielson, stunned by Elaine's enthusiasm, her newfound freneticism, picks a navy Dior dress out of the pile. "When did you get this?" she asks.

Elaine stands, takes the hanger from Pat, and presses the dress against herself. "Just after we moved in, first cocktail party. I paid more for this dress than for any since. Fifteen years," she says. "It's a lifetime." And her hand goes to her throat as though she can silence herself by choking herself. She drops the dress back on the bed and turns away, overcome. "I'll never wear it again. It's a six, and I'm not even an eight anymore, more like a ten."

"You can't collect everything," Pat says, putting the dress in with the giveaways. "Life is not a hobby."

Elaine moves to take down the curtains. At first she is gentle with the rod, but then she yanks, harder, ripping the brackets out of the wall. "I hate these. I don't even want to clean them, I want to burn them," she says.

The windows are curtainless, the closets half empty, the drawers half full. Elaine is throwing away the past, the weight of it. What's left is only what's necessary, what they need to live right now, today.

Pat carries load after load downstairs. Elaine stays upstairs. She looks out the front window and sees Mrs. Hansen arranging things on the lawn, the broken candlesticks, her Dior dress, the boys' baby clothes. Embarrassed, Elaine hurries down to stop her. The house is filled with people-a fireman stands blocking the hallway, talking to Paul. What is Paul saying? Elaine imagines him telling the fireman, My wife did it. She didn't feel like cooking. There were hot dogs in the freezer, but instead of grilling them she decided to grill the house, to burn it down.

"Excuse me," she says, pushing past Paul, out the front door and into the yard.

The sun is high, the grass richly green. Mrs. Hansen has arranged things in neat rows like departments: men's, women's, boys', and household.

A stranger walking by turns to Elaine and says, "Fine idea. It's a beautiful day for a tag sale."

A woman picks up one of Elaine's old sweaters and holds it against herself. "What do you think?" the woman asks. "Is it me?" And before Elaine can answer, she continues, "I'll give you seven dollars for it? Enough?"

Elaine nods.

"Why don't we spread out the rest?" Mrs. Hansen suggests.

Why not?

Elaine goes back into the house. In the living room there's an end table that she hates, and a lamp, and then there's Daniel's broken toy chest, the old TV, and the love seat that used to be in the den.

"Can you give me a hand?" she asks a man she's never seen before.

"Sure," he says, helping her bring things out. "Here, let me get it, you go on ahead and open the door."

"I didn't feel like cooking," Elaine tells Mrs. Hansen, who, in addition to doing a brisk business at the yard sale, has found time to make another pot of coffee.

"That's the beginning and the end," Mrs. Hansen says, raising the pot. "Refill?" she asks.

"I lost my cup," Elaine says.

"No matter," Mrs. Hansen says, taking one off the dollar table and filling it. "Anyone else for coffee, fresh cup? There's a great Dior dress on aisle three," she tells someone.

"What size?" a woman asks.

"Six."

Daniel and Sammy stand by the maple tree drinking mugs of Mrs. Hansen's French roast.

"Isn't there anything else?" Elaine asks them. "No juice."

They shake their heads, rest their mugs by the roots of the tree, and take off, chasing each other around the yard.

"That can't be good for you," Elaine calls after them.

Friends and neighbors mill around, rubbernecking. "Terrifying," they say. "The flames were taller than the trees." They're frightened because as far as they're concerned it was an accident, an act of God, something that could happen to anyone at any time, no warning. And simultaneously they're relieved because it's not their house, it's not their stuff spread out on the grass, it didn't happen to them. Relief fills them with advice, ideas for renovation and redecoration. They go through the house pointing out the possibilities. "You could put in an island, a Subzero, more cabinets-there's no such thing as too much storage." A postmodern barn raising, the neighbors come bearing the names and numbers of contractors, carpenters, plumbers, and painters.

Elaine looks at Paul; he seems to be taking it all in his stride. Enjoying himself, soaking up the attention.

Henry arrives in tennis whites and stares at the blackened edge of what used to be the living room wall. "Oh, oh," he says. "This is a nightmare. What happened? Don't tell me." His brow furrows. "Bomb?" he asks, and Paul shakes his head. "Hot-water heater?" Again, Paul shakes his head. Henry sweeps his racket through the scorched grass. The racket goes ka-thunk against something. Henry bends, plucking the can of starter fluid from the night before out of the grass with his free hand. "Dangerous," he says. "This is a four-hundred-dollar racket."

Paul's heart has stopped. He puts his hand to his chest and bangs. He does self-start CPR. He bangs and then he coughs. He clears his throat. He breathes. Paul is looking at the can in Henry's hand, thinking that now it has fresh prints, Henry's prints. If the investigator isn't happy with Paul and Elaine's story, Paul can always finger Henry. He coughs again, correcting the irregular rhythm of his heart.

"Choking?" Henry asks.

"Cinder."

"We had a date, a plan for a game?" Henry says, shaking the can; it's empty. He carries it to the trash and deposits it.

"The house burned down," Paul says, as though Henry can't possibly understand the responsibility involved.

Daniel and Sammy run by, trailing endless ribbons of cassette tape. "We're tying up the house," Daniel says.

"Holding it hostage," Sammy screams and then asks, "What's hostage?"

And Paul thinks of the yellow ribbon, the crime scene tape, the song, and still can't remember what it's all about.

"We've already gone around twenty-three times, haven't you noticed? Haven't you seen us?"

Henry's cell phone rings in his back pocket. He ignores it.

"Hey," Daniel says, running around again. "Hey, Henry, your butt's calling you, aren't you going to answer it?"

"It's her," Henry tells Paul, and immediately Paul knows it's the date. "She's the only one who has the number."

The phone stops ringing and then starts again. Henry takes the phone out of his pocket and hands it to Paul. "You talk to her," Henry says. "I think she likes you better."

Paul takes the phone. He turns away. He stands in the yard talking softly-it's like urinating in public, you try to be discreet. "Hello?"

"What are you wearing?" the date asks.

"Same as yesterday," Paul says, wondering if the date knows that it's him, not Henry.

"Is that a telephone in your pocket, or are you just glad to hear from me?" she asks.

"Can we call you back in a few minutes?" Paul asks.

"Don't call us, we'll call you," the date says, hanging up.

Paul hands the phone back to Henry.

"Keep it for a few days," Henry says. "Until your service is restored."

"Thanks," Paul says, slipping the phone in his pocket. "It may come in handy."

"It was a mistake," Paul says, passing Elaine in the upstairs hallway-it's the first moment they've had alone all day.

"Was it?" Elaine asks.

Paul has no answer. "I'm going to get the policy," he says. "The adjuster should be here any minute."

"If we lie, we could get caught, we could go to jail," Elaine says, tormenting him.

"We deserve to go to jail."

"And who'll take care of the kids? Who'll pay the bills? Someone has to earn a living around here, and it's not going to come from making license plates."

"We have to pay for our mistakes."

"I'll send you an itemized statement," Elaine says.

She goes back into the bedroom, rummages through Paul's drawers, his closet, and picks out a few suits, things she never wants to see him in again. She takes them down and lays them out on the front lawn.

"Times like these really pull you together," one of the neighbors says. "I'd like to buy your melon baller," he adds. "Will a dollar do it?"

Paul pulls Elaine aside. "The investigator's over there," he says, nodding in the direction of the State Farm man.

"Have you spoken with him?" Elaine asks.

"I told him we went out for dinner. I told him I set up the grill and then you went into the kitchen and there were only three hot dogs-three hot dogs, for four people. And we decided to go out."

"Yes, but how did the fire start? Isn't that what they're asking?"

"The boys must have been doing something, playing with matches," Paul says.

At first, Elaine is horrified that he would blame it on the children, but then it's a relief-at least he's not blaming her. "Playing, trying to get dinner ready?" she says.

"Yes, they were very hungry," he says.

"Starving," Elaine says. "And how did the grill tip over?"

"Wind," Paul says, shrugging, holding his hands up as if to say, go figure.

And for the moment they are together again, bound by their secret.

"Do you think everyone knows that we did it?" Elaine asks Paul.

"They're more interested in themselves than us."

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to come back."

"What did you think we'd do?"

"I didn't think."

"Well, what did you imagine?"

"I thought it would make us change," she says, "but we're the same. The same as we were yesterday."

"Worse."

"It has to get better," she says, and begins to cry.

"You can't control everything," Paul says.

Pat and George Nielson appear. "We've got to go," George says. "We have a little event to attend-a lunch for The Sons of the Fallen."

"Don't forget you're staying with us for the duration. If you get there and we're out."

"Key's under the mat," George says, finishing her sentence.

Suddenly, there's screaming, a high-pitched howl. It's Mrs. Hansen. In their exuberant efforts to tie up the house, to choke it with cassette tape, Sammy and Daniel have roped in Mrs. Hansen. She'd gone in to get something, and now she can't get out.

"Call the police," she's yelling. "Call the police. Do something. Somebody do something."

Paul goes in through the basement, gets his hedge clippers, and quickly cuts her out. The boys are nowhere to be seen.

"Oh," she says. "I thought I was going to die. I have that, you know, death in small places, claustrophobia. I think I need a drink. What time is it? Is it too early to have a drink?"

"What would you like?" Elaine asks. "What would do the trick?"

"Oh, a splash of gin and maybe a whisper of vermouth-that's all I need, just a whisper."

Elaine makes Mrs. Hansen her drink and brings it out to her. Mrs. Hansen sits under the maple tree, her legs stuck straight out in front of her, and sips quickly. "Thank you," she says. "That's better now. That's much better. It's a beautiful day, isn't it? A good day for a sale." She digs into her pocket, pulls out a pile of cash, and presses it into Elaine's hands. "Buy yourself a secret something," she says. "You earned it." When her first drink is gone, Elaine makes her a second one and then a third, and by then the crowd is thinning and business is slacking off. The sky is getting dark, and it looks like rain.

Paul temporarily patches the hole in the living room wall with pieces of plastic. A police car comes by and closes down the sale, threatening to ticket Elaine for littering or loitering, she's not sure which. Elaine stuffs the leftovers into Hefty bags that she leaves at the end of the driveway. The wind billows, and the sky gets darker still.

Mrs. Hansen takes her empty coffeepot and toddles home. "I would have been over earlier, but last night." she tells Elaine.

Elaine nods. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you for everything. The sale was a great idea, an inspiration."

"Thanks for the drink," Mrs. Hansen says.

And it begins to rain.

They are alone in their house: Paul, Elaine, Daniel, and Sammy. The children rummage through the kitchen like mice. They're crabby, coming down from their caffeine high. "We're hungry," they whine. Everything is damp and smells like smoke. Elaine is emptying the shelves, throwing boxes and cans away.

"You don't have to get rid of everything, do you?" Paul asks.

"Expired in 1994," Elaine says, hurling a can of beans into the trash.

Outside, a horn honks.

Daniel goes out. "It's Willy Meaders's mother," he says, coming back. "She invited me to their house, she said I can sleep over. Can I go? Can I?"

"Why not?" Elaine says.

Paul, Elaine, and Sammy are left in the kitchen. The wallpaper is suddenly peeling, the tiles have started coming up. As the hours pass, the damage gets worse, as though the house, having held itself together for so long, is finally relaxing from the spasm of the fire, letting go, giving up.

Where will it stop? Elaine wonders.

In the background, there is a strange drip-dripping sound.

"Is the adjuster coming back?" she asks.

"They said that in a few days it'll stabilize, it'll start to dry out. They'll check back," Paul says.

"A house is not a home," Elaine says.

Paul looks at Sammy. "How come no one's rescued you yet?"

"Dunno," Sammy says.

"Don't worry," Paul says, "someone will come." And like some slick bit of comic timing or psychic summoning, as he's saying it, the doorbell rings and it's Sammy's friend Nate and his mother.

"I'm sorry," Nate's mother says, so earnestly that Elaine is confused. "It's so awful," the woman goes on. "You must be devastated."

Paul comes up from behind.

"It's Nate's mom," Elaine says, introducing the woman, trying not to let on that she can't remember the woman's name.

Paul shakes the woman's hand. "Hello." She is his Mrs. Apple, his biweekly afternoon entertainment. They met at one of Sammy's soccer games; Elaine was down with the flu, and Nate's father was at a meeting in Minneapolis. Together they took the children to the McDonald's drive-thru and then sat in the parking lot, talking between their rolled-down windows for an hour and a half, before making a date for the following Saturday. That was ten months ago, and as far as Paul can tell, Elaine doesn't have a clue.

"I have no idea what you're planning," the woman says to Elaine, "but if there's anything I can do." She pauses.

Nate, dressed head to toe in camouflage gear, has pressed himself flat against the peeling wallpaper.

"Don't think I can't see you, Mr. Invisible," Paul says. "I've got my eye on you."

"I could take Sammy for the night. I just rented Bambi for Nate."

"Seen it," Sammy says, watching Nate.

"Well, maybe you'd like to see it again," Paul suggests.

"We could go to the drive-thru, I bet you'd like that," Nate's mom says. "McNuggets and fries."

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Elaine says.

Sammy nods. Paul takes out his wallet and attempts to give Mrs. Apple money for the snacks. At first she declines. "Oh, you don't have to give me anything." But the truth of it is, Paul owes her thirty bucks-last week he didn't have enough cash, and she had to chip in for the motel. He hands her two twenties stuck together, hoping Elaine notices only one, and Mrs. Apple takes Sammy away.