Music for Torching

THREE

PAUL AND ELAINE ARE ALONE. The children have been farmed out, given away to good homes like kittens. Inside the house, it gets darker and darker, and there is less and less they can do. They have forgotten that civilization is just across the street, that there is electricity next door. Finally, when they can't so much as see their fingers in front of their faces, they step outside. An afternoon shower has cleared the air. The sky is Prussian blue going into night.

Elaine tugs on Paul's belt loop, and they start walking toward the Nielsons' house. They could have driven, but it doesn't occur to them. The act of burning down their house has sent them back; it is as if their licenses have been revoked. They walk.

"Should we bring something?" Elaine asks.

"Like what?"

"A bottle of wine, a pie?"

Paul doesn't answer. They pass under a streetlight, Paul looks at Elaine, and then reaches for her arm and pulls back on it, like a blackjack handle, stopping her. He spits onto his fingers and rubs her face, again he licks his fingers and then rubs more. "You're all smudged," he says.

They walk on, the breeze lifting their clothing, the smell of smoke rising up as though they are smoldering, as though they are still on fire.

"Shortcut," Paul says, taking Elaine through various neighbors' yards. All the things that yesterday were so familiar, so comforting, now seem thoroughly foreign. They sneak through backyards like criminals, peering through kitchen windows to watch dinners being pulled from ovens, like a magician's trick-the rabbit from the hat.

A shift in the wind fills the air with the trailing spoor of a barbecue.

Elaine sniffs.

"The scent of guilt," Paul says, stumbling, swooning, his stomach spinning with anxiety.

"We're almost there. Isn't it lovely, Pat and George inviting us to stay over like this?"

"Have you ever heard anything about them?"

"About who?"

"George and Pat."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, things."

They turn the corner; the Nielsons' house is just ahead. "What kind of things?" Elaine asks.

"Never mind."

They are at the Nielsons' door. They ring the bell. They knock.

"Is this a game?" Elaine asks. "Are you doing this just to get me?"

Paul rings again. No answer.

"They said they'd leave a key under the mat," Elaine says, stepping back.

Paul lifts the mat.

"How can you do this? They're among our closest friends. They've invited us to come and stay with them-'For the duration,' Pat said."

"Don't blame me, I'm just repeating what I heard."

"What did you hear?"

"Nothing, just something, that there was something, no one knew exactly what."

"That's awful," Elaine says, stepping inside. "That's how rumors start-when people are too good or too nice, no one can stand it, they have to wreck it, undermine everything good."

The Nielsons' house is cool and still as though today was the maid's day and no one's come home yet to spoil it. The lamp hanging over the kitchen table glows. The refrigerator hums steadily. How much help does Pat have? That's what Elaine wants to know. The spotlessness, the absolute absence of chaos is otherworldly. Elaine and Paul walk silently in a loop, a crazy eight, through the living room, the dining room, into the kitchen and back again. Without hosts they don't know what to do. They are lost, without direction.

"Now what?" Paul asks.

"I can't believe you told me that about Pat and George," Elaine hisses.

"I didn't tell you, I asked you."

They're standing in the living room. Paul moves to sit on the sofa.

"Don't," Elaine says, grabbing his arm. "Your hands are dirty, you're covered in soot, you smell."

He escapes her. He wanders into the kitchen. She follows, making sure he doesn't do anything weird or wrong. "There's some food," he says, opening the refrigerator. "Do you think we could have a little snack?" She comes up from behind and closes the refrigerator door. His handprints are on it; she wipes them away with the edge of her blouse. "Wash your hands," she says.

There are canisters on the counter: tea, flour, sugar, a

cookie jar-three-quarters full. Everything is in perfect order. It's because they have girls, two girls instead of boys; girls are neater, Elaine tells herself. At Paul and Elaine's house the cookies don't even make it into the cookie jar; they go straight from the package to the mouth-the cookie jar is always empty.

With a dull rumble, a slow roll, the icemaker spills its cubes into the storage bin.

"Sit," Elaine says, and they sit at the kitchen table.

Slowly, as if breaking down, Paul asks, "Could I have some water?"

It's as though he has no standards, no boundaries, no sense of what's appropriate. Elaine rolls her eyes.

"Is that asking too much? I'm sure if Pat and George were here, they'd give me a glass of water. I bet George would give me a scotch. Why, I bet if I asked, he'd give me a whole bottle of my own."

Elaine gives him a glass of water, running it for a minute first to let it get cold, noticing how clean the sink is, how the stainless steel sparkles. She hands him the glass, then dries the sink with a paper towel and sits back down at the table.

"Is there something to eat, maybe some cheese? Crackers?"

"Why do you ask me? Do you need my permission? Are you so crippled that you can't do anything for yourself? Just wait," she says. "They'll be home soon."

"Don't hold me hostage," Paul says, remembering the game Sammy and Daniel were playing. "What's hostage?" Sammy had asked. "Do the kids know where we are?" Paul asks Elaine. "Does anyone know where we are?"

They hear the sound of a key in the door. "Behave," Elaine says.

"Anybody home?" Pat calls.

Elaine and Paul wait in the hallway.

"Sorry we're late," George says. "Time got out of hand."

"I hope you helped yourself. I hope you're not starving."

Pat slips out of her sweater and neatly hangs it in the front hall closet. "I'm so glad you're here," Pat says, giving Elaine's arm a little squeeze. "What would you like first?" Pat asks. "To get out of those clothes? Have a hot shower? Some dinner?"

"How 'bout a drink?" George asks. "A little refreshment? How would that be? A drink?"

The perfect pleasantness of Pat and George offering only the warmest welcome, hot water, drinks, the promise of a fine dinner and a good night's sleep, is overwhelming.

Elaine and Paul stand speechless. Their sullen steam, their tension, their bitterness and disgust rises up off them, evaporating like the heat of a sudden summer storm.

Pat and George are before them, dying to be accommodating, looking at Elaine and Paul as if to ask, What can we do for you? How can we best serve you? And their two children, Mary and Margaret, are right there next to their parents, beaming at Paul and Elaine, also offering themselves.

"Scotch?" George asks.

"I'd love one," Paul says, smirking at Elaine as if to say, Told you so.

"Elaine?" George asks.

"Something a little lighter."

"I've put you in Mary's room," Pat says, leading them down the hall. "The girls are doubling up for the duration."

"We like to share," Margaret, the younger, says. A wave of nausea sweeps over Elaine.

The walls of Mary's bedroom are a shade of pink that Elaine can identify only as vagina pink. There are two twin beds with quilted pink-satin bedspreads, a white lacquer dresser, a small white desk, and white lace curtains.

Fluffy white terry-cloth robes have been laid out on each bed, there are his-and-hers slippers on the floor, and on the dresser are individual toilet kits like the kind you get when you fly first class.

"If there's anything you need, I'm sure we have it," Pat says cheerfully.

"We have everything," Mary says. "We have everything," she repeats to get Elaine's attention.

Elaine smiles.

"And more," she adds happily.

"Your drinks," George says, handing them their glasses.

The ice clinks. Paul and Elaine sip quickly.

"And you can just throw your clothes in here." Pat puts a laundry basket on the floor at Elaine's feet.

There is something oddly forced about the way they're all crowded into the narrow bedroom, drinking. It's as though they are hurrying through a program, a required set of exchanges, in order to get on to the next thing, as though they've come in late and are rushing to catch up.

"Let's give them a minute," George says, backing off. "Everything doesn't have to happen all at once."

"We're just so glad you're here," Pat says.

And then, as if leaving them to prepare for some kind of treatment or procedure, Pat and George step out of the room. Elaine and Paul are left alone, drinks in hand. Paul takes a couple of large swallows and puts his glass down on the dresser. Elaine quickly picks it up, wipes the dresser, and tucks a book under the glass. Paul sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his shoes. Elaine is about to move in, about to suggest that he not sit on the satin spread.

"Fuck off," he says, seeing it coming. "Just fuck off."

They undress silently, awkward in the deep pink, towering over the furniture, which is scaled for a child. Here they are giants, oafish and clumsy. They peel off their clothing and see that it is soiled with the heavy soot of charcoal gone awry. Thick bracelets of grime wrap their wrists and ankles. Elaine, embarrassed, stands in her bare feet; her toes-the red-hot polish of an old pedicure three-quarters chipped away-curl into the plush pink carpet. She waits in her bra and panties, hesitant to go further, to drop her private garments into the basket.

"Take it off, take it all off," Paul says, stepping out of his B.V.D.'s.

Reluctantly, she unfastens her bra and pulls down her panties, hiding her underwear at the bottom of the basket. "They should be boiled," Elaine says, "or burned like something contaminated."

Elaine pulls the belt of her white terry robe tight around her waist as Paul opens the bedroom door. Pat and George are waiting in the hall. Elaine wonders what would have happened if she and Paul had decided to lie down for a few minutes, to take a little nap-would Pat and George have knocked and said, "We're waiting"? She wonders what would have happened if they'd had a fight-would they have rapped against the door and said, "Break it up"? She wonders if they were listening….

"You look better already," Pat says, leading Elaine down the hall to the middle bathroom.

George steers Paul through their bedroom to the master bath. "Plenty of towels for you," he says, pointing to a huge stack.

They shower. Elaine washes her hair with shampoo that smells like apples. She watches the dirt running off, gray water rushing for the drain. She washes her hair three times, then slathers it with cream rinse that sings of citrus. She turns the water hotter and then hotter still, washing, washing, obsessed with scrubbing herself clean.

In Pat and George's shower, away from Elaine, Paul is unleashed, able to assert himself. His scalp, coated in a layer of fuzz, itches. He lathers up and, using Pat's Lady Light leg razor, works in strips, sweeping over his head, around his ears, and down his neck. He gets carried away and moves on to his arms and legs, trimming his chest down to the primal pattern, scraping his armpits and groin. Aerodynamic and unburdened, Paul feels free from certain worries and boundaries. Stepping out, he takes great care to rinse the tub, to wash away the evidence, the fur, the feathers that flew.

Back in the room, Elaine is famished. There are ten Hershey Kisses in the pencil tray on Mary/Margaret's desk. Elaine takes two and then two more, balling the aluminum foil into tiny pebbles, minimizing the evidence. The chocolate is melting in her mouth when Paul comes in. He grabs her and kisses her-his mouth is minty-fresh. She slips a half-gone Hershey Kiss into his mouth-the chocolate and mint combo is refreshing. They laugh. They make out until the flavor has faded. While they were showering, clothing was laid out on their beds-sweat suits, socks, underwear. They have entered a new regime, a cult of perfection and procedure.

"Wrong size," Elaine says. "It's not even the fucking right size," she blurts.

"It's about learning to let go," Paul says, pulling on his sweat suit. Extra fabric pools at his ankles. He rolls up the legs and sleeves.

There is a knock, the rap-rapping of a little fist on the door, and one of the girls calls, "Dinner."

The table is set beautifully-crystal glasses, delicate china, shining silver. Paul and Elaine sit in their sweats, in their oversize pajamas like children who have been allowed to stay up late. George waits patiently at the head of the table. And when his wife and daughters are ready, he thrusts a two-pronged fork deep into the roast. Bloody juice springs out of the browned round-tiny droplets splash onto the white tablecloth. They all notice.

George stops carving. "Do you want to get that?" he asks, his voice edged with panic.

"I can get it later," Pat says calmly, indicating that he should keep carving. "I have my ways."

She has made a roast, she has made potatoes, she has made glazed carrots and string beans almandine. She has made sure there are hot rolls and crisp salad, and that everything is just right; nothing is early or late, nothing is raw or burned.

How does Pat do it? Elaine needs to know. The roast wasn't cooking when Elaine and Paul got there, it wasn't even out on the counter defrosting. And when did Pat do the potatoes and the carrots? The string beans definitely aren't frozen-where did Pat find them? Elaine hasn't seen string beans in the store for months. She understands the rolls, and that's a comfort. They're from a tube, the kind you crack on the counter and the dough pops out, but still.. And the kitchen isn't a mess; just before they sat down, Elaine poked her head in and asked Pat if she needed a hand, and Pat was already cleaning up, drying the pots and pans.

"Saves time," Pat said.

And so Paul and Elaine sit at Pat and George's table, in silence, as though their personas were lodged in their possessions, in their clothing, which Elaine hears tumbling in the dryer-the buttons of Paul's pants scraping. They dine, dipped in the devastating confirmation that everything they ever suspected about how much better the lives of the neighbors are has been proven true. Everyone else is more organized, happier, their lives less fraught, more satisfying. Without a doubt, other people do it better.

The fraud factor is what Paul calls it, the fear of being revealed. Paul and Elaine already knew it, and in fact, setting the fire was on some level a declaration of their awareness, the great and formal announcement: This is not who we are, we are not like you, we have failed, we are failing, we are failures. And yet, this is exactly who they are; they are not different at all. They are exactly the same as everyone else, and worse yet, they are trapped in it, entirely engulfed-this is their life.

They chew. They cut their meat. Paul eats heartily while Elaine eats dutifully. They eat their vegetables and listen as the Nielsons talk.

"If I start now, by Thanksgiving I'll be good enough to compete," Mary says, going on about skating lessons. "Joy Reckling did it. She took lessons, and now she skates all over the place. I bet if I worked hard I could skate as well as she does."

"You'll skate even better," George says.

"You'll be the best," Pat says.

All their dreams laid out, and George and Pat just say yes, and good, and great. Up, up, and away. They don't say, No, you must be crazy, and What the hell are you thinking? Nothing is out of range, everything is possible.

"I've been wanting to move the lilac bush-it's not thriving where I've got it now," George says. "If I put it somewhere else, it'll be happier. I like my bushes to be happy. The azaleas seem delirious, don't they?" Pat winks at George, and he grins back at her.

Paul is no longer smiling. He and Elaine sit staring down at their plates, ashamed. At their house things don't go like this; nothing is easy; it's every man for himself, each hoarding what little he has, each wanting his own, each wanting something different. They speak in the defensive. They wait for disappointment. They constantly accumulate proof of having been let down, misunderstood, unappreciated. They are a tense and bitter lot, and haven't even noticed it until now. Compare and contrast; the differences are so revealing.

"Decaf?" Pat stands over her with a pot of steaming coffee. "Decaf?"

"Please," Elaine says, raising her cup.

A plate of cookies is passed around. "Ummmm," Elaine says. She takes one. Paul takes one, then two, then three more.

"Delicious. Did you make these?" Elaine asks, expecting Pat to say that she whipped them up this afternoon just after she put the roast in. Elaine blithers on, spitting a slew of compliments, a kind of Tourette's syndrome in reverse. She goes on, using what she says aloud to beat herself up mentally. She should be more like Pat, she should get more done, she should be much better than she is, she should be more.. There is no interrupting her.

In the end Pat blushes. "I didn't make them," she says apologetically.

"We did," the two little MM's chirp.

"Well, what wonderful bakers you are," Elaine says, starting again, whacking her brain, for not baking, for not doing anything right, for not doing anything at all. "How wonderful you are," she says. How awful I am, she thinks. Elaine reaches for another cookie. "Ummm, so good," she says. You fat thing, you should be on a diet, she tells herself.

The girls giggle.

Elaine smiles.

Dinner is done. While Mary and Margaret clear the table, Pat and George lead Elaine and Paul back down the hall, getting them set for bed.

"There's a little light down here," George says, pointing to a night-light in the hallway. "If you need anything, holler."

"I couldn't cook," Elaine blurts. She is feeling as if she has to explain.

"It's all right," Pat says.

Elaine and Paul close the bedroom door. There's a nightgown on one bed and a pair of pajamas on the other. Elaine opens the door again. Pat and George are gone. Elaine doesn't understand where it comes from, how it happens. Her interest goes beyond the standard housewife competitiveness and into thinking that Pat and George must be shape shifters. Elaine was with them all evening and never saw Pat or George leave the table. Is there a hidden housekeeper? Do little Borrowers live beneath the floorboards? What explains it? Who does this?

Paul's back is toward her. He is wearing the nightgown. It stops just above his knees. She sees he has shaved his legs, there are nicks on the backs of his calves.

"You look very pretty."

"Thank you. I feel pretty."

"I've never seen you in a dress before."

"It was on my bed."

Elaine goes to the other bed, takes off her sweat suit and puts on the pajamas, dressing herself as though she's a paper doll-cuffing the bottoms, buttoning the buttons. She lays herself out on the satiny pink bedspread, resting her head gently on the pillow. She crosses her hands over her chest, closes her eyes, and imagines this is the look, the feel, of a coffin. Paul lies down next to her, squeezing onto the same narrow bed. She gets up. She puts a chair against the door and goes back to the bed.

"What about the boys?" he says. "Should we be calling them? Should we be saying good night? Do you have numbers for where they are?"

"Do you?" she asks back.

"No."

"Not even Nate's mother's?"

He blushes. Heat spreads through his face, his neck. He imagines his bald head glowing like a knob, a nut of molten glass-she can see right through him.

"No," he says.

"Liar."

There's nothing for Paul to say. He waits. "Should we check our machine at home?"

"Someone bought the machine this afternoon for five dollars."

They hear Pat and George talking through the wall-getting ready for bed, muffled voices, half sentences, arrangements, sleepy plans.

"It's a lot," Paul says.

"Too much for one day," Elaine says.

And they are quiet for a while.

"Home," Paul says. "Home," he repeats like an incantation. And then he stops. He seems to rally, to rouse himself. "Why'd we do it?" he asks.

"We did it because there was nothing else we could do."

The night-light has a pink bulb. It casts pink light on the pink walls. The room glows, pulsing like an organ. Paul is thinking of the date, of the cell phone in his pocket. He called her before from the bathroom-she wasn't home. The outgoing message on her machine said, "Hi, I can't come right now.. "

Paul's gown begins to puff, to rise like a tent. His cock swells, making the nightgown the big top of his three-ring circus.

"Fuck me," he hisses at Elaine.

He climbs on top of her. The twin bed squeaks.

"We're awful," she says from under him. "We're worse than we thought we were, worse than anyone I've ever met." Her breath is slightly muffled by his weight.

"We couldn't be that bad," he says.

"Couldn't we?"

They slide off the bed and onto the floor. They are in the gully between the beds, deep in the pink shag carpet. He hikes up his dress, she lets out the drawstring of her pajama bottoms. They toss and turn. She is facedown, gripping the carpet threads, thinking they are like the cilia that line the throat, the ear, the lungs. She is traveling, like in the movie Fantastic Voyage, she is moving through the body, the bloodstream. The satin trim of Paul's nightgown tickles her back.

When they are done, she pulls up her bottoms. She cinches the drawstring tight. His hot squirt is oozing out of her, seeping down her thighs. "Good night," she says, getting back into bed.

"Good night," he says, as though they are strangers.

She takes a book from the night table and begins to read from A Wrinkle in Time. "'Go back to sleep,' Meg said. 'Just be glad you're a kitten and not a monster like me.'"

Paul is up in the night.

He is awake and he is hungry. He puts on a robe and goes tiptoeing into the kitchen. She is there, in her pajamas at the table.

"Hi, honey," he says.

"Hello, Paul," she says.

He realizes it's Pat, not Elaine. Pat is at the table wearing pajamas, making lists, graphs, working furiously in pencil. "Sit," she says, tucking her pencil behind her ear.

Paul pulls the belt of his robe tighter, worrying that somehow she will know he's wearing a nightgown. He sits.

She puts four cookies on a plate and warms a glass of milk for him. "I don't sleep," she says. "If anyone ever wants to know how I do it-that's how. I'm up all night. I work ahead. I plan things months in advance. Knowing what's going to happen relaxes me."

He nods. He eats his cookies.

"I sleep from twelve to three and work from three to six, then I nap from six to seven."

She goes back to her charts and graphs, her menus. She has it all figured out, shopping lists of what she needs to buy on what day, how long things take to cook, and, given the family's schedules, which night is better to make stew, which is better for lamb chops, etc. She erases an entire week and redoes it.

"You missed some brussels sprouts," he says, pointing to a Tuesday.

"Back to bed, mister," Pat says when Paul's snack is gone. "You've got a couple of hours to go." She leads Paul back down the hall and opens the bedroom door. He goes in without a word, and she closes the door behind him.

Morning. A borrowed suit hangs on the doorknob. A freshly pressed white shirt is draped over the chair.

"I thought I put the chair against the door," Elaine says.

"I was up in the night," Paul says, stretching. He is refreshed. Chirpy.

She resents it.

There's a knock on the door. They throw on the robes.

"Mummy asked me to bring you this," one of the little M's says, delivering Paul and Elaine's clean clothing, pressed, folded, practically packaged. "She's busy making waffles. Do you like waffles?"

"No," Elaine says, taking the clothing from the little girl. "No, I really don't."

"You lose," the little girl says, closing the door.

"What's your problem?" Paul riffles through the clothes, pulling out his underwear, still warm from the dryer. "You should be grateful."

"What's your problem?" she asks. "Since when are you Mr. Bluebird of Happiness?"

Paul tries on the suit jacket-one of George's. It's small. Paul's arms jut out of the sleeves, the shoulders ride up.

"George must be a runt," Elaine says. "You look like an idiot."

He ignores her and climbs into the pants. He likes that he is bigger than George; it makes him feel powerful. He zips up.

"You're not leaving me, are you?" she blurts.

"Leaving you?" He unconsciously mirrors her anxious tone, her flood of anxiety.

"Why are you wearing that suit? What do you think you're doing? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to work."

"Our house burned down," she says. "You helped."

"It was a holiday weekend. Today I'm going to work. I have a job. I have to earn money. This is going to cost us. I have no choice. You need to come up with a plan," he says. "That's how you'll free yourself. Act normal."

"I don't feel normal. I have an incredible headache."

"If you act normal, you'll feel normal. Get dressed and take some aspirin," Paul says. "We'll have breakfast with them, and then I'll walk you home."

"I can't have breakfast. I can't have waffles." Elaine is whining. She can't be good. She can't take any more perfection. She doesn't want to go home, and she doesn't want to be left with Pat. She can't win. She's afraid that she's going to scream. For the first time in years, she is clinging to Paul-he is what defines her, he is familiar. Without Paul, Elaine's head will explode. She can picture it: There will be an enormous and ugly eruption. Human splatter. Pat will be the witness, and without a pause she will rush to get her rags, her bottles of Fantastik and 409. As fast as it happened she'll be at it, wiping up, as though it's just another household spill, all in a day's work. Spic and Span.

"Come on, we'll have some juice and then we'll go. Why don't you make a list of things to do?"

"Did something happen during the night? Did you have a personality transplant?" Elaine asks.

"It's just common sense," he says. "You have to step back, get some perspective. Everything is fine. Nothing has changed, nothing is different."

She is silenced. Nothing has changed. Nothing is different. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

"Sleeves are too short," George says to Paul when they go into the kitchen. "Other than that, you're okay."

"Waffles?" Pat asks. "With or without fresh fruit?"

Elaine looks at Paul, knowing he wants waffles, knowing he could eat two or three, doused in fruit, drenched in syrup.

"Juice and coffee," Paul says. "That's it for me, just juice and coffee."

"And you?" Pat asks.

"Coffee would be great, and a couple of aspirin," Elaine says.

Paul also has a muffin. It's there on the table in a basket. He takes it. He butters it. He looks at Elaine guiltily. She smiles. He's cute. His bald top has a shine, a glow like the dome of a state capitol. She's seeing something boyish and lovable in Paul, something she hasn't seen in a long time.

"Hurry," the little M's tell each other. "Hurry, let's not be late."

Elaine braces herself against their enthusiasm by thinking about her own children. "It's seven o'clock," she announces every morning like a human cuckoo clock. "It's seven-fifteen, you're going to be late. Seven-thirty, you're in trouble." She has to pull back the bedclothes and make them cold and uncomfortable before anything happens. "I've made you a nice hot Pop-Tart, burned on the edges, just the way you like it. Do you want some cocoa? Some chocolate milk?" She gets them going the cheap way, glucose, sucrose. If they pass out once they're at school, at least she got them there. She wonders what they are doing right now-are they behaving, are they making some other mother's life miserable, are they happy?

"Bye-bye," the angelic M's say, kissing their parents good-bye, flying off with their knapsacks strapped to their backs like ballast.

Elaine finishes her coffee and puts the cup down. Paul drains the dregs of his juice glass-fresh-squeezed.

"What time will you be home?" Pat asks.

They all stop. Who is being spoken to? George? Paul? Elaine? There is a long pause.

"We're usually home by seven," Elaine finally says.

"That works," Pat says.

Outside. The grass is green. The sky is bright. The air cool and fresh, like water. It is as though they've woken from a dream. The dew on the lawn soaks their shoes; they squeak across the grass and leave footprints on the sidewalk. They move quickly, race-walking toward home, arms and legs pumping.

They have escaped.

Paul and Elaine speak quickly, as though they haven't spoken in weeks, as though they haven't been able to talk until now.

"I had fun last night," Paul says, confessing his pleasure. "I like wearing a nightgown. It's loose, liberating."

"We'll have to get you one of your own."

"And she makes good coffee," Paul says, romanticizing their adventure. In his mind he's back at Pat's-Pat taking care of everything, Pat in her pajamas in the middle of the night, Pat with the cookies and milk.

"Better coffee than mine?"

"Not better, just good."

As they walk, they get quieter. Their conversation loses its structure; it turns into odd single words, huffed, puffed, spoken as though spit out. They are going uphill.

The school bus passes them. A face is pressed to the glass. Sammy waves. They don't see him until it is too late. They wave after the bus.

They are more together and less together than ever before. They are close, but as they get near the house, they drift. He moves out ahead of her. He is going forward. She is falling back. She is running out of air. The house is haunted, it will turn on her. She is expected to take care of it, to nurse it, to love it, to coach it back to health. She hates the house. She is afraid of the house. She doesn't want to be left there. She would rather go into the city with Paul, would rather go to a museum, wander, go shopping.

"Should I come with you?" she asks.

"Where?"

"I don't want to go home," she says.

"Things have to be fixed, Elaine. The children need a place to come home to."

Her anxiety. She is having an anxiety attack. Her heart is racing. Her hands are clammy. She thinks she is dying. Drowning. She runs. She runs across the street. Paul follows her. He thinks it is a joke, a game; she is running from him, wanting him to chase her.

She runs faster.

"Hey, hey," he says, catching her, stopping her.

Her eyes are fierce, wild.

He pulls her toward him and holds her pressed against his body. "You're okay," he says, even though he is frightened. "It'll be okay," he says, guiding her back to their side of the street. "It's just the shock. The shock is hitting you."

Home.

Her mother's car is parked on the street. He is relieved. "Your mother is here," he says. "Everything is going to be all right."

Mother is here. Mother will take care of it. Everything will be good again. An early incantation.

"Are you going to be at work all day?" Elaine asks Paul.

"Where else would I be?" He wonders what she's getting at. Does she know that sometimes he goes places-to see people, Mrs. Apple, etc.?

"I just need to be able to reach you. What if I have a question about the house?"

"Why don't I give you Henry's cellular." He hands over the phone. "My office is on autodial. I'm auto 0–2."

"Who's auto 0–1?"

"Henry," he says. It's never occurred to him that the phone has information, things it can tell him about the date. Who's 0–3? he wonders, and 0–4, and 0–5? The memory holds 99 numbers-who's 99?

Elaine's mother is waiting on the lawn. "I've been calling you since Saturday night," the mother says. "There was never any answer. I got worried, and so I came. What happened?"

"We burned the house down," Elaine says.

"I see," the mother says. "I thought something must have happened. Your yard looks like a million people trampled through. I thought maybe you had a crazy party. Well, I tried to call," the mother says. "I needed to talk. When I talk to you, I feel better."

"It's supposed to be the other way around," Elaine says.

"Whenever I talk to your father, when I try to have a serious conversation with him, he turns on the TV. You were away."

"We had a fire," Paul says. "We're staying with friends."

"What happened to your answering machine?"

"We sold it."

"Well, I wanted your opinion. I came home the other day and your father-"

"The house burned down," Elaine says, interrupting.

"I saw. I couldn't help but notice. I walked around the back-there's a huge hole in the dining room wall."

The three of them stand on the front lawn, waiting. Paul checks his watch. "I have to go," he says.

"Guess so," Elaine says.

He gives Elaine a quick kiss on the cheek. It's the first time he's kissed her good-bye in years. "Have a nice day," he says, walking off.

"Is Paul not well?" the mother asks.

"In what way?" Elaine asks.

"What happened to his hair? He looks like he's getting chemo."

"Oh, that," Elaine says. "That's what they do. When it starts to go, they go with it. They get rid of it. Better bald than balding."

"He's a shaved fish."

"It's a control thing," Elaine says.

There's a pause.

"I was worried," the mother repeats. "I tried to call. There was no answer."

Paul walks toward the train. His mind wanders, it races. He thinks about Henry and the date; why is Henry so willing to share? He thinks about Mrs. Apple, about Sammy waving from the bus. He thinks about Pat and the pajamas and Elaine on the floor last night, pulling out a big tuft of the pink shag carpet. Fucking.

He passes house after house. From a distance Paul sees someone coming down a driveway, an old guy with a walker. He hears the wheels of the walker squeaking as if teasing. The old guy holds on tight, taking the driveway with the full concentration of a skier taking a downhill slope. Paul watches, trying to decide if the guy broke his hip, had a stroke, or both-had a stroke and fell, breaking the hip.

The man sees him, lifts his head, takes one hand off the walker, and sweeps it through the air in a large, floppy greeting.

Paul is two houses away and closing in.

"Did ya see the tatas on Miss October?" the man calls out. "Big ones. You think those were implants? Hey, what do you know about nipples? What happens to the nipples when they put in implants?" The man is shouting. His voice, cracked with age, is surprisingly strong. Embarrassed, Paul looks around; there are no people, no one can hear. He stops at the end of the driveway.

"Morning," Paul says.

"George?" the man asks, looking at him strangely, already disappointed, already almost sure that Paul is not George.

"I'm Paul."

"I thought you were someone," the man says. "I thought you were George." He leans over the walker toward Paul. "Do you know him, George Nielson?"

"This is his suit," Paul says, pulling at his lapel.

"Well, no wonder," the man says, beaming with relief. "My eyes aren't too good, but they're not too bad either. I thought you were George."

"I'm Paul."

"The fella whose house got toasted?"

"That's me."

"Good to meet you. I'm McKendrick. Walter McKendrick." They shake hands. McKendrick settles in on his walker and heads down the sidewalk with Paul. "Going to the train?"

"Yep."

"I can't stand not getting up and out first thing. Makes me feel dead. No matter what, I go out. I go down the driveway, around the block and back. Rain or shine. So, what do you know about nipples?" the old guy asks. "How do they handle that? Used to be there was no such thing as implants; you either had tits or you didn't. Now you can get 'em big as the Goodyear Blimp. They got whole magazines of big tits-George showed me."

So George has some juice in him. Thank God. Paul laughs.

"What'd you say your name was?" the old guy asks.

"Paul."

"You going to the train?"

"Yeah."

"Getting kind of a late start." The guy checks his watch. "Nine- eighteen. You won't get in before ten-thirty, quarter of eleven."

"It's the day after a holiday."

"Doesn't matter what day it is. Punctuality counts. You never caught me late for work."

Paul changes the subject. "What happened?" he asks, gesturing to the walker. "Was it an accident?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't intentional, if that's what you're getting at. Busted my ass, pardon my French, but it's true. Two years ago, Grand Central Station, I was running to catch the train home. Lost my footing, fell down a flight of marble stairs, almost did myself in. Seventy-four years old-it gave them a great excuse to put me out to pasture. I got pins in my ass now, no joking. Pins in my ass, in my hip, in my leg. It's my punishment for all the nights I worked late. I would have died at my desk if I could have. That's where my life was. That's where I was happy." They come to an incline, a long rolling hill. "I can't go down with you," McKendrick says. "Much as I might like to. I did it once and couldn't get back up. I had sit down there and wait for someone to rescue me. A lady in a station wagon brought me back up to the top. He stops. "I'm exhausted. I'm going home." He starts the slow pivot, the four-point choreographed move that turns the walker around. "Stop by sometime, I'll show you a few things. I've got quite a collection."

"I will," Paul says, waiting, feeling he should keep an eye on the old guy, make sure he crawls home safely.

"Go," McKendrick says, swatting Paul away, pushing him off. "Don't miss the train."

Paul checks his watch. It's 9:27. The train comes at 9:35. Paul still has a long way to go. The old guy is right, he can't miss the train. He can't be any later; he is already late. He starts to run.

"Atta boy," the old guy yells after him. "That's the way you do it."

Elaine and her mother go into the house.

"Open everything," her mother says, making grand gestures with the windows and doors. "It smells. It smells," she shouts as she works.

Elaine is in a daze, a stew. Has anyone ever listened to her? Has anyone ever asked what she wanted? Has she ever thought to tell? Elaine tries to open the window over the kitchen sink. She bangs on it, pounds at it. Bam! Bam! Her hand almost goes through the glass.

"Work it gently," her mother says. "When something's stuck, you have to work it gently."

Elaine does, and the old casement frame pops open.

"Do you have apples and cinnamon? That's what they do in houses that are for sale. They put a pot of cider and cinnamon on the stove, and buyers think the place is cozy."

Her mother opens the fridge. The stench of things going bad pours out. She closes it.

Elaine goes upstairs, opening windows everywhere.

In the master bedroom, which is directly above the dining room, Elaine notices a small hole in the ceiling-a puncture straight through to the roof. It's like a pinhole camera. Through it she can see the sky, a spot of the bluest blue. A cloud passes over and then an airplane and then it's gone. Everything is in constant motion, and she is standing still.

"Open sesame." She hears her mother talking to herself downstairs.

She notices Paul's briefcase, pushed into the corner. She pulls out the cell phone and dials the Nielsons. "Paul went off without his briefcase," Elaine tells George. "I was hoping you might bring it to him in the city. Thank God you haven't left."

"Not a problem. No big deal. It's nothing," George says, his repetitions, his disclaimers all indications that it is in fact a favor. "I'm just getting in the car now. See you in a minute."

She pushes "End," then dials Daniel's school. "I need to leave a message. Could you please tell Daniel Weiss to come home, to his mother's house, after school."

"Who am I speaking with?" the school secretary asks, suddenly suspicious.

"His mother," Elaine says.

"And your name is?"

"Elaine. Elaine Weiss." She starts to say something about the house burning down.

"What's your address?" the secretary asks, cutting her off.

"Is there a problem?"

"We just have to be very careful. One moment, please."

She is on hold. The phone, pressed to her ear, is beginning to heat up. Her ear is burning.

"Elaine," the woman says, coming back, speaking as though they're old friends. "You're fine. I'll send the message-Daniel is to come home, to his mother's house, after school."

End. Elaine touches her ear. It's hot. Is a cell phone like a dental x-ray, something where the exposure should be limited?

The phone rings. It rings and simultaneously vibrates in Elaine's hand.

"Is that the phone?" her mother calls. "Is the phone fixed?"

Elaine flips the phone open.

"I've been trying to reach you all morning," a woman's voice says. "What are you wearing?"

Elaine looks down at herself. "Dirty clothes."

There's a pause. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm wearing." "What are you wearing?" Elaine asks.

"Are you speaking to me?" her mother calls in from the other room.

"Nothing," the woman says.

"Elaine?" her mother calls.

"No," Elaine says to her mother.

"Yes," the woman says.

"What number are you dialing?"

"Yours," the woman says.

"Elaine, did I hear the phone?"

"I have to go," Elaine says, starting down the stairs, briefcase in hand. "My mother is calling me."

"I'll call again later."

"I thought I heard you talking to someone." Her mother is in the kitchen. She has tied a dish towel over her nose and mouth, like a bandit. The place reeks of fire and Shalimar.

"I had to smell something decent," her mother says. "I emptied my atomizer-you'll buy me a new bottle for my birthday."

Elaine nods.

"May I?" her mother asks, taking the cell phone from Elaine. "I should call the phone company, also the electric, and I should call your father to let him know everything is all right. How do you turn this thing on?"

"It's turned on," Elaine says. "Just put in the area code and the number and push 'Send.' Could you call Sammy's school and tell them to make sure he comes home?"

Elaine flashes on the image of Sammy on the bus, waving-how could they not have seen him?

Outside, George beeps. Elaine grabs the briefcase and hurries.

"Take the trash," her mother says, pointing to the pile of garbage bags by the door.

An old blue Mustang drives by. The car passes Elaine and then backs up. The driver is a woman wearing a navy-blue floral scarf over her hair and dark sunglasses.

"Hi," she says. "Isn't it great?"

Elaine comes closer to the car. "Sorry?" she says blankly.

"The dress." The woman pulls at her dress-it's Elaine's blue Dior, the one Mrs. Hansen sold yesterday.

"Oh," Elaine says. "It's great."

"And look what I got in Elmhurst." The woman points to a blue Dior purse lying on the car seat.

"Wow," Elaine says, "you're a great shopper." There's a phone mounted between the bucket seats. "And you have a car phone."

"Couldn't live without it. It's a lifesaver. Well, gotta go," the woman says.

Elaine is left at the curb, wondering, Was that her-the mystery caller? It makes sense; the phone, the fixation on clothing. Elaine goes back into the house.

"I've done my duty," her mother says, still holding the phone. "Sammy's coming home, the phone company is on the way, the electricity will be on before dark."

The cell phone rings. Elaine sees it vibrate in her mother's open hand.

"I don't know if I like that," her mother says. It rings again. "Should I answer it? Hello?"

Elaine watches her mother's face-is it the woman calling again?

"A blouse and a skirt," her mother says, and Elaine moves to take the phone away. Her mother brushes her off. "Gray, or more a kind of taupe." A pause. "No, I don't think we've spoken before. Are you a friend of my daughter's? She's right here." Another pause. "Dirty clothes."

"Mother," Elaine says.

Her mother holds her hand up, silencing Elaine. "Umm. Ummmmm," the mother says, listening carefully. She blushes.

"Mother," Elaine says again, embarrassed by the pink flush in her mother's cheeks.

"Well," her mother finally says, "that all sounds fine, but I don't think we're interested. Thank you." She turns to Elaine. "How do you hang it up?"

"Press 'End.' Who was that?"

"I don't know. At first I thought it was some sort of survey, and then it got a little odd."

"Did it sound like she was calling from a car?"

"No. No, I don't think so," her mother says. "Is your number listed?"

"It's not our phone. It belongs to Henry."

"Well, then that's it. Turn it off," her mother says. And she does.

Paul is on the train, watching the other men drink their coffee and read their fan-folded papers. He is thinking of McKendrick, at home with pins in his ass, flipping through porno magazines. Paul is glad to be on the train, glad to be going to work. He remembers McKendrick's papery voice-"I would have died at my desk if I could have."

Paul thinks of the house, of leaving Elaine and her mother on the lawn, abandoning everything. He hasn't told anyone, but he is afraid of the house, too. He doesn't know how it will get fixed. He's afraid that something irrevocably horrible has happened, something he doesn't yet understand. What they did was so incredibly impulsive, so willfully destructive, and so strangely thrilling that he scared himself. Everything is fine, he tells himself, repeating what he said to Elaine this morning.

Make a list. He reaches for his briefcase-he doesn't have it. He has nothing. It is as though he is seven years old and has forgotten his lunch. Naked, unprepared, panicked. The train pulls into the Fordham stop, and he thinks of jumping off,

turning around, taking the next train home and getting his briefcase. He checks his watch-late. He doesn't even know where the briefcase might be. Is it in the house, in the front hall by the coat closet, or did Elaine "accidentally" sell it at the yard sale? If so, what did the price include? When he gets to the office, will someone else be sitting at his desk?

"Excuse me," he says to the fellow sitting next to him. "Could I borrow a pen?" The man hands Paul a pen, and Paul writes on his hand. Insurance. Stonemason. Painter.

"You forgot Baker, Banker, or Indian Chief," the man says.

"Pardon?"

"I used to do that all the time. I hated my job, and on my way to work I would make lists of all the other things I could do."

"Oh," Paul says.

"And then I gave up all hope of fruition." The man smiles warmly. "Bob Becker," he says, extending a hand. "CEO Pathways International."

"Pharmaceuticals?"

"That's the story-mental medication, smart drugs, target your transmitters, re-uptake inhibitors. And you are?"

"Paul. Paul Weiss," Paul says, handing back the pen.

"Ah, and Rifkind?" the man asks, as though this were a Beckett play. There is an air of unreality about him; everything means something, and then it also means something else.

"No Rifkind," Paul says. And "Rifkind" comes out sounding like a word, a word that means something, like-"Pretty good, and yourself?"

"Let's take a look at your list," Becker says, eyeing Paul's hand.

"It's not really a job list," Paul says, holding his hand close to his chest. "It's more along the lines of things I've got to remember to do, things to be taken care of."

"Well then, let's look at your palm." Becker tugs at Paul's

hand, spreading the fingers, rubbing the seat, the heart, the soft spot in the middle, blurring Paul's notes just a little bit. "Interesting…" Becker says. "You've got a lot going on and a lot more to look forward to."

As the train pulls into Grand Central Station, Becker pulls Paul's hand closer still, pressing his lips into Paul's palm. "Good to meet you, my friend," he says. "All good luck."

There is the rush to exit the train. Paul is jostled, caught in the moment that just passed. His palm is tickling, reeling from the kiss-was it a kiss?

He rises up on his toes and looks for Becker, but Becker is gone.

On the subway, Paul tries to forget what happened. He thinks about work. He is looking forward to hunkering down behind his desk-regrouping, organizing. He will take the bull by the horns. He will make lists, phone calls, appointments. His chest is tight. He rushes to get to the office. If he can just get to the of- fice-tag base-he will be okay. He will talk to people. He will ask their advice, he will ask them for names of other people, people who can help him, people who can fix things. He wipes his palm back and forth on his thigh.

"Good morning," his secretary says as he comes through the door.

"Nice suit," a woman from a higher floor says.

"Thank you," Paul says, forgetting that the suit belongs to George.

He is smiling. He is glad to be there. It's morning, bright and early. Well, almost.

"I forgot my briefcase," Paul says, swinging his arms giddily back and forth like a little boy, explaining the lightness of his load. "Just walked out without it. Plumb forgot."

"Your friend George brought it by, about four minutes ago."

Paul stops swinging. How did that happen? Where was

his briefcase? And more important, how did George beat him into the city?

"He said he'll see you tonight at dinner, but if you have any questions or need him before then, feel free to call at the office."

George is good, Paul thinks. And he is fast. Maybe he's a little too good. Paul wants to call him. He wants to ask George a couple of quick questions: Did ya see the tatas on Miss October? Think those were implants? Hey, what do you know about nipples? What happens to the nipples when they put in implants?

"What else?" he asks his secretary.

"Warburton wants a response to the report."

Paul stares at the secretary, who's still holding the briefcase.

"The report. I put it in here on Friday." She pats the side of his briefcase.

"Never got to it," Paul says, feeling as though he's saying the dog ate it. "There was a fire. We were in a motel. I forgot."

"I'll stall," the secretary says.

"I'll read," Paul says, taking the briefcase into his office.

His secretary puts through a conference call from Henry.

"Menage a trois," the date says.

Paul doesn't say anything.

"Come on," Henry says. "Play along. I'm Bond, James Bond."

"I'm the Russian spy," the date says.

"And who am I?" Paul asks.

"A diplomat from the UN," Henry says.

Paul's secretary interrupts. "You have a meeting in ten minutes."

He puts his hand over the receiver. "In eight minutes, knock on my door."

"Of course," the secretary says, closing the door.

He goes back to the phone. Henry is talking to the date in a poor imitation of Sean Connery. The date moans with a Russian accent.

Paul listens.

Paul thinks about his hand; the kiss is still on his palm, and he has to pee. He needs to wash his hands, and he needs to pee, and he thinks it would be odd to walk into the men's room and wash your hands before peeing. He doesn't want to act strangely, and he doesn't want to touch himself with the kiss still in hand. He will wait, wait to wash his hands, wait to pee. He will do work, he will touch other things. The kiss will wear off; it will erase itself.

He buzzes his secretary. "Could I have some coffee, please?"

A few minutes later, when she hands him the cup, he "accidentally" splashes a little on his hand.

"I'm sorry, did I scald you?" the secretary asks.

"Not at all," Paul says, smiling, blotting his hand with a napkin, wiping himself clean.

They work. Whatever room her mother is in, Elaine is out of. Her mother's presence, the annoying surety of her opinions on everything from the organization of the refrigerator shelves to the right way to fold a towel, fills Elaine with rage. The resulting chemical surge propels her. She works harder, faster, and more thoroughly than she would if left to her own devices. She strips the beds, gathers the smoky sheets, towels, clothes, etc. With a bucket, a sponge, and her own concoction of Murphy's, Windex, and 409, she erases the thick footprints of the firemen. She works her way around the house-a poor man's Pat, a person who has to be pissed off in order to be productive.

At a certain point she comes downstairs to refill her bucket. Her mother has mixed a defrosted can of lemonade concentrate with a bottle of flat seltzer.

"You and I have to have a serious talk," her mother says, pouring Elaine a glass.

This is the moment Elaine's been waiting for: the reprimand. Her mother will tell her to get her act together, straighten up and fly right.

"The other day, I was trying to tell your father something," her mother says. "I wanted his opinion on the sofas in the living room. I'm thinking of re-covering them. I found fabric, but it's expensive.. And then I started thinking, maybe we should just get new sofas." Her mother stops, looks at Elaine as if to ask, "Are you with me?" She goes on. "And so I said to him, 'It'll cost us to recover, and it'll cost us to replace. Six of one, half dozen of the other.'"

Elaine listens attentively, hoping this is a parable, hoping the punch line at the end will be filled with import and meaning.

"Now, I don't know how much you know about furniture.."

Suddenly, Elaine can't listen anymore; the story is entirely irrelevant. She's busy beating herself up: Why are you so gullible? Why do you get suckered in? Why do you always think this time it will be different? Why do you always have hope? What kind of an idiot are you?

Elaine starts to cry.

"Is it the drink?" her mother asks. "You don't like the drink? It's a little sweet-maybe there's not enough seltzer."

"I'm unhappy. I burned my house down, and I'm really unhappy," Elaine says.

"What would you like me to do?" her mother asks, defensively. "You're too old for me to do anything. Do you want to come home? Do you want me to take you back to my house?"

Not "our" house, not "the" house, but "my" house. Elaine hasn't lived there in twenty years, but she still thinks of it as her house or at least the house, the family home.

"Do you want to come home? Do you want to bring Paul and the boys? Would it be better if we were all under one roof?"

Elaine pictures it. She pictures herself in her room at the top of the stairs, in the narrow bed of her childhood. She pictures Daniel and Sammy down the hall in the den, Paul on the fold-out couch in the living room. She imagines waking up every morning with her father and mother bickering in the background, constant natter. "We're not fighting, we're talking. It's a conversation."

"Is that what you want?" her mother asks.

"No," Elaine says, definitively.

What does she want? She thinks of herself in the third person, as though the distance between first and third will give her perspective: What does Elaine want? She struggles to answer her own question: advice, confidence, direction, comfort.

"Do you hate it?" Elaine asks her mother. "Do you hate everything? Do you hate having a family? Do you hate me? Am I awful? Are we all that awful?"

Her mother cuts her off. "Who's allowed to hate? Who's allowed to think such horrible thoughts? You think you're supposed to have feelings about everything? You don't need so many feelings." She sighs. "You have a fantasy about how things should be. Stop daydreaming. Ask yourself what do you want, and then go get it. You have to do it yourself; no one does it for you. You have to make your own life."

"I don't know how. I don't know what I want. I don't know anything," Elaine sobs. "I'm crying, and I don't even know why. I'm stuck. I'm totally stuck."

"You have a wonderful life," her mother insists.

"Maybe what I want is beyond me, maybe it's not for me."

"You're just bored."

Elaine stops crying. "Bored and boring. And pathetic. And stupid. How could I be such a fool?" she says, getting up from the table.

The doorbell rings. "You forgot fat," her mother says.

"What?"

"Boring, stupid, and fat." Her mother launches into an ancient and inaccurate litany-the things Elaine used to say about herself when she was a kid.

Elaine is not fat. She has not been fat since she was fifteen, and even then she was just chunky. She looks at her mother in horror, as if to ask, Why are you still doing this? Haven't you heard one word of what I've been saying?

The doorbell rings again. Her mother clucks. She lets the electric man in, and Elaine escapes up the stairs. There are things she needs to do, but when she gets to the top, she can't remember what.

She lies on the stripped bed, looking up at the pinhole in the roof. The sky is blue. Clouds pass over. Sky, air, clouds, the sun and moon; it's fine. It's the same as it ever was. She stares at the small spot of blue. She sleeps. She dreams. She wakes up feeling a little more and a little less like herself.

The kitchen is spotless and silent. The living room has been Endust-ed, polished, and waxed; the mixed scents of Lemon Pledge and Murphy's Oil Soap hang in the air. Her mother sits on the sofa reading a magazine. She's got her jacket on, her purse beside her. She sits like a cleaning lady waiting to be told she can go home, waiting to be paid.

"I didn't want to wake you," her mother says. "Your friend Pat called. She wanted to know if you needed her. I told her that everything was under control." Her mother smiles at her own efficiency. "Did you have a good rest? Are you feeling better? I checked on you. You were sleeping like a baby. I figured it was safe to run an errand. You didn't hear me leave, did you?"

Elaine shakes her head. "I didn't hear anything."

"I ran to the store. I had to go anyway; I had nothing to feed your father. I bought you a few things. I wasn't sure of your brands, so I just bought for the boys. I figured they're not so picky."

She is being apologetic, and even that is offensive. How does she know how picky they are? Elaine and Paul are far less picky than Sammy and Daniel.

Her mother picks up her purse and takes out her keys. She struggles to get up from the sofa. "It's a little too soft," she says, trying to stand. "You should think about getting something new, not so deep. I'm not the acrobat I used to be."

"Are you leaving?"

"Your father needs me. After a few hours, he gets lonely." She takes a deep breath. "The electric is back on, the phone is on, sheets are in the wash, towels in the dryer, dishes done. Snacks in the kitchen for the boys. I don't know what else I can do."

Elaine wants to say, What about the dining room, what about the hole in the wall? What about the way the rug goes squish, and how the dining room table is split in half like firewood? She wants to say, You can't leave yet, you're not finished-I still feel horrible.

Her mother checks her watch. "They'll be home soon," she says, walking to the door.

Elaine wants to throw herself down on the floor and grab her mother's leg. She wants to plead, Don't go. But instead, she walks her mother to the door. She waves good-bye.

Mother was here. Mother is gone. Everything is as it was. Elaine closes the door.

The late-afternoon light creeps into the living room, sweeping over the furniture, seeping into the hall. Orange. Blood orange. The red swell of the setting sun pours down the walls and across the floor, all of it reminding Elaine of flames, of fire.

The house is empty.

Elaine takes off her clothes, throws them into the washer, and puts the wet towels in the dryer. Naked, she ascends the staircase like a figure in a painting. She showers, washing herself while simultaneously scrubbing the shower walls with the loofah she bought to scrape dead skin. She is in overdrive. Like Pat, every motion contains two motions-shower and scrub. She makes a mental note to buy something to clean the grout.

Dripping. She goes down the stairs, worrying that someone can see her through the windows-the woman in the blue car, Mrs. Hansen, a child walking by. The house is like a cage, a display case. She is deep in her thoughts. She does not hear the door. She does not hear his feet on the floor.

The cop is in the front hall. "Are you violating the integrity of a crime scene?" he asks.

"Am I?" Elaine asks, crossing her arms over her breasts.

"Just kidding." He laughs at his own joke. "Police humor."

They are standing in the hallway. She's naked, wet. He doesn't seem to notice her nakedness, and yet he must be aware-it is his job to be observant, to take in the details.

"So are you, like, breaking and entering?" she asks.

"Just visiting," he says, "but you'd better call a locksmith."

"Is the lock broken?"

"Apparently," the cop says.

She's standing in a puddle, a little pool of bathwater. She remembers the first time they met; she and Paul had been to the movies. On the way home they'd smoked a couple of joints in the car and parked down by the water. A light had flashed across the car and there was a knock at the window. "Roll down your window, sir," the officer had said.

"Just taking in the view," Paul had said.

"We don't do that here, sir," the cop had said, and then he asked to see Paul's license. Paul, convinced that they were about to be busted, just about had a heart attack. Elaine can still remember his color-glow-in-the-dark white, his skin covered with a slimy, cold layer of sweat.

"Go home," the cop finally said, dismissing them, but forgetting to give Paul his license back. The next day he'd appeared at the house; Elaine was naked in the kitchen, stoned, snacking. The doorbell rang, and she dropped to the floor. She crawled across the linoleum from the kitchen to the front-hall closet on her belly. She stood up inside the closet and put on Paul's black cashmere overcoat before opening the front door.

"Somehow," the officer said, "I didn't give your husband his license back."

"Thanks," Elaine had said, taking the license from him, wondering if he knew she was naked inside the coat, wondering what he thought of that.

And now, again, she is standing before him, naked-this time really naked.

He's looking at her.

The water on her skin evaporates. Goose bumps rise up. Her nipples are shriveled, pulled into hard knots that might be mistaken for desire.

"I just stopped by to see how things were going," he says.

She nods. In the background there's the tumble of towels in the dryer.

"Kids at school?"

She nods again.

"Husband in the city?"

"And my mother just left," she says.

"Yeah, I saw her car."

Elaine puts her hand on her hip. "So," she says.

"It's all coming together," he says.

There is a noise-footsteps up the back steps.

"The kids," Elaine says, making a dash for the laundry room.

She comes out with a warm towel wrapped around her body and another wrapped around her hair. He's gone. He's been replaced by Mrs. Hansen, who stands in the front hall holding a plate of cookies.

"I baked," Mrs. Hansen says.

"Oh, good," Elaine says, looking around her, over her, through her, trying to find him-and wondering where the kids are; she's sure she heard them.

"Rum cookies," Mrs. Hansen says, pushing the plate at Elaine.

"Really lovely," Elaine says, confused. Again, there's the sound of someone on the kitchen stairs.

Sammy and Daniel bang at the door.

"Hello, hello," Elaine says, opening up. "How are you? My little kiddles, my chickadees." She struggles to be enthusiastic. "Welcome home." She kisses each of the boys on the forehead.

"Good afternoon," Mrs. Hansen says, eyeing the creatures who managed to hold her hostage yesterday afternoon, trapped inside the house while they sealed it off with cassette tape like a crime scene.

"Just give me one minute," Elaine says, excusing herself to get dressed. She hurries upstairs and throws on the first clean thing she can find-a pair of Paul's khakis, a big belt, and a T-shirt. She goes back downstairs. Everyone is gone.

They are out back. Mrs. Hansen has pulled together the pieces of the picnic table and arranged an ersatz tea party.

"Rum cookies and lemonade," Mrs. Hansen says, announcing the menu.

Sammy takes a bite of a cookie and spits it out. "Yech," he says. "It tastes like medicine."

"Give it to me," Elaine says, taking the cookie. The cookies

are strong and rich, drenched in alcohol-rum sponges. "Stunning," Elaine says.

Daniel eats four and starts weaving drunkenly around the yard. "More cookies, more cookies," he begs.

"I think you've had enough," Elaine says.

"There's nothing better in the afternoon than a taste of something good," Mrs. Hansen says. "I used to be such a cook. When my boys were young, I did everything. I did it all." She looks up into the sky and then takes another cookie for herself.

The back of the house is singed. Thick streaks of black rise up toward the roof, each one higher than the last-skid marks on the trajectory to tragedy, the results of a wicked rat race, none reaches the top-there is no winner.

The hole in the dining room wall is a puncture, a blasted-out circle with the same charred, chewed look you see in cartoons when a stick of dynamite goes off. Did the fire make the hole, eating its way into the house, crazy with consumption, or did the firemen punch through in their effort to extinguish the flames? Which came first, the chicken or the egg, the fire or the hole?

Her yard. Her petunias, impatiens, and geraniums have been trampled, their stems crushed. The flowers, not believing they are dead, hold their color, as though holding their breath.

Elaine goes to the wrecked flower bed. She gets down on her hands and knees and tries to resuscitate what's left. She props up the flowers. Leaning one against another, they all fall down. She starts pulling at them, violently yanking out what's been crushed. She can't stand the sight of so much gone wrong.

"Sordid," Mrs. Hansen says, getting down on the ground next to her.

Elaine thinks Mrs. Hansen has come to take her away. She imagines Mrs. Hansen saying, Come on, dear, that's enough, gently leading her off as though she were a mental patient, ripping out her hair and not just dead flowers.

"These flowers look exhausted," Mrs. Hansen says, taking a tool out of her pocket and unfolding a pair of scissors, "but I bet they'll perk right up in a glass of sugar water." She snips the stems, "My Handyman," she says, tapping the tool. "I don't go anywhere without it."

"'You can call me Flower,'" Sammy says, repeating his favorite line from Bambi-a movie Daniel calls Waiting to Be Road Kill.

The yard is like a tar pit, a muddy mix of charred wood and stone. The grill is still there, lying on its side, leftover chunks of burned briquette crumbling into the dirt, all of it starting to harden and set-the fossilizing of America.

Daniel pokes a stick into the muck, stirring things up. "Why was the cop here?"

"Just checking in."

"How come you were wearing a towel?"

"I took a shower. How was your day?" she asks, changing the subject. "How was school? Did you get off to a good start? Did Mrs. Meaders make you something good for breakfast?"

Daniel looks her in the eye, sizing her up. "You don't usually take a shower in the middle of the afternoon."

"I was dirty," she says.

He scratches through the dirt with his stick. "What's this?" he asks, uncovering a pack of burned matches, picking them up with his stick, instinctively not touching the evidence with his bare hands.

"Looks like matches," she says.

"Maybe it means something," he says.

"Are you doing some sort of an investigation?" Elaine asks, wondering whose side he's on.

"Don't know," he says, stirring the dirt miserably.

"Did I do something wrong?" Elaine asks.

"Did you?" he says.

Elaine sees in him the same disdain she's seen in Paul. Her stomach tightens. She tries to find her way past it. "You look so much like your father," she says, reaching for his cheek. He pulls away.

"Are you fucking the cop?"

The thought had not occurred to her.

"Are you?" he asks.

She hears Daniel say "fucking the cop," and she thinks yes. Yes, she will fuck the cop, if the cop wants to fuck her.

"Don't say 'fuck,'" she tells Daniel.

Elaine is wiped out. She feels fragile, as though she's been ill. She looks at Mrs. Hansen, hoping Mrs. Hansen will do something. She has summoned her children for a visit but can take only so much. Their needs overwhelm her. She has no idea how to connect with Daniel; nothing she does is right. She is hoping Paul will come home soon and collect her. Together they'll drop the children off, and he'll take her back to Pat and George's. The day has been impossibly long. She's playing house in a broken home.

There's a thundering, bright, metallic bang, the ground-shaking slam of metal, like the sound of a car accident. They feel it in their feet and up their legs, like an explosion, a burst followed by a fat puff of air, the breeze of something displaced.

"What was that?" Elaine shouts.

Mrs. Hansen goes around front to look. "The Dumpster has arrived," she announces.

Paul is on the train coming home. It has been a lost day. He read the report and gave his opinion, which seemed to go over well, but the bulk of the day was spent worrying.

"Wash your bowl." That's what the guy on the train, the palm kisser, told him that morning. "When you're stuck, when

you don't know what to do-just go on, do the next thing. If you ate cereal for breakfast, you wash your bowl."

Paul walked the corridors of his office looking for advice-"Do you own your house? Did you buy or build? Brick or wood? Flat roof or pitched? Any experience with stonework? What about fire insurance? Painters? Restoration? Reconstruction?"

"What happened? Couldn't wrestle your Weber?" one guy said, mocking him, as if to say, real men don't let their houses catch on fire.

"Things got out of control," Paul said.

"I bet," the guy said.

Three times he tried calling Elaine on the cellular and got a re- cording-"The cellular customer you're trying to reach is temporarily out of the calling area. Please try your call again later."

Paul thought of his friend Tom; Tom from college, Tom whom he hadn't seen in years. The other night in the motel room, Paul felt incredibly close to Tom. It was Tom he called, Tom who comforted him over the phone while Elaine watched.

Paul looked up the name of the company where Tom worked and gave him a call. "How are you?" Paul asked.

"How are you? is the question."

"I'm all right," Paul said. "Listen, I was just thinking about you. I wanted to thank you for the other night."

"Not necessary," Tom said. "So, where is it now? What happened with the police and the insurance investigator?"

"We're waiting to hear," Paul said, wishing they could talk about something else, about where they've been all these years, about their lives, their fears and failures.

"Any idea of what it's going to cost you?"

They talked in numbers, pluses and minuses. They talked without talking, without saying anything, all facts and figures.

"It'd be great to see you sometime," Paul said.

"Yeah," Tom said. "I'm a little bogged down, but when the fog lifts, definitely."

"We'll do it then," Paul said.

"If I can be of any help…"

"You've already been a help. Enormous. An enormous help."

"All right, then," Tom said.

Paul hung up feeling farther rather than closer. He hung up and immediately dialed Mrs. Apple. He dialed Mrs. Apple, desperate for a dose of connection. Things with Elaine were good this morning, which was nice, but he didn't want to push it; he couldn't expose himself, he couldn't ask her for comfort. He called Mrs. Apple and got her machine. He punched in the first bar of "Mary Had a Little Lamb"-their private code-and hung up.

Paul is on the train. Every day he rides back and forth with the same people. He knows what towns they live in, what kinds of coats they wear, what they eat for breakfast, but he has no idea who they are. They go in and out together and are entirely anonymous. Do they recognize him? Do they notice that some days he looks better than others? The train lurches, a woman he's seen every day for years comes down the aisle, he nods. She nods back. See, he tells himself, it's easy to make friends.

Paul sneezes. He reaches into his pocket for Kleenex, wondering what he's doing; he has never kept Kleenex in his pocket. But it's there, he uses it. This is not his jacket, it's George's. He goes through the other pockets; a ticket stub from a concert at the community center, an empty cellophane wrapper, pink pocket lint, and three-quarters of a roll of Life Savers-Wint-O-Green. He peels one off.

Paul walks home from the station. The sky is still bright with the cool static light of a sun neither ascending nor descending but seeming to fade slowly, withdrawing into the horizon. He walks, surprised by the number of thoughts he has, curious whether anyone has ever studied the speed of thoughts and why worrying runs faster than thinking. He pulls out his pocket calculator and tries to count the thoughts; every time he has one, he pushes plus one, and if he has the same thought again, he does it again exponentially.

Stop thinking, he tells himself, stay in the moment.

The air is nice, he tells himself. It is room temperature, neither too hot nor too cold, perfectly pleasant. As he walks, he's inclined to whistle-the refrain from Otis Redding's "Dock of the Bay." The world is his mirror. The mood is even. Nature is benevolent.

Ahead of him a squirrel is crossing the street, carrying a large nut in its mouth. It goes back and forth, unable to decide whether to make a dash for it or not. The squirrel goes forward; the treasure in its mouth slows it down. The station wagon doesn't see the squirrel; there is a small crunch. Paul looks at the car, he sees the driver, a woman, looking back in her rearview mirror. He watches the squirrel, its tail flapping, the last moments of its life a fast and frenetic attempt to escape what has already become inevitable.

Paul hurries the rest of the way home.

Mrs. Hansen sits at the picnic table in the backyard, staring into space.

Sammy is next to her. "Who do you think you are, mister?" He talks to himself and then waits for a reply. "Hey, hey, you, I'm talking to you."

"Evening," Paul says.

"Elaine's in the house," Mrs. Hansen tells him.

The house smells. The air is thick with an olfactory fog: fire, smoke, foul water, and her mother's perfume-all of it dipped in a thin film of Murphy's Oil Soap.

"Elaine," he calls.

"Upstairs," Elaine says.

Paul goes into the dining room. What's left of the curtains has cooled into a thick, fibrous blob. The hole in the side of the house is covered in heavy plastic. The walls are streaked, as though someone tried to wash them with a dirty sponge. Paul is seeing the damage thrown into the full relief of daylight-it's better and worse than he thought it would be. It is not global, the house does not need to be razed, but what's there is there-it's real. The room is a ruin.

The house is not something Paul can make a virtuous and manly show of Mr. Fix-it with. There's no reaching a hand in to turn a loose screw-saving them a handyman's house call and seventy-five bucks. The house isn't even like a radio he can pluck apart with the enthusiasm of learning how things work, sure he'll be able to put back every diode. Paul has never fixed anything. And he reminds himself that he did this, he brought it on; without a moment's pause to wonder whether or not it could be reconstructed, he destroyed it. Worse yet-and this is the part he's admitted to no one-he got a kick out of it. It felt invigorating, it felt fucking fantastic.

He goes upstairs.

Elaine is lying on the stripped bed.

"It looks better already," he says.

Elaine grunts. She doesn't mean to grunt. She means to say something, but the grunt is all that comes out. All day she's had things to say to Paul, things ranging from the incredibly warm and generous to the horrific: I adore you, you're the best, we can fix the house, we can make it better, you were so wonderful this morning. But then I remembered what an asshole you are and how you're screwing God knows how many women, and I hate you, I despise you. You're a disgusting, vile shit, and I want out. I just want out, whatever that means.

"I tried a hundred times to call you on the cellular," Paul says. "But you had it turned off."

"It was on, but we started getting strange calls-a woman

who wanted to know what I was wearing. At first I thought it was a survey, but then she kept calling, so I turned it off."

Paul blushes.

"Sorry. Our phone's fixed now anyway. My mother took care of it."

She points to the hole in the ceiling. "Do you think they saw it? Should we report it to someone?"

"We should take a picture," Paul says. "Where's the Polaroid?"

"In the dresser, bottom drawer, on your side."

Paul gets the camera, hangs it around his neck, and lies down on the bed next to Elaine. He aims the camera at the hole and shoots. A print spits out.

"Oh," Daniel says, coming into the room, finding both parents, fully dressed, lying on an unmade bed, staring at the ceiling.

Elaine checks the Polaroid-it's coming out dark, with a spot of light in the middle. "Maybe you'd better take another shot," she says.

"Do we have any Ziploc bags?" Daniel asks.

"For what?" Elaine asks.

"Something."

"Something like what?" Paul asks.

"Do we have any?" Daniel asks.

"If we do, they're in the drawer downstairs next to the aluminum foil."

"I already looked there."

"Then we don't have any."

"Could you get me some?"

"Your wish is my command," Elaine says. "What size?"

Daniel shrugs "Medium, I guess."

Paul stands on the bed, aims at the roof, and clicks again. "On my way home, I saw a squirrel get run over," Paul says.

"Should we get a ladder and try to stuff it, in case it rains?" Elaine says.

"Stuff it before it rains?" Paul asks. "The squirrel?"

"The hole."

"No," he says, stepping down off the bed. "Let's just move the bed. What time do we have to be at Pat and George's?"

"Seven."

"We'd better get going. I need clean clothes," Paul says.

"I did laundry."

"Good." They push the bed out of the way.

Elaine packs the bag to take to Pat and George's, wondering, are they moving in or are they moving out?

On their way out the door Paul remembers the Life Savers in his pocket. "Hey, come here for a minute," he says, gesturing to Elaine and the boys. This is all he has to offer them, and it is nothing-stale candy, a desperate attempt to win them back. He steps into the half bath by the kitchen door.

"Into the bathroom?" Daniel asks.

"Yes."

"All of us?" Elaine asks.

"Yes."

They crowd in. Sammy stands on the toilet-seat lid. Paul pulls down the window shade. "Close the door," he instructs Elaine. "I heard something once; I just want to see if it's true." He throws a few disks of Wint-O-Green into his mouth. "Watch for sparks," he says, rolling his lips back and crunching down, teeth bared. He has a split second to charm them.

Sparks fly.

"Wow," Sammy says.

"Weird, really weird," Daniel says.

"How'd you do it?" Elaine asks.

Paul passes out the rest of the roll, and they all crunch down, and their mouths light up like little sparklers, a spray of glittering phosphorescence. It's Paul's moment to feel like a father, it's the first thing they've done as a family in a really long time, and it's perfect; no heat, no flame, no risk of injury.

"Pretty great," Elaine says, stepping out of the bathroom.

"Weird, really weird," Daniel says again.

"Have a lovely evening," Mrs. Hansen says. "See you tomorrow."

In the car, buoyed by the success of the Life Saver display, Paul throws out an idea. "How would it be if one night this week the four of us went out for dinner, someplace nice?"

"Why?" Daniel asks.

"So your mother and I don't get lonely."

"You'd better check with the Meaderses," Daniel says. "They're very organized about things."

"Should I call what's-her-name?" Elaine turns to Sammy. "What's Nate's mother's name?"

"Mom?" Sammy says.

Daniel hits him. "Butt plug."

"Help me, what's her name?" Elaine asks Paul.

"Susan," he says. "I'll ask her when we drop Sam." It's a convenient excuse to get out of the car, to talk to her-Nate's mom, Susan, Mrs. Apple. Paul pulls into the driveway and toots the horn.

The front door opens. The hall light frames Mrs. Apple's head like a halo. Glorious dinner smells waft out into the twilight. Paul fights the urge to push Sammy out of the way, to run into the house, slam the door behind him, lock it, bolt it, wedge a chair up against it, and hold his fingers over his head in an X, a cross protecting him from Elaine, from his children, from his life.

He wants to go home. He wants to rest. He wants the comfort of a bosom that expects nothing of him. He wants his mother.

"I missed you today," he says to Mrs. Apple.

"My time is not my own," she says, annoyed. "I called you."

"Did you get my message?" he asks.

"I did," she says, putting her hand on Sammy's shoulder, bringing him into the house. "I drive car pool tomorrow."

"Does that mean no?" he asks.

"It means I haven't figured it out. I'll call you," she says, closing the door.

"Night, Dad," Sammy says through the crack.

Paul walks back to the car. It's getting dark, that odd hour when earth and sky merge, when it's hard to see clearly.

"What night did she say would be good for dinner?" Elaine quizzes.

"I forgot to ask," Paul says, backing out of the driveway.

"What were you talking about?"

"Would you like me to turn around and go back?"

"No. You can call her tomorrow," Elaine says.

"Fine."

They pull into the Meaderses' driveway.

"Don't forget my Ziplocs," Daniel instructs Elaine. "And I might need a few other things, supplies and stuff," he says, getting out of the car.

"No doubt you'll let me know," Elaine says. "Have a good night. Do your homework."

"And don't forget to find out what night is good for dinner, or your mother will kill you," Paul says.

They are on their own, on the road to Pat and George's. They ride in silence-not the steely silence of anger or the censored silence of frustration, but the simple silence of a pause, a moment alone, a quiet calm.

When they get to Pat and George's, the lights are all on,

the house is filled with music. Pat and George and the two little M's are dancing around in costumes of the islands with plastic leis around their necks.

"Tuesday-night dinners are theme nights. We put on a show, and between courses we dance," George says. "You're a few minutes late, we started without you."

One of the little M's offers them pineapple cubes on toothpicks, while the other M takes center stage in the middle of the living room.

"She's been rehearsing all afternoon," Pat whispers.

"Tonight we're doing South Pacific," George says. And as if playing ringtoss, he throws plastic leis over Paul's and Elaine's heads. Elaine stands holding the bag she packed at home, feeling like a traveler who got off at the wrong stop.

The little M opens her mouth. "'If they asked me, I could write a book,'" she croons.

They can't compete. Paul and Elaine's few good mo- ments-Mrs. Hansen's tea party in the backyard, Paul and Elaine lying on the bed looking up at the hole, the glow-in-the-dark Life Savers in the bathroom-their tiny flickers of hope can't go up against the Nielsons' full-scale production. Paul and Elaine are back to square one.

Elaine looks at Pat, thinking she must have had a very different day. Elaine is exhausted-the afternoon felt three weeks long-and Pat is exuberant, sitting on the sofa with her two little girls, pantomiming "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair."

"We're always doing things like this to keep from getting bored," George says. "That's how you conquer it, head it off at the pass."

The girls do their song and dance, and dinner is served on trays in the living room-something hot and sour and poi, "which is made from taro roots," one of the M's explains. And the show goes on.