Music for Torching

FOUR

PAUL IS UP EARLY. He is out of his nightgown, into his suit, and out the door. "I have to get to the office," he whispers in Elaine's ear.

"Are you talking in your sleep?"

"No, I'm all dressed, I'm ready to go."

"Have a nice day," she says, rolling away from him.

"I have to get to the office," Paul says again as he passes Pat in the hall.

Pat is in her robe, unkempt, uncollected, not at all her usual self, who by now would be dressed, set, made for the day.

Paul checks his watch. "It's seven A.M.," he says, figuring if he hurries, if he keeps to it, he can make the 7:33-it's mostly downhill from Pat and George's.

"Oh, I know," Pat says. "Some days are just like that. Would you like me to fix you a go-cup?"

"A what?"

"A cup of coffee you can take with you?" She nudges Paul into the kitchen, whips open cabinets and cupboards-coffee, milk, sugar-and gets it all into a brew. She flashes a shelf filled with sip/no-spill mugs covered in logos: FRANK'S HARDWARE, 7TH ANNUAL CONFERENCE ON HOME AND FAMILY, a gigantic one from National City Bank Corp.-THINK BIG-YOUR DEPOSIT IS YOUR FUTURE.

"Pick one," she says as she writes his name on a piece of white Johnson Johnson adhesive tape.

Paul pulls out the one marked MUDSLIDE BAKERY AND BREWERY.

She slaps his name on the side, fills it with coffee, and tops it with milk. Her aim is off; milk splashes across the counter.

"Shoot," she says, grabbing a dish towel. The milk runs over the edge, dripping down the cabinet and onto the floor.

"Are you all right?" Paul asks.

"Is it so obvious?" Pat asks.

Paul looks at her, thinking, She looks deranged. It's her hair; she didn't brush her hair-that's the first giveaway. "It's not like you to spill the milk," he says.

She fits the nonspill sip-top onto his mug. "I'll be better soon," she says, walking him to the door. "Have you got everything? Have you got your briefcase, your papers, your good thoughts to start the day?"

"I'm good to go," he says, gesturing at her with the coffee mug.

"Something special you want for dinner? Wednesday is grab bag. Everyone puts in their wishes in the morning, and each person ends up getting at least one thing they want."

"Anything is okay with me," Paul says.

"Nope," Pat says. "You have to name it. Name it now, or I'll have to hunt you down at the office." She stoops to pick up the morning paper. "What's your favorite dinner?"

Food. He is being asked to think of food for dinner when he hasn't even eaten breakfast.

"What do you crave but never get?"

He gives Pat a strange look, as though she's changed the subject.

"Things you eat for dinner," Pat says, prompting him-it sounds like a category on Jeopardy: "I'll take meat and vegetables for two hundred."

"Pot roast, mashed potatoes," he blurts. "Yellow cake with chocolate icing."

Pat smiles. "That's nice. That's so nice. I knew you'd be good under pressure. Go on now," she says, stepping back into the house. "You don't want to miss that train."

He checks his watch again, it's 7:07. He has the jump on things. Out the door and into the air, carrying the warm mug of coffee in front of him, slightly ahead of him, he travels, trots toward the train, struggling to master the combined arts of race-walking and coffee-toting. He feels like an ancient warrior woman trying to balance a jug of water on her head as she hurries back from the well to her village. He tries to take small sips along the way but finds it only slows him down-he saves it for the train.

As he passes McKendrick's place, Paul looks up at the house, thinking he might spot the old guy starting his slow roll down the driveway, white knuckles gripping the bar of his walker. McKendrick isn't out yet, but there's a light on in the kitchen. Paul is tempted to press himself against the glass and say, You were right, old man, work is where it's at. I'm on my way, getting a good start, bright and early, out of the gate and down the straightaway. He is tempted to knock on the window, but there are high thorny hedges blocking him, and he's carrying his coffee, and if he's not careful, he'll be late. He makes a mental note to do a little something for the guy, buy him a magazine, a tape, or some sort of a toy-would an inflate-a-mate mean anything?

Paul walks on, counting the sidewalk cracks, watching the ground in front of him, not letting his eyes get too far ahead, not wanting to see too much-thinking of the squirrel from yesterday, again hearing the crushing crack, picturing the tail flapping its frantic last gasp. Paul doesn't want anything to upset him or throw him off. He doesn't want to know too much.

At the station he buys himself a pack of Kleenex and a roll of Life Savers. He takes out a tissue and wipes the morning dew off his shoes. He is perfect and is taking pride in his perfection. He sips from his go-cup. He is buoyant and bouncy and filled with big ideas. All night he was thinking about the house, putting French doors in the dining room where the hole is, having them open out onto a deck. Maybe glassing in the side porch.. Why just repair, why not rethink, remodel?

"Don't you just love your mug?" the woman sitting behind him on the train says. "I couldn't get to work without it."

"Yes," he says, sipping. "It's my first time, but I'm loving it." He sips some more, all the while staring at his name taped to the side-Pat's clean print. He tilts his head back and drains the mug, realizing that it reminds him of Sammy's old teething cup. A drop of coffee runs down the corner of his mouth; he blots it with the back of his hand.

The cup is empty. Now what? What do you do with it when you're done? It's too fat to fit inside his briefcase. Do you just hold it, or do you tie it to your belt and let it hang off you, banging like a beggar's tin cup? He has the urge to throw the cup away, to abandon it on the train and tell Pat that he lost it. Suddenly he hates the cup. It is not his cup, it is not his friend. He feels none of the attachment that a man can form for his regular mug.

The train pulls in. He gets off, carrying his briefcase in one hand, the annoying cup in the other.

TERMINAL BAKERY: FREE REFILLS. LET US PUT OUR COFFEE IN YOUR CUP. That's what the sign in the station says. The woman from the train is waiting in line, her mug extended. He gets in line behind her, thinking, Why not? He could use a little more; a little more might make everything all right.

"Java joe?" the guy behind the counter asks.

"Fill 'er up," Paul says.

"Hi and low? Tall and light? Wet or dry? Sauce on the side?" the guy asks.

Paul has no idea what the guy is getting at. "Milk and sugar," he says, looking around, noticing that a lot of people are carrying cups. That's how they do it, he thinks, that's how they keep going day and night; guzzling gallons of joe and eating muffins bigger than their heads-muffins like intestinal sponges that soak up all the coffee, muffins with names like "Wendy"-a blend of apple, oat bran, and mandarin oranges; or "Todd"-with the weight of cappuccino cheesecake; and "George"-pure corn.

Filled to the brim, he is out of the station, into the subway, and then up the stairs, onto the streets, and into his office building. He pushes into the crowded elevator just as the door is closing. He presses 44. As the elevator rises, it fills with the volatile vapors of hot-coffee farts, the fumy flatulence of breakfast cereals, of AllBran and yogurt, of Egg McMuffin, of sausage on a biscuit. The gaseous display becomes all-encompassing. No one speaks, no one knows who let loose-at least it wasn't Paul. Was it by choice, a kind of kamikaze welcome-to-work terrorist attack, or did it erupt involuntarily? It just gets worse. The noxious intestinal output, the rear-end rocket seems to be of the variety that explodes in sections on a kind of timed delay. Laughing gas, tear gas, mustard gas. Napalm. Paul stops breathing. The elevator rises. On the forty-fourth floor, Paul bursts out, gasping, hoping his clothing hasn't absorbed the spoorish scent, hoping he doesn't stink.

"Good morning," his secretary says.

"Morning," he says, his tongue tasting the hazelnut afterburn of the joe that the jerk at the Terminal Bakery poured him. His stomach is starting to gnaw, to chew on itself.

"Can I get you anything?" his secretary asks. "Cup of coffee?"

"How about something solid," he says, "something like a roll?"

"A doughnut?" she says. "I saw a big box of doughnuts in the kitchen this morning. Krispy Kreme."

She brings him a doughnut on a paper napkin and sets it on the edge of his desk. It has been glazed, dipped to a dull shine, doused in a white icing, splashed with brightly colored jimmies, a visual antidepressant that a four-year-old would find appealing. He goes at it and then licks the crackly glaze off his fingers. He is sick. He is stoned. He checks his watch: 8:57. Off to a good start.

Elaine is awake. She is embarrassed to have slept late. She lies in the bed, feeling the strange absence of her morning panic-a panic she didn't know was panic, until now. Usually Elaine wakes with the full force of a high-voltage electrical shock. She is ejaculated from the bed, thrown down the hall to Daniel's room, to Sammy's room, rebounding back to Paul, then bounced down the steps to the kitchen, to the coffeemaker, the orange juice, the toaster tarts, lunch money, permission slips, pushing and packing to have the three of them out the door before seven forty-five.

She breathes deeply.

How are you? she asks herself.

Fine.

It's interesting, this absence of anxiety. She didn't wake up whistling, but it's okay, things are not so terrible. She has the feeling things are possible; there's room for improvement.

And she is actually thinking-not worrying, not racing-thinking. She is thinking that what she has to do now is get up, get dressed, and go home. She has to fix the house, fix herself, and focus on what comes next. She has to plan for the future. And she has to call her friend Liz-she meant to do it last night, but felt funny calling from Pat's house, like she was cheating on someone-she didn't know who.

She glances across the room. Paul made his bed. He hung up George's suit. Looking down the length of the bed, she notices that the blanket is dotted with Post-its. Elaine is decorated with notes from Paul, each one with a message, something to do: Pick paint. Repair or renovate? Contractor. Do you want a deck? Roofer-ask Pat. French doors? Make dinner plans. The car is for you-keys on the dresser. Insurance company will come. Measure.

It is as though he couldn't contain himself, as though he had to relieve himself before leaving for work.

Elaine gets out of bed, carefully collecting the Post-its and putting them in a pile. She makes the bed, brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and washes her face. The house is quiet. She puts the Post-its in her pocket and slides into a clean white shirt that Pat pressed for her yesterday. Elaine's plan is to go into the kitchen, have a quick cup of coffee, and then go home.

"Wash your bowl," she remembers Paul saying as they were going to sleep. Wash your bowl. He was going on about some- thing-a man on the train who had kissed him and then told him to clean up his room. Was Paul talking or dreaming? Elaine wonders.

Pat is in the kitchen. She is on the phone and also ironing. "Eight-four-nine-oh-X Azalea in a medium," she says, spraying starch on a shirt.

"Good morning," she whispers to Elaine.

"Seven-four-oh-seven-Y, two size smalls, one Tangerine, one Pistachio, and if you've got it, a four-three-oh-six-A in Sapphire."

"Morning," Elaine says.

Pat smiles. "Is there a belt for that? Something brown would be perfect," she tells the operator.

"I have big feet," she whispers to Elaine. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very," Elaine says.

The coffeepot is on. Elaine pours herself a cup and leans against the counter. Pat is still in her robe. Her hair is a mess. On the table is a bowl of pineapple slices, left over from the night before-no muffins, no warm morning pastries, no fresh-baked bread. Elaine checks the clock-10:00 A.M. How odd. Pat in her robe, Pat serving leftovers. If Pat can't keep it together, who can?

Pat is smiling at Elaine, practically grinning. Why?

"What?" Elaine asks.

"You're so lovely," Pat says, and Elaine isn't sure if Pat is talking to her or the woman on the phone.

"No four-three-oh-six-A in Sapphire? Well, do you have it in Ruby?"

The kitchen table is stacked with how-to books, fix-it manuals, handy, helpful hints. There's a big fat one opened to the page on clothes dryers. Elaine sits down with her coffee and begins reading the part about testing the switches: "Set VOM on RX 100; clip probes on leads, look for moderate resistance.."

In the background Pat is placing another call-she's ordering lamb. "Page forty-three. Could I have three racks and then one leg?"

Elaine had never heard of anyone having meat mailed to them.

"And page fourteen, the cans of colored sugar, one set."

"For decorating cookies," she whispers to Elaine.

"Ummmm," Elaine says.

"Over the phone. Door-to-door. Hardware, underwear, shoes, food, everything," Pat says as she's hanging up. "It saves me so much time." Pat sprays starch on the last of the shirts and digs in, wrestling the wrinkles.

"I slept late," Elaine says sheepishly.

"Every day isn't perfect," Pat says. "Some days start strangely."

Is that why she's still in her robe? Should Elaine ask more?

Pat taps the repair book Elaine's been looking at. "My favorite," she says.

"I thought George was Mr. Fix-it," Elaine says.

"George couldn't fix his way out of a cardboard box. He's not mechanically competent," Pat says.

"I never would have known."

"Life's little secrets." Pat sits down next to Elaine. "Looks like I'm going to have to replace an idler pulley on the dryer. And I'll probably go ahead and do the drum belt as long as I'm in there. It's pretty well worn. Twelve years already. Can you believe that? You can't control everything."

Elaine has no idea what Pat is talking about. She sips her coffee while Pat studies the diagram. As she reaches across the table for the newspaper, the coffee sloshes, it splashes onto Elaine's clean white shirt. "Shit," she says, jumping up, running to the sink, blotting it with a kitchen sponge.

"Take it off," Pat says.

"I'm not dressed," Elaine says, pulling the stained fabric away from her skin-she's braless.

Pat takes something out from under the sink, squirts it directly onto the shirt, and rubs thoroughly with her bare hand. The spot disappears. "Will you let me iron it?" Pat asks.

Elaine hesitantly unbuttons the shirt and slips it off.

Pat moves to the ironing board to press the blouse dry. Steam rises from under the iron. Goose bumps come up on Elaine's skin. She crosses her arms over her chest.

Pat holds the shirt open for Elaine, like a bullfighter's cape. Toro.

"Thanks," Elaine says, sliding her arm in.

There's something delicious about the shirt, crisp, bright white against her skin. The cotton is hot on the spot where the coffee spilled, the place where Pat worked it. Hot against cold. Elaine closes her eyes and lets the warmth soak in. "Thanks," she says again.

Pat is moving in a slow circle around Elaine, lifting Elaine's hair out from inside the neck of the blouse.

Something brushes against Elaine's neck. What? What was that? A prickly tingle. Elaine turns toward it, turning toward the trouble, wanting to see what's what. It's Pat. Pat kissing her. Pat kisses her again. Pat kisses her on the lips. "Ummmmm, ummm," Pat murmurs.

A whirl, a dizzying spin.

The purple press of Pat's lips is insistent and sure. Pat is kissing her, and Elaine isn't sure why. She pulls back and looks at Pat. Pat's eyes are closed, her face a dissolve coming at Elaine again. Elaine turns slightly to the side, avoiding her. The kiss lands on Elaine's cheek. Pat's eyes blink open-baffled. Something. Guilt. Confusion. Elaine can't think, can't see, can't breathe, but she doesn't want to give Pat the wrong idea, she doesn't want to say no, she doesn't want Pat to be hurt. Elaine kisses Pat.

The kiss, unbearably fragile, a spike of sensation, shatters the frame. Everything Elaine thinks about who she is, what she is, is irrelevant. There are no words, only sensation, smooth sensation. Tender, like the tickling lick of a kitten. Elaine feels powerless, suddenly stoned. Pat is kissing her. She is kissing Pat. They are standing in the middle of the kitchen, giving and getting every kiss they've ever gotten or given; kissing from memory. Kissing: fast, hard, deep, frantic, long and slow. They are tasting the lips, the mouth, the tongue. Elaine puts her hands to Pat's face, the softness of Pat's skin; the absence of the rough- scruff and scratch of a stale shave is so unfamiliar as to seem impossible. Pat rubs her face against Elaine's-sweeping the cheek, the high, light bones, nuzzling the ear, the narrow line of the eyebrow, finishing with a butterfly flick of the lashes.

Elaine's mind struggles to make sense, to find familiar coordin- ates-it spins uselessly.

Pat reaches for Elaine's hand. "Come," she says.

"Where are you taking me?" Elaine asks in an airless voice.

"Bedroom."

"No," Elaine says, fast, firm. Bed, that's breaking a rule-a rule she didn't know she had. It is like being a teenager again. There are things you will and won't do. Bed is too much. Pat and George's bed, the twins' twin beds-no. Bed is out of the question. So far it is a kiss, just a kiss, nothing truly unforgivable. "No," she says again.

"Am I frightening you?" Pat asks, coming in close, whispering the question right into Elaine's mouth. Kissing. "Am I?" Pat's hand is on Elaine's shirt, on the buttons.

Elaine, not wanting to offend, breathes, "No," even though she is terrified.

Pat undoes the buttons. It feels amazingly good. Pat is unbuttoning the blouse, brushing her lips against Elaine's neck, her clavicle, going lower.

Elaine fixates on the blouse, holding it against her body, worrying it will get wrinkled.

"Don't worry," Pat says, pulling the blouse away. "I'll iron it. I promise, I'll iron it again when we're done."

The shirt falls to the floor.

Elaine bends to pick it up. She stops to drape it over the back of a chair.

It's fine, Elaine tells herself, if it's only a kiss. Fine as long as the clothing is on, fine if only her shirt is off, fine if…She's making rules and instantly breaking them.

Pat is at her breast. A noise escapes Elaine, an embarrassingly deep sigh-like air rushing out of something. Elaine can't believe that she's letting this happen; she's not stopping it, she's not screaming, she's enjoying it. Pat is kissing Elaine's belly, tonguing the cesarean scar that no one ever touches. Elaine reaches for Pat-there's an incredible strangeness when they touch simultaneously. Elaine can't tell who is who, what is what-Marcel Mar- ceau, a mirror game, each miming the other. Phenomenal confusion. Elaine touches Pat's breast, pressing. Her knees buckle, she collapses to the floor. Pat goes with her.

They are in the kitchen, down on the linoleum floor. It is fine, Elaine tells herself, fine as long as Pat is dressed, fine as long as Elaine keeps what's left of her clothes on.

"Is this all right?" Pat asks.

"Nice," Elaine manages to say.

Luscious. Delicious. Pat is smooth and buttery, not like Paul, not a mass of fur, a jumble of abrasion from beard to prick. Pat is soft-enveloping rather than insistent.

Elaine is thinking that it'll stop in a minute, it won't really happen, it won't go too far. It's just two women exploring. She remembers reading about consciousness-raising groups, women sitting in circles on living room floors, looking at their cervixes like little boys in circle jerks, women taking possession of their bodies. Only this is far more personal-Pat is taking possession of Elaine.

Pat is pulling Elaine's pants off. Elaine is lifting her hips, her khakis are tossed off under the kitchen table. Pat is still in her robe. Elaine reaches for the belt, half thinking she will use it to pull herself up, she will lift herself up and out of this. The robe opens, exposing Pat.

Pat spreads herself out over Elaine, skin to skin, breast to breast. Pat against her, hot, ripe, repulsive. She almost screams-it's like a living thing-tongue and teeth.

And Pat is on top, grinding against Elaine, humping her in a strangely prickless pose. Fucking that's all friction.

She reaches her hand under Elaine's ass to get a better grip. Crumbs. There are crumbs stuck to Elaine's ass. Horrified, Pat twists around and begins licking them off, sucking the crumbs from Elaine, from the floor, and swallowing them like a human vacuum cleaner. "I sweep," she says, wiping dust off her mouth. "I sweep every day. I'm sweeping all the time."

"It's all right," Elaine says. "It's fine."

Fine if it's only on the outside, fine if it's just a hand. Fine if it's fingers and not a tongue, and then fine if it is a tongue. Fine if it's just that, and then it's fine. It's all fine.

They are two full-grown women, mothers, going at each other on the kitchen floor. A thick, musky scent rises, a sexual stew.

Pat reaches up, pulling a pot holder shaped like a bright red lobster off the counter, tucking it under Elaine's head-from above Elaine looks as if she has claw-shaped devils' horns sticking out of her head. "That's better," Pat says.

"Thank you," Elaine says. "I was starting to get a headache."

"Mmmm," Pat says, spinning her tongue in circles.

"Mmmm," Elaine echoes involuntarily.

Pat's fingers curl between Elaine's legs, slipping in.

"Aooww," Elaine says, combining "Ah" and "Ow," pain and pleasure. It takes a minute to figure out what hurts. "Your ring," Elaine pants.

The high diamond mount of Pat's engagement ring is scraping her. Pat pulls off the ring, it skitters across the floor, and she slips her hand back into Elaine, finding the spot. She slips in and out more quickly, more vigorously.

Elaine comes in cacophonous convulsions, great guttural exaltations. She's filled with a flooding sensation, as though a seal has broken; her womb, in seizures, squeezes as though expelling Elaine herself.

And just as she thinks it's over, as she starts to relax, Pat's mouth slides south, and Elaine is flash-frozen at the summit of sensation, her body stun-gunned by the flick of Pat's tongue. She lies splayed out on the linoleum, comparing Pat to Paul: Paul goes down on her because he saw it in a porno movie, because he thinks it's the cool thing to do. Paul goes down on her like he's really eating her, like she's a Big Mac and he's got to get his mouth around the whole burger in one big bite.

Elaine is concentrating, trying to figure out exactly what Pat is doing. Every lick, every flick causes an electric surge, a tiny sharp shock, to flash through her body.

She is seeing flashes of light, fleeting images. It's as though she's losing consciousness, losing her mind, dying. She can't bear any more-it's too much. She pushes Pat away.

"Stop," she says, closing her legs. "It's enough."

Pat lies next to her. Pat kisses her. Elaine tastes herself on Pat's lips, a tart tang, surprisingly slick, a lip-gloss lubricant. Their mouths move over each other, hungry.

They begin again.

She owes Pat something.

Elaine's hand moves down, over the rolling hill of Pat's belly, the slow arch of her pelvis. The absence of balls, of the ropy, rock- hard root, is strange, simultaneously familiar and un-. Elaine rubs Pat, working fast and furtively in the swampy heat, doing what needs to be done, not lingering. Pat fills with blood, becoming thick, fibrous, seeming to swell, to tighten on Elaine's hand. Out of character and undignified, Pat writhes athletically, enthusiastically, on the floor. She comes with a long, low moan.

They are finished.

Elaine looks around the kitchen-at the cabinets, the counters, noticing that the coffeemaker is still on and that they kicked the kitchen table, knocking some of the do-it-yourself books to the floor. Her thigh is stuck to the linoleum; she peels it up; it makes a thick sucking sound. She is naked on a kitchen floor with a pot holder tucked under her head as if she's had some strange household accident. Her underwear is across the room, by the refrigerator; her khakis are under the kitchen table; her blouse, draped over the chair. She is doused in the queer perfume of sex, drowsy-as though awakened from a dream before it ended.

"You're a treat," Pat says. "A delicacy. I never get to kiss. George doesn't like it."

Elaine is crawling around on all fours, rounding up her clothing, wondering, What do you do now? How do you bring yourself to standing? How do you get up, get dressed, and move along?

"How about a bath, a long, hot bath?" Pat asks.

Elaine pulls on her underwear and looks at the kitchen clock. "I can't," she says. "Look at the time; it's eleven-thirty. Aren't you worried about having gotten off schedule?"

Pat shrugs. She finds her ring on the floor and puts it in her mouth, sucking it to clean it.

Elaine is dressing as fast as she possibly can. She can't believe what she's done: Okay, so Pat kissed her-George doesn't like to kiss, and Pat needed a kiss, but what about the rest-did it really happen? Has Pat done this before? Does Pat think it was all Elaine's fault? And why is Elaine thinking fault? Why is she blaming herself? Pure panic.

"Are you all right?" Pat asks.

"It's fine," Elaine says, hurrying.

Elaine needs to be in her car going home, she needs to be someplace familiar and safe, she needs a few minutes alone. She is suffering the strange anxiety of having risen so far up and out of herself as to seem entirely untethered. She's scared herself-as though this has never been done before, as though she and Pat invented it right there on the kitchen floor. She wonders if she's suffered some odd injury-did she hurt herself? Did Pat scrape her? Will she get an infection? Will she have to tell someone-explain it? She fumbles frantically with the buttons on her blouse.

"You seem upset," Pat says, slipping back into her robe.

"I just feel…like I'm running late. I slept late, and then, well, this happened. And now I'm really late. I should go." Elaine practically runs for the door.

"Something special you want for dinner?" Pat calls after her. "What's your favorite food? Wednesday is grab bag. Everyone puts in their wishes, and each person ends up getting at least one thing they want."

Nothing, Elaine wants nothing.

"You can't leave without naming something," Pat says.

"Beets," Elaine says, racing.

"Oh, that's good, that's great. I never would have thought of that," Pat says.

Elaine throws the car into gear and pulls away-she hates beets. Why did she say beets? She drives around the block, pulls up in front of the house, and blows the horn. Pat opens the door, thrilled that Elaine has returned. She leans forward, as though expecting Elaine to make some declaration along the lines of I love you, or at least Thanks, that was fun. Elaine rolls down the window and shouts her confession across the lawn. "I hate beets. I don't know why I said that."

Pat's face takes a fall.

"Asparagus," Elaine says. "Asparagus is fine."

"Oh," Pat calls back, recovering. "Oh, good. Asparagus is a good thing."

She drives. She stinks like a skunk-the funky musk of sex. She rifles through her purse, looking for something she can spray herself with-an olfactory cover-up. She douses herself with a perfume sample. The car fills with a vigorous, bright fragrance, which works like smelling salts, bringing Elaine back to her senses.

She pulls into the shopping center, parks, and goes into the hardware store. She has no idea what she wants: hammers, files, the common nail, precision blades, wires, switches, paints, and polishes.

Pure panic.

She hasn't felt this strange in thirty years, not since the afternoon in the maid's room of Charlie Thornton's house, when she touched, then kissed Charlie's penis-she remembers it; hot, fat, and rubbery, like something in a house of horrors. His voice changed when she touched it. "Kiss it," he'd said, and she did. Kiss it.

"May I help you?"

"Just looking." Self-consciously she walks the aisles. The salesmen's heads turn-they smell the perfume. She dips her hands into huge bins filled with clevis pins, cotter pins, and thumbscrews. Her body is still flooded, confusedly dilating and contracting, her breasts rubbing against her shirt, sore.

Pat. Pat would never have occurred to her. The cop occurred to her-occurs to her now-but Pat? Not Pat.

Elaine buys something, just to buy something. Screwdrivers, pliers, and a retractable tape measure. There's a lot she has to do. She has to take responsibility, she has to learn how to fix things.

"Women love hardware stores," the cashier volunteers as he's ringing her up. "By nature they're solution-oriented-everything here solves a problem. That'll be fifty-two fifty." He flashes a gaptoothed smile.

She dashes into the supermarket and throws a few things into a basket-soda, cookies, Smokehouse Almonds-she has to be a better wife, a better mom. Daniel asked for Ziploc bags; she can't remember what for. She drops a box into the basket

and checks out. She dips into the liquor store, picking up a few bottles of wine. She is in and out of every store in the shopping center, and then she is ready to go home-she can't think of anything else to do.

The phone is ringing.

Elaine is standing outside, at the kitchen door, holding her grocery bags, her wine.

"Morning," Mrs. Hansen says, coming up the driveway behind her.

"Good morning," Elaine says.

The phone rings-its raucous rattle passes through the house, punctuating the air, splitting it, dividing it, defining it; comma, period, exclamation point.

"Your phone is ringing," Mrs. Hansen says.

"Yes," Elaine says, holding her bags, making no move to open the door.

"We sold your answering machine at the yard sale," Mrs. Hansen says.

"I remember," Elaine says. "I have to get a new one. I'm just wondering if I should run and do it now before I even go inside."

"It stopped," Mrs. Hansen says. "The phone stopped. You missed your call."

"It's fine," Elaine says, drawing a deep breath, feeling freed to find her key and step inside.

The house still stinks.

Mrs. Hansen follows her in. "Are you by chance wearing perfume?" Mrs. Hansen asks.

"It spilled," Elaine says. "It was a sample that spilled."

"It's intense," Mrs. Hansen says. "I couldn't tell right away if it was you or the house."

"The house stinks, and so do I," Elaine says, exasperated. "That's why I came home-I need to take a shower and change."

The phone starts to ring again.

Elaine stares at the wall. What looked all right yesterday is blistering, bubbling today.

"I'll get it," Mrs. Hansen says, taking the bags from Elaine and gesturing toward the stairs. "Go on. I'll get it."

Elaine can still feel the press of Pat on her body, her weight, her swampy sex. She showers, scrubbing herself with the loofah, imagining putting the long loofah up inside herself, like a bottle brush, to scratch the itch, the tingling lick of Pat's tongue, scraping herself clean. In her whorish fog, she lathers her breasts with soap, massaging them, and using the long neck of a shampoo bottle, makes herself come.

The phone keeps ringing.

Elaine dresses. Clean clothes are like fresh bandages, covering everything, making it smooth, easy, nice. She transfers the pile of Post-its into the clean pocket and goes back downstairs. Burnt toast. Today the house smells like wet burnt toast.

"Just two calls," Mrs. Hansen says. "A painter is coming to measure. And your mother-she wants you to call her back."

If anything can penetrate her fog and remind her of who she is, or more likely who she is not, it's her mother.

Elaine dials.

"Hello," her mother says, drawing the word out, dividing it in two, making it into a faux melody, like the NBC chimes or a doorbell.

"Hi, Mom."

"Your father is driving me crazy. I'm not the kind of woman who wants to walk out on a seventy-two-year-old man, but who does he think he's kidding? I open my mouth, and he says, 'I don't want to hear it.'"

"Is Daddy home? Do you want me to talk to him?"

"Of course he's home. Does he have a life? Does he have anything to do? No, and still he can't take a minute. He can't talk to me." "I'm here, I'm here," her father says, taking the phone. "Twenty-four hours a day she wants to talk. I want one minute to think, and it turns into World War III."

"Be nice," Elaine says. "She's all you've got."

"So she says." He takes a breath. "I hear you have problems with the house."

"We had a fire."

"That's what your mother tells me. Are you insured?"

"Hopefully. They're coming today."

"Make sure you keep your receipts. Get a fireproof box; that way if anything happens, at least you have the receipt."

"Okay, Dad."

"You want your mother back, I can tell. Here she is."

"So," her mother says. "Help me with the sofa. Clearly your father isn't going to."

"I can't," Elaine says. She is determined to say no, to put her foot down. "Everything is falling apart. I have to take care of things. I'm sorry."

"How about tomorrow?" her mother asks.

"We'll see," Elaine says.

"What about your mother? Someone has to take care of your mother."

"Is it too early for a glass of wine?" Mrs. Hansen whispers while Elaine is on the phone.

"I'll call you in the morning," Elaine says, hanging up.

"Too early?" Mrs. Hansen asks again when Elaine hangs up.

"It's perfect, just perfect," Elaine says.

Mrs. Hansen uncorks the bottle.

"Have you eaten breakfast? We have to eat a little something with it," Elaine says, digging crackers out of the grocery bag.

"I don't really like to snack," Mrs. Hansen says. "It ruins the appetite."

Elaine's friend Liz pulls into the driveway, beeping her horn.

"I came the minute I heard." She rushes toward the house as though it's an emergency, as though the fire is still raging, as though she's going be the one who puts it out.

"We just got back, twenty minutes ago," Liz says, scurrying up the steps.

Liz grabs Elaine, hugging her. Elaine braces herself. "How are you?" she asks "Are you all right? Is everyone all right? What happened?"

"We had a fire," Elaine says, pulling back.

She feels so far away from Liz, from herself-she burned down her house, she had sex with someone other than her husband, she is losing her mind, and Mrs. Hansen, who she never really knew before, seems to be playing the role of full-time housekeeper. It's been less than a week, but it's like forever.

"Jennifer heard about it first. When we got home, her friend Mo was there feeding the cats, and the first thing Mo said was that your house caught fire. I ran right over. It wasn't clear whether you'd just caught on fire or what. So what happened?" Liz asks pausing for breath. "And when?"

All week Elaine's been waiting for Liz to come home; in her head she's been telling Liz everything, laying out what led to what, how it all turned to shit. But now that Liz is there, Elaine's need to tell, to confess, to relieve herself of the burden of the awkward events has evaporated. Other things, perhaps even more unbelievable, have happened. A stranger, even more unlikely scenario is unfolding.

The house burned down-worse yet, it didn't even really burn down and was only moderately damaged. Does it matter that Elaine tipped the grill? Which matters more, that Elaine tipped the grill or that she fucked Pat for breakfast? A breeze blows the plastic covering the hole in the dining-room wall. The house fills with a wingish, flapping sound.

"How was your trip?" Elaine asks. Liz and Jennifer have been touring colleges, visiting schools for Jennifer, who is going to be everything Liz and Elaine are not: doctor, lawyer, movie star.

"Wonderful," Liz says. "Jen is amazing. They all want her. Oberlin is lovely, Chicago isn't what I thought it would be. Yale was incredible, and an entire floor of the Barnard dorm is filled with girls with pierced tongues. But Jennifer wants to go somewhere far, far away, maybe Berkeley, which would be fine. We'll see. She could change her mind. Tomorrow she could become a young Republican, who can know?"

I set the house on fire, Elaine imagines herself saying. If it would make sense to anyone, it should make sense to Liz; after all, this is what she went back to school to study-the lives of women in relation to what's around them. She recently wrote thirty pages on "The Male Gaze as (Dis)played in Your Grocer's Dairy Case." Elaine remembers there being something in Liz's paper about the significance of the live-lobster tank in the fish department. She imagines Liz writing a paper on "The Burning House," finding some sociocultural explanation for what happened, revealing the truth of Elaine, not as a person but a phenomenon.

"How are Paul and the boys?" Liz asks.

Elaine pulls herself back into the conversation. "We're a little scattered," she says. "The electricity was off, and there's the smoke, the smell, and the hole."

"Come stay with me," Liz says. "We'll pack up your stuff, and you'll all come to my place until it's fixed. It'll be fun, like a slumber party."

"We've been with Pat and George," Elaine says.

Because Liz was away, because she missed the moment, she's been deposed. Now Pat has Elaine, and Elaine can't tell

Liz, because it's all so crazy. And so even though Liz is supposed to be her best friend-because they once were best friends and the assumption is that the assignment is permanent-and even though Liz is standing in front of her, asking, What can I do? practically begging, Elaine can't say anything. There's something about the new and improved Liz that annoys Elaine. Liz is making a career out of the parts of life that Elaine loathes-she found a way out by going farther in. Elaine doesn't want to celebrate women's lives, she wants to smash her life, to pummel it into a powder. And she can't deal with Liz's pronouncements, her judgment, her need to read something major into every situation.

Mrs. Hansen comes out of the kitchen and hands Elaine a glass of wine watered down with seltzer. She puts a small dish of almonds on the coffee table in the living room. "Can I get you a drink?" she asks Liz.

"We're having wine," Elaine explains.

"Yeah, sure, that'd be great," Liz says, and Mrs. Hansen goes back into the kitchen.

"New cleaning lady?"

"That's Mrs. Hansen from across the street-she's been here since the fire."

Mrs. Hansen delivers a spritzer for Liz and heads back to the kitchen.

"She's shy," Elaine says, sipping her drink.

"I've never seen you drink during the day."

"It's just a glass of wine," Elaine says.

Liz checks her watch-just past one-and takes a sip. "So," she says, "what're you going to do? You need a goal, a project."

"What's this?" Elaine asks, gesturing around the house.

"Repair work," Liz says.

There's a pause, a silence. In the kitchen something drops. "Sorry," Mrs. Hansen calls.

"It's fine," Elaine calls back. "It's fine," she says, and remembers the kiss-the satiny feel of Pat's lips, Pat's hands sliding over her skin-it's fine. Fine as long as it's only this. It's fine-if it's just one time. Fine.

"Let's get out of here," Liz says. "I'm taking you shopping. I start a summer internship next week, and I need a few things." That's another thing about the new Liz that Elaine could never have been: a convert. Liz has abandoned the cult of the home for the cult of the classroom and become an academic fanatic.

Elaine pulls the pile of Post-its from her pocket and thinks of her khakis bunched up on the floor, under Pat's kitchen table. Pick paint, repair or renovate. Contractor. Do you want a deck? French doors? Roofer-ask Pat. Make dinner plans. The car is for you-keys on the dresser. Insurance company will come. Measure.

"Paul asked me to take care of a few things. I should stay here and deal with them," Elaine says.

"Fuck Paul," Liz says, taking the Post-its, going through them as though they're a flip book, a slow-motion show of two people doing a dance. "Okay," she says. "We'll go to the paint store, we'll get chips. Definitely renovate-why just repair when you can improve? Contractor-call Ruth Esterhazy; they just did a job on their house. Yes, deck. Yes, French doors. I have a roofer, Ric. 'Ric's Roofs-We don't let it rain on you.' I'll give you his number. Measure. What are you supposed to measure?"

"I have no idea," Elaine says. "Measure up?"

"Come on, I'll drive."

"Should I ask Mrs. Hansen to join us?" Elaine whispers.

"Whatever."

"Mrs. Hansen," Elaine calls as she's getting her bag. "We're going to do a little shopping, would you like to come?"

"Oh, no," Mrs. Hansen says, stepping out from the kitchen. "You go. I'll just stay here. That painter is coming to look around. And maybe I'll do a little work in your garden, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. Should I leave you a key?"

"Oh, I don't need a key; the lock is still broken."

"Right," Elaine says. "Well, we'll see you in a little while."

As they're pulling out of the driveway, Elaine notices the cop car parked just across the street-the cop waves.

"Community service," Elaine says.

They shop. The get paint chips and a couple of quarts of colors to try out. They go to the mall in White Plains. They go in and out of the stores. Elaine starts to feel more normal, more like herself. In Nordstrom's, Liz buys a linen suit for her summer job: assistant to the assistant director at the Center for Women in the Humanities at NYU. "I thought it would give me broad expos- ure-no pun intended," Liz says. "Now I just need shoes."

Elaine motions toward the lingerie department. "I've got to pick up something," she says. "Why don't I meet you in twenty minutes?"

Elaine is looking for a nightgown for Paul. Something large, something long. Not a nightshirt, he made that clear. "Silky," he'd said. "With a little lace. I like lace, it tickles." She finds one she thinks will look good on him. "It's got to cover my ass," he'd said. "Nothing baby-doll-that makes me feel too exposed, like I'm going to get poked." She finds one for Paul and the same one for herself in a smaller size and then is looking at the bras and panties.

Panties. She never wears panties. She wears underpants-but that sounds so generic, almost medicinal, like a mustard plaster.

"Do you have these panties in black?" she asks the salesgirl.

"Are they low-cut, high-cut?" she asks when the girl brings them out.

The girl shrugs. "Depends on how you're cut."

Elaine slips into the dressing room and tries on a few things. She had sex with a woman-how could that have happened? It has the surrealistic quality of a dream. Why did she do it? Will she do it again? She doesn't think so, and yet she is shopping for lingerie-sexy things in black, things that will make her look good for Pat. Elaine studies herself in the mirror-her left breast is a third the size of the right, her pubic hair is thin. And her thighs, her thighs seem to be melting, pulling away from the bone and pouring down, dripping over her knees. She needs to get in shape, to lose a few pounds. She is looking in the mirror comparing herself to Pat. Horrified. She thought this kind of thing didn't happen between women-that's why lesbians look the way they do-they don't make comparisons.

The salesgirl stands outside the dressing room. "Can I get you anything? Do you need different sizes?"

"I'm fine," Elaine says, passing the undergarments out over the top along with her credit card. "Just ring me up."

"The grill tipped," Elaine says in the car on the way back to the house. "That's what started it."

"A Weber?"

"No, just a crappy thing we got at the grocery store last year."

"Unbelievable," Liz says. "That's what started the fire?" she asks, and Elaine wonders if Liz doesn't believe her.

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"It seems so strange," Liz says, pulling into the driveway. "What can I do? What would be helpful?"

Elaine has no answers.

"Are you all right?" Liz asks.

Elaine shakes her head no.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Liz asks. "I'm back. I can do whatever you need."

Elaine smiles. "Thanks," she says; her tone is somewhat lost, somewhat resigned. She doesn't want to go home. She is fine-or if not fine, at least better-when she is out of the house.

"What is it? You and Paul? The boys?"

Elaine can't answer. What if it's not one thing? she thinks. What if it's everything?

"I'm sorry," Liz says, sort of catching on. "I'm sorry, I always think of you as being so fantastic."

"You do?" Elaine gets out of the car. Her head is a sour soup, a confit of confusion.