Music for Torching

FIVE

IT IS A PERFECT JUNE DAY, the sky is a hearty blue, the trees are freshly green, the air is cool and sweeps over Elaine's skin, drawing her out of herself and into the day.

It is the kind of afternoon that people notice. They look up at the sky and say, "What a blue," and, "You ought to get out- side-it'd be a shame not to." "Enjoy!" they implore each other. It is the kind of a day that brings on a good mood; the air is pregnant with promise.

She is in a whirl, a dizzying spin.

It is Elaine, all Elaine. The darkness, the rot is inside her, like poison, consuming her-death eating flesh.

With a terrific echoey bang, Daniel pops up out of the Dumpster like a jack-in-the-box unsprung. "Where have you been?" he demands. "You're late. You're always home when we get here."

A startled shout escapes Elaine. "What are you doing? Are you stuck? Did you fall in? Is this some sort of a game?"

"I was looking for something," Daniel says as he starts to climb out.

"What would be in the Dumpster?" "Stuff," he says, crawling out over the top, lowering himself to a stepladder he's parked alongside.

"So where were you?" Daniel asks again. He rolls down the sleeves of a white dress shirt that Elaine has never seen before.

"I was with Liz, if you must know."

"Oh," he says, buttoning the cuffs. "I thought maybe you'd gone off somewhere."

"Like where?"

"Dunno, somewhere."

"Why would you think that?" she asks, sensing his suspicion, his constant disappointment in her.

He shrugs.

"Where's Sammy?"

"Inside."

"And Mrs. Hansen?"

"Right here, never fear," Mrs. Hansen says, coming around the corner of the house, rubbing her hands together. Her hands are a rich dark brown to the wrist; it looks as if she's wearing leather driving gloves. Her apron is muddy. "Don't say it, don't say it," she says, waving away Elaine's stare. "Use a trowel, that's what everyone says, get a good gardening outfit, but this is how I like it. I like getting down in the dirt, in deep with the worms, et cetera, et cetera," she says, her speech ever so slightly slurred. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" She holds her face up to the sky. "Glorious," she says.

The boys are home. Mrs. Hansen is home. The yard is hardening, pulling itself back together, forming a firm and crusty surface. The world has held its shape. Everything is as it was. Elaine is both comforted and disconcerted. She is glad things are the same, but it throws into relief how very strange she's feeling-there is an enormous distance, an unbridgeable electromagnetic force field between Elaine and everyone else.

"Pat called. And Paul called. And your father called looking for your mother-he says she escaped, he's afraid she's run away. He last saw her folding laundry, and then she was gone. He says it's no joke."

The phone rings. Sound turned inside out; a gentle trill comes from the garden. Mrs. Hansen hurries around back. Elaine and Daniel follow her.

"Hello," she says, picking up the blue Princess phone that used to be in the hall and is now resting in the dirt near the flower beds. A long line of telephone cord trails out the kitchen window. "Hello," Mrs. Hansen says. "Hello, hello."

"It's your father," she whispers to Elaine.

Elaine shakes her head.

"I'm sorry, she's not back yet. Can I take a message?"

"Oh, that's good," Mrs. Hansen says. "That's wonderful. I'll give her the news." She hangs up. "He found your mother. She was there all the time, but she was hiding. So nothing happened, nothing is wrong. Isn't that nice?" She smiles.

Elaine imagines that her parents have been playing a constant and peculiar game of hide-and-go-seek for the last forty-seven years.

"She was hiding," Mrs. Hansen says.

"Where's Sammy?"

"He's inside," Mrs. Hansen says. "And the insurance man is somewhere around here-that's his car down by the curb-he's been lurking for about an hour, canvassing the neighborhood. He caught me as I was crossing the street. I went back for the long phone cord-I was sure we had one-and he stopped me. He asked me, 'How long have you been friends?' I told him, 'We really weren't friends at all, until the fire.'" She gets down on her hands and knees. "I've got my planting to do," she says, digging in the dirt. "He'll be back."

Mrs. Hansen, the nanny they never had. Who could ask for more? An older woman with experience, mature and a little tipsy. You couldn't get a better one from an agency.

Elaine goes into the house.

Surrounded by soot and ash, Sammy sits on the floor in front of the TV, playing a video game, ignoring the fact that the TV screen has been dimmed by smoke.

"How come you're in here all by yourself?" Elaine asks.

"I don't stand a chance at Nate's," he says, manically flicking his thumbs on the controls.

Elaine looks past him at the hole in the dining room wall-bandaged but still looking like the entrance to a cave.

The zim-zam careening sounds of the video game blast. Elaine goes over to the TV.

"You're blocking me," Sammy says.

"This might help," she says, pressing her palm to the TV and moving her hand in an arc like a wiper blade across the screen. The picture brightens-her hand is covered in black soot.

"Don't stay in here," she says to Sammy. "It's too cruddy, and it's a beautiful day outside."

Sammy jiggles the controls, and two buildings blow up and fall into an animated heap of rubble. "Yes," he screams at the TV set. And then the pieces miraculously grow legs, scramble together, and run away. "Go," he screams. "Go."

Elaine goes upstairs. She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. The face is familiar, not contorted-not twisted into an anxious knot. One eye twitches, but that's it. The dense fog of anxiety, the cloud cover of guilt is invisible.

Daniel stands at the bathroom door.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says.

"Do we have a waterproof marker?" he asks.

"In the drawer in the kitchen," she says.

He stands in the door.

She turns toward him, wanting to reach him, to find a point of contact. He's wearing a suit. Elaine has never seen him in a suit before. He doesn't even own a suit. Her confusion is obvious.

"Mrs. Meaders gave it to me," he says. "It was in their basement, in the GoodWill pile. I like it." He holds the lapels and turns as if modeling the outfit.

There's a huge stain on the back of the jacket-Elaine debates whether to tell him or not.

"Take off your jacket," she says.

"Why?"

"It's got a stain."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does."

"This is like a joke," Daniel says. "You're making fun of me because I'm wearing a suit and you think it's funny."

"Daniel," Elaine says, "mothers don't make fun of their chil- dren-or at least not to their faces. That's why mothers and fathers sleep in a double bed, so they can make fun of the kids all night."

"Not true," Daniel says, taking off the jacket, checking the spot. "They sleep in the same bed so they can fuck."

"Watch it, mister," Elaine says.

"Like I'm telling you something you don't already know."

What does he know? Elaine is uncomfortable, somehow threatened.

Daniel pulls a notebook from his pocket, a long narrow notebook like a reporter's steno pad, only it's a grocery list. Instead of lines, it has categories: fruit, vegetables, meat, poultry, fish.

"How old were you when you married Dad?" he asks.

"Twenty-six."

"How old were you when you got pregnant with me?"

"Thirty-one."

"And how old are you now?" he asks, doing the math.

She has the feeling that he is trying to stump her. "Is this a test?"

"Just answer the questions."

"Forty-three," she says.

There is a sound from downstairs-Sammy laughing, Sammy entertaining himself. She is heartened. She smiles. She looks at Daniel, who is still fixed on her with an impassive stare. The noise continues-what she thought was laughing becomes more frenzied, more like barking, and Elaine realizes that Sammy is wheezing. She races down the stairs, grabs him by the arm, ripping him away from the television set. Moving through the house, as though she's flying, she grabs the spare inhaler from the drawer in the kitchen along with the pills for severe occasions and rushes Sammy out of the house. He is breathing as though he's choking, as though there is no air. She shakes the inhaler and holds it to his mouth. "Breathe," she shouts, squirting a puff into his mouth.

"Hold it," she says. "Exhale." She shakes the inhaler again. "And breathe," she says, shooting another puff into his lungs. She hands him a pill and goes back in for water.

They sit on the kitchen steps waiting for the drugs to take effect. She rubs his back and encourages him to breathe slowly, deeply. The wheezing subsides.

"Are you okay?"

Sammy nods.

"As soon as that starts to happen, you have to use the inhaler. Don't wait. Ask someone to help you. Do you know how to use the inhaler?"

He nods.

Her heart is racing. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have let you be in there. The house is too dirty for you. You have to stay outside until we get it all cleaned up. Okay?"

He nods again.

The house is like a ruin; you can only dip into it. Sammy's attack proves to Elaine that the house can't be trusted, that she can't be trusted. She should have known better, she should have pulled him out as soon as she saw him there on the floor. Around her children, she feels the most helpless kind of love, achingly inadequate. What if she hadn't been home? What if it had just been Daniel and Mrs. Hansen-what would have happened then?

Daniel is walking around the front yard, scribbling pages of notes.

"Dad's home," he announces before Paul reaches the driveway.

She is nervous. She's not even sure what to feel guilty about: cheating-that it was with another woman, does that even count? — or enjoying it?

Paul comes into view. "What a fucking incredible day," he says, coming up the driveway.

Sammy starts to rattle again. Elaine rubs his back slowly. "Breathe," she encourages him.

"I'm home," Paul says, beaming up at the family.

Elaine looks at him as though he is a foreigner. Her memory of him is distant, divorced, like deja vu-Paul who? "What puts you in such a good mood?"

"I just had the best walk home from the train. It's a beautiful day. We're fixing up the house. We're going to have a deck and French doors."

"The house is giving Sammy an asthma attack," Elaine says.

"Oh."

"And the insurance guy is around here somewhere. He's interviewing our neighbors. He could tell us we have no coverage at all. He could say, 'Sorry, folks, you're on your own.'"

"Why are you being so negative?"

"Somebody has to be," Elaine says.

"You're ruining it," Paul says. "For all of us. We're having a great time." He nods at Sammy. "Right, Sammo?"

Sammy closes his eyes and breathes.

"You might be having a great time," Elaine says. "What did you do today?" she asks.

"What do you mean?" he asks defensively.

"Never mind," she says. They take swipes at each other, scratching, clawing, fighting to hit a nerve, to get a reaction. Elaine pats Sammy on the back. "It's much better now, isn't it?" She rubs a dirty spot on his leg. "What's that?"

"Nate peed on me," he says. "I put dirt on to clean it."

"Nate peed on you?" Elaine asks. "That's disgusting."

"He must have missed," Paul says.

"Uh-huh," Sammy says, getting up, going down the steps and into the yard.

"Take it easy," Elaine calls after him. "Don't go wild."

"All day I tried calling you," Paul says. "You weren't home. Did you get my messages? Did you get my Post-its from this morning?"

"Got 'em all," she says. "Got your Post-its and I got your paint chips, got your names and numbers, shapes and sizes. I got it all like a good little wife."

"Good little wife?"

The insurance guy bursts through the bushes, taking the shortcut through the neighbors' yard. "I'm Randy, your State Farm man," he says, shaking Paul's hand. He is younger than they are, maybe thirty or thirty-five, a baby-faced blimp with a strangely thin coat of fine brown hair like feathers. His belly presses against his pale-blue short-sleeved shirt, straining the buttons. Elaine imagines that when people describe him as a "big fella," he thinks it's a compliment.

"I've got your file right here with me," he says. "I hope you'll be able to clue me in, fill in the missing links so we can dot the I's and cross the T's. I hope we can get it over with here and now."

Elaine and Paul nod.

"I've taken a look around and talked with your neighbors," the investigator says. "They weren't much help. And I've also gone over your claim history. There isn't much."

"We had a flood once," Elaine says. "A pipe broke."

"Yes, I know," the investigator says, looking through his file.

"Give me an idea of how this works," Paul says to the agent nervously. "I always need to know how things work."

The investigator holds up a finger, keeping Paul at bay. He pulls a fresh pen from his shirt pocket. "Things good at the office?" he asks Paul.

"Good," Paul says. "Good. Everything is good."

"Any debt?" the agent asks.

"Not much. The house, the car, and a little home-equity loan we took out a couple of years ago to fix up the bathroom," Paul says.

"We redid the master bath," Elaine says.

Daniel comes around the side of the house and catches Paul's eye.

Paul smiles.

Daniel flips to a clean page in his notebook and writes something down.

Elaine sees it coming. She stares at Paul and shakes her head, no, no, no. She is powerless to stop it.

"Why so dressed up?" Paul asks Daniel. "You going to a funeral?"

Daniel looks at Elaine as if to say, See, you are making fun of me. He scribbles frantically in his notebook and walks away.

"Hey," Paul calls after him. "Your jacket's dirty, you've got a stain on your back." "I hate you. I hate you," Daniel screams, breaking into a run.

"What did I do?" Paul asks Elaine.

"Let's take a walk around back," the agent says, "and see what we've got."

"Did you call Pat to tell her we'll be late for dinner?" Paul asks.

"No."

"Why not?"

Elaine doesn't answer.

"Could you call her now and apologize for not calling sooner, tell her you forgot and that we'll get dinner on our own."

"Could you?" Elaine asks.

"What's wrong with you?" Paul asks.

"Don't investigate me," she says.

"Just call. You don't even have to go inside." Paul points to the blue Princess phone in the dirt.

Elaine dials.

Perfect Pat, Pat from the night before, Pat from the kitchen floor. "Should I hold dinner?" Pat asks.

"No. We'll be fine on our own," Elaine says, pronouncing each word as though reading from a script, trying to say the minimum.

"Are you all right?" Pat asks.

Fine as long as…Fine if it's only…"I'm fine," she says. What else can she say?

"Did I frighten you?" Pat asks. "Are you avoiding me?"

"Oh, no," Elaine says, lying. "I've just been busy with the house, and then Liz was here, and then the boys, and now the insurance man." Elaine turns away from everyone. "I can't talk right now." She stares at the dirt. "I'm out in the yard."

"See you soon," Pat says.

Elaine hangs up.

"So," the agent says, pushing papers deeper into the folder.

"You asked how this works. Basically, I could investigate you upside down and inside out. I could look at your finances and your fingerprints. I could send out a questionnaire to every person on your block. I could interview your parents, your boss, and your first-grade teacher. But why would I?"

A faint line of perspiration breaks out on Elaine's upper lip. The evening air is still, slightly warm. She begins to sweat, to breathe too quickly, to panic. It feels as if the temperature is going up as the sun goes down, and the humidity is on the rise. The air is without air, there is nothing to breathe.

"You tell me you have no debts, and I believe you," the agent says. "But have you got a bank statement I could take a peek at? Do you have a retirement account? How much are you putting in? Are you maxing out?" He pauses and takes a peek at his papers. "Any health issues? Cancer in the family? Either of you recently diagnosed with a horrible, expensive disease?" The agent looks at them carefully. "Anything you don't want me to know?" He laughs to himself: heh, heh, heh.

Paul bangs on his chest. "Healthy like a hog," he says.

"Knock wood," Elaine says. "We have nothing to tell."

"We're incredibly boring," Paul says. "That's the fact. We even bore ourselves."

"I hope so," the agent says. "I hope that's the whole story."

The boys come running through the yard, walkie-talkies squawking. The agent crouches down to Sammy's level. "Do you like your mommy's meat loaf?" he asks. Sammy makes a face, pretending to throw up, then he burps in the investigator's face.

"He hates meat loaf," Paul says.

"Let's talk a bit about the grill?" the guy says, standing up. "Do you cook out a lot?"

"More in July and August, but it's been so warm," Paul says. "We've already been to three or four barbecues this year."

"I couldn't cook," Elaine says. "I just couldn't cook."

The men exchange winks-as if to say, Mine gets that way too. Elaine sees it and hates both of them.

"So this is the grill that failed you," the agent says, crouching over the remains. He tucks his file into his armpit and struggles to reassemble the parts. He tries to put it back together, and it keeps coming apart. "How does it go? What's the drill? She marinates and you.?"

Who squirted the stuff that soaked the coals, who lit the match, who fanned the flames, who kicked the grill and caused it to fall? Who dared do this to the house that Jack built?

"What usually happens is that I get home and everyone's starving. I take off my jacket, set up the coals, get it started, and go in and change while they're warming up." Paul shrugs. "I feel like it's all my fault."

The guy holds up his hand. "Do you leave the grill unattended?"

"What can I say?" Paul says.

"There weren't enough hot dogs," Elaine says. "There were only three franks, and there are four of us. And Paul and Daniel sometimes eat two or three apiece." Elaine keeps thinking, It's a trap. Paul is acting looser and looser with the guy, like he can say anything, as if they're buddies, having bonded on the idea that their wives won't cook. And the agent is acting friendly, giving advice, waiting for Paul to confess. Waiting for Paul to lean in and, say, ask confidentially, Suppose a fellow "accidentally" burned his own house down?

Whatta ya mean by accidentally? the agent would say.

Well, you know, had a patch of temporary insanity and set the thing on fire-what would happen then?

Suppose a fella worked for an insurance company, the guy would say, and the fella who burned his house down asked him this question. Whatta ya suppose the fella from the insurance company should think?

Elaine can hear it in her head. She sees them losing the deck, losing the French doors, the house, the kids, the car, losing the bonus prize behind door number three and going directly to jail.

"Tell us about yourself," Elaine says, changing the subject. "Where do you live?"

"We're in a condominium in Fordham-indoor garage, roof deck, health club, party room whenever you want it. A house is too much responsibility. All day I see what goes wrong. I know what happens. It's better to have nothing; that way you have nothing to lose." While he talks, he draws diagrams of the scene.

Elaine looks at his pictures; he sketches like a child: a square box, a triangle for the roof. The family is represented by stick figures; the grill looks like an armless, three-legged man. Elaine thinks of the "Can Dinky Draw?" ads on the backs of comic books. Everything is flat-he has no perspective. He has no vision.

"There's also a hole in the roof. You can see it from the bedroom," Elaine says. "We took Polaroids."

The agent draws a circle in the roof; he draws an arrow marking it and writes, "hole/roof." "I guess it was just about now-this time of day," the guy says, looking up. "Just about dinnertime."

"Just about now," Paul says, echoing him.

A horn beeps.

The phone rings. Mrs. Hansen answers it. "Hello," Elaine hears Mrs. Hansen say. "I'm sorry, they're busy now. Can I take a message?"

Kick the can. Sammy is kicking the can of charcoal-starter fluid, around the yard; the hollow, metal ka-thunk echoes. Where did he get it? Elaine remembers seeing Paul and Henry in the yard yesterday, Henry picking up the can, shaking it, and putting it in the trash. She remembers Paul emptying the trash can into the Dumpster. How did it get out again? Is this the

"stuff" Daniel was looking for? Did he give it to Sammy on purpose? What is he doing? What kind of game is this?

"Wallace, Wallace," a boy calls. The neighbors' dog comes crashing through the yard, carrying something in his mouth that looks like underpants. On his wild ride, he brushes against the grill, which the agent has finally gotten to stand; it collapses. "Wallace, Wallace." A boy chases after the dog. "Jesus Christ, Wallace, get back here. You're driving me crazy, Wallace. Do you want a cookie, a major Milk-Bone? Wallace, come home, please."

The horn beeps again.

Daniel comes into the backyard. "Mr. Meaders is here."

"I was on my way home, and thought I'd stop by and pick up Daniel-if he's ready to go," Meaders says, appearing in the backyard. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of dropping him. I hear you folks have been having some difficulties."

"We had a fire," Paul says.

"Something in the wiring?"

"An accident," Elaine says. "The grill tipped."

"These things happen," Paul says.

"Wouldn't know," the man says. "I never grill. I don't like surprises."

"I wouldn't think so," Paul says.

"You all set?" he asks Daniel. "You have your books, your homework?"

Daniel nods.

"Tell your folks good night."

"Night," Daniel says.

"Sleep well," Elaine says. "See you tomorrow."

"I hate that guy," Paul says when they are gone. The sight of his eldest son trailing off after Meaders so willingly, as though Meaders is his trainer, his guide, infuriates Paul and is disheartening as hell. "He gives me a knot in my gut. There's something about him I don't trust. What does he do for a living?" "He's some kind of tax investigator."

"Oh," Paul says. "I knew it was something."

There is a moment's silence.

"It isn't so bad," the insurance guy says, signing his forms. "I've seen worse. You wouldn't believe the idiotic things people do when they're not thinking." He pauses. "The other day I caught my wife brushing her teeth and blow-drying her hair simultaneously. One hand is under the water and the other's got the blow- dryer going. I'm afraid to touch her. 'Hey, hey,' I yell, 'you're underwater.' And she looks at me like I'm the idiot."

"So where do we go from here?" Paul asks. "What now?"

"I don't think it'll be a problem," the agent says. "I have the report, I talked to your neighbors. Anything could have happened. That damned dog could have done it, who knows? Do you know? I don't know. Therefore, I think it'll be fine."

"Does that mean you're going to pay?"

"Basically," the agent says. "You're covered under the stupidity clause."

"Is there really a stupidity clause?" Elaine asks.

"No," he says, closing his folder. "But here's a good example: I once had a guy whose pipes froze, and he went to unfreeze them with a blowtorch and burned the whole house down. It was an accident, stupidity. He didn't do it on purpose-that's the way it goes. Nice to meet you," the agent says, shaking their hands.

"Great meeting you," Paul says buoyantly.

Elaine smiles.

Paul turns to Elaine, beaming. "We're covered under the stupidity clause. I'm so relieved."

Sammy plays with both walkie-talkies. "What are you wearing?" he asks one walkie-talkie.

"Who is this?" he asks the other.

"It's me," he says. "Do you have your shoes and socks on? Are you ready to go?" "Who is me? Do I know you?" he asks.

So relieved.

In the front yard Elaine and Paul have a fierce, whispering fight. "I'm in a good mood," Paul hisses. "I want to take you out to dinner. I want us to have an hour alone. Why do you have to ruin it? Why do you ruin everything?"

"He had an attack, Paul," Elaine hisses back. "He was in the house playing a video game. I was upstairs, I thought I heard him laughing, but he wasn't laughing, he was wheezing, he was wheezing horribly."

"But he's all right now," Paul says.

Elaine shakes her head. She hates Paul for putting her in this position, for making her choose, for being so fucking selfish.

"Roger," Sammy says into walkie-talkie number one.

"Hey, I'm not Roger," he says into walkie-talkie number two.

"If you're not Roger, then who am I?"

"I'm starving," Paul says. "Let's just drop him off and grab a bite."

"Fine," she says. "If something horrible happens to him, it's your fault."

"Nothing is going to happen."

"Over and out," Sammy says. "Over. Outer."

They drive Sammy to Nate's. Paul gets out and takes Sammy to the door. They ring the bell. Nate answers. "Oh, it's you," he says and walks away, leaving the door open.

Paul and Sammy step inside. "Hello," Paul calls. "Hello, it's Paul and Sam." They wait uncomfortably in the hall. There are sounds from the kitchen. Paul rubs Sammy's back. "Are you okay? Do you have your medicine in case you need it?"

Sammy nods.

"Mommy and I are only a phone call away."

Paul debates whether to go in farther, whether to look for Susan. He wonders if Gerald is home.

"Oooooo, ick pot," Nate shouts, running past them, through the house, and up the stairs.

Sammy sighs deeply.

"You'll be all right," Paul says. "Hello? Anybody home?" He wanders down the hall. "Susan?"

She steps out of the kitchen. "I didn't hear the door. I was grinding nuts."

He smiles-they had a lovely conversation earlier this afternoon, everything is good. They have a date for Friday-she has arranged for someone else, some other mother, to pick up the kids after soccer. She will be his Mrs. Apple, from four-thirty to six-thirty. "I'm just dropping Sammy," he says.

"Hi, Sam," she says, giving him a special little smile. "How are you today? It was a beautiful day, wasn't it?"

Sammy doesn't answer.

Paul pats his chest and mimes wheezing.

"Are you better now?" Susan asks. "Are you hungry? I made wieners for dinner. You like wieners, don't you?"

"He has his inhaler in case there's trouble."

She squeezes Paul's shoulder, kneading him. "How many puffs?"

"Two."

"See you tomorrow," Paul says, getting down on his knees, giving Sammy a big squeeze. "Be a good boy."

"Did you give her the inhaler?" Elaine asks as soon as he's back in the car.

"Sammy's got it."

"Well, you should have given it to her. Does she know how to use it?"

"She knows everything," Paul says, pulling out of the driveway.

At the Chinese restaurant, Paul is sweet, he is loving and attentive. He holds open the door for Elaine, pulls her chair out, and then tucks her in. He is acting like a gentleman, as if he wants to please her, as if pleasing her gives him pleasure. But she is in a foul mood. Elaine is the anchor to reality, the unrelenting reminder that all is not well. The happier Paul seems, the more pleased he is, the fouler she becomes. "Why do you have to ruin everything?" she hears the echo of his asking.

She looks at Paul-Paul is beaming. Why?

Is Paul happy because he has something horrible to tell her? Maybe he's going to tell her that he's having an affair-she's convinced he's having one. Maybe he's leaving. Maybe he's so damned happy because he finally found a way out.

"Am I supposed to pretend that everything is fine?" Elaine asks. "Am I supposed to ignore things?"

"Not ignore," Paul says. "But if you noticed less-if everything didn't mean so terrifically much-things would be better."

"That's all it takes?" Elaine asks.

"It's a start."

The waitress comes. "What can I get you folks this evening?"

"Oh," Elaine says, "we're not ready yet, we haven't even looked."

They open their menus. Elaine thinks of Pat. Will Pat be angry that they went out for dinner-that Elaine didn't call until the last minute?

"You pick," Paul says. "Get whatever you want. No kids. No rules. No limits."

He is thinking of Mrs. Apple, of the date, of Elaine. With Mrs. Apple he has the fantasy of himself as the caring husband, the good father-she doesn't burden him with details about money, about what needs to be fixed, about where they're going for summer vacation. With the date he has adventure-tomor row she has promised something that will "change him forever." And with Elaine he has all the rest. In his mind they are not three different women but continuations of one woman. A giant breast. On some profound level, he can't imagine that it would be a problem, that anyone would mind. He's aware there's a flaw in his thinking, an immaturity that tells him what he does is excusable. His behavior-his constant need for comfort-makes sense to him, therefore it should make sense to others-to Elaine. In Paul's mind Elaine is like a mother-required to accept him completely no matter what he does; she can never get too fed up, she can never leave. And in his mind Elaine is always annoyed with him for not doing what he should. And Paul is always mad at Elaine, hating her for making him feel that he's failed.

"Did ya figure it out?" the waitress asks.

Paul looks at Elaine, helpless.

"Soft-Shell Crabs in Garlic Sauce," Elaine says. "Ginger Chicken. Brown Rice."

"Sounds great," Paul says, closing the menu, beaming.

"Your smile is making me nervous," Elaine says.

"I'm just so relieved," he says. "I didn't realize how worried I was. I'm so happy about the insurance. It's like getting a prize even though we don't deserve it. Maybe God is giving us this, to teach us a lesson-not everything has to be a negative experience. Maybe the point is, you can lose your head and not completely ruin your life."

"I don't think we should tell everybody that it was stupidity."

"Who's everybody?"

"Our friends," she says. "It's stupidity, not a citizenship award, it's not something to brag about."

"We're covered," Paul says. "That's what counts. Besides, it's funny. Stupidity is funny. Hey, if you can't laugh at yourself, then you certainly can't laugh at anyone else."

"The house wasn't stupid-we were," Elaine says.

"Would you like some tea?" he asks, still cheerful.

"Please."

He pours for her.

Paul is looking at Elaine as though she is a stranger, as though they've never met. He is looking at her with a completely open face-absent of history-like a doe-eyed idiot. He is looking at her as though he is in love with her.

Elaine is tempted to ask, Do you know who I am? To remind him that she is his wife, the one he fights with all the time. But, in keeping with the idea of noticing less, she lets it go.

"The first date I ever took a girl on was to a Chinese restaurant-on Palmer Avenue in Bronxville," he tells her. "There was a red neon sign in the window-and about ten tables. It was the only 'foreign' restaurant in town. Her name was Sally Potter. I ordered chow mein. She didn't eat anything. Not a bite. Worms, she told me later. Her mother had told her that Chinese food was made of worms."

Elaine is trying to calm down, to warm up, to allow herself to be open to Paul. She's frustrated with herself for being so angry, for making things more difficult.

"Let's pretend we've just met," she says. "Let's pretend we're on a date."

He seems surprised. "Don't you want to talk about the house?" he asks. "About what we're going to do? I thought we might talk about the deck, about the French doors."

"Should we pretend we're engaged, then?" she asks.

"That would be nice," he says. "And let's pretend we get along."

"Fine," she says. Fine.

The waitress brings the food, and they have a wonderful dinner, talking about the house, about windows and doors.

He is trying, and she is trying, and it is rare that they are both trying at the same time.

Usually he tries until he gets tired and quits, and then she tries for a while and gets mad at him for not noticing her effort, and they push and pull at each other until finally they both stop trying. But right now, for this moment, their efforts are in sync, and it seems to be working.

Near the end, Paul leans across the table and begins eating off Elaine's plate. He takes a piece of crab from her, pops it into his mouth, and says, "I love you. I love you so fucking much." And in that moment he feels it, he really feels it.

"That's nice," Elaine says. "I love you, too," she adds, pulled into the mood of generosity.

For the moment they are their fantasies of themselves, their very best selves, the people they'd like to be, and then just a minute later they are once again their more familiar selves-petty, boring, limited.

"So what did you do with Liz all day?" Paul asks.

"Not much, some shopping, the things on the Post-its." Elaine pauses. "What's the problem with you and Liz anyway? Why do you hate her?"

"She's your friend. She has you in a way I never can," Paul says. "You tell her things about me, how horrible I am, how much you hate me. I hate her because she hates me-it's simple."

"She doesn't hate you," Elaine says. "You want the truth? I hardly talk to her about anything personal. I don't know what to say. I'm afraid to say anything to anyone-they'll think I'm nuts." She pauses. "You're the one who tells people about us-you called what's-his-name, Mr. Blow Job, Tom, from the motel. Why Tom? Why all of a sudden did you think of Tom?"

Paul shrugs. "He's smart and calm, and I knew he'd help us."

"What about me? What about us? You hid in a shower stall confessing to someone who gave you a blow job in college, while I sat on the toilet waiting.."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Elaine wants to know. "Let's stop," she says. "Let's just stop for now. We can take a night off from it, can't we? Or are we so addicted?"

They stop.

"Should I call and check on Sammy?" Paul asks.

"I'm sure he's all right," Elaine says. "It just frightened me. His attacks always frighten me."

Paul squeezes her arm sympathetically and plucks the last piece of chicken from her plate.

She doesn't tell Paul that she's always secretly glad when she misses one of his attacks, when she hears about it after the fact, when things are okay again-like over the phone from the school nurse, or in a note from the soccer coach. She is always terrified that one day the puffer won't work, one day it will be worse, one day there won't be anything she can do.

"I'll call," he says.

"Leave him alone," Elaine says.

Their fortune cookies come, they crack them simultan- eously-two fortunes fall out of Elaine's cookie. "You are going places," her first fortune says. "You have come a long distance," the second says. "And yours?" she asks Paul.

"'You are lucky in work and love.'"

As they walk from the restaurant, Paul takes Elaine's arm, pulling her close-she feels good against him, and he feels good to her, large, comforting, protective.

"Thanks for dinner," she says.

"You're welcome," he says.

In the car en route to Pat and George's, Elaine is remembering this morning and worrying what will happen when Pat opens the door-will Pat throw her arms around Elaine and kiss her hello? Will she make a scene? And if she does, what should Elaine do? She imagines ignoring Pat-pretending it never happened.

"Slow down," she tells Paul.

"I'm only going thirty," Paul says.

Elaine wishes they weren't going at all. She wishes they could just go home, get in their own bed, with the children down the hall, with the damned hole in the dining room wall, and call it a night.

Paul parks by the curb.

All the lights in the Nielsons' house are on. The house is radiant, vibrating against the night sky; the glow spills across the lawn, onto the neighbors' grass and brushing against the very foundations of other people's homes, drowning out even the streetlight at the curb.

They ring the bell-pealing chimes split the night. Nothing happens. They ring again. Still nothing. Paul goes into his pocket for the key; Elaine stops him. "They're home," she says. "You don't use the key when people are home." And so they ring again. And again. It starts to feel strange, otherworldly; Paul and Elaine in the night, stranded, on the small, dark front stoop while the rest of the sprawling ranch beckons effervescently.

Paul walks around the perimeter of the house, peering in the windows. He sees the little M's in a room and taps the glass. They scream. "Got 'em," he calls to Elaine.

She shifts the shopping bag she's carrying back and forth from hand to hand.

A minute later the front door opens, the glow washes over them, a blinding white light.

Pat and George are nowhere to be seen.

"You're late," the little M says. "You missed dinner."

"We called," Elaine says.

"You're in trouble."

Paul and Elaine stand paralyzed in the front hall, the front door still open, the black night still available to them.

Pat appears, a laundry basket tucked into her hip. "I was just folding," she says. "Have you been here long?"

The sight of Pat sends a hot red rush through Elaine, pooling in her crotch. For a second Elaine thinks she has had an accident, she thinks she has wet her pants. She clenches her legs together. And prays.

"Are we intruding?" Paul asks.

"Oh, no, not at all. Not at all. Come in, come in."

The door slams shut.

"I wonder where George is?" Pat says. "Must be in the basement. Deaf and dumb when he's down there. How'd it go with the insurance guy?"

Elaine is speechless, stupefied, swooning, scared. She puts down her bags.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am," Paul says.

"Well, I hope you're still hungry," Pat says. "I bet you forgot what night it is. Remember the little quiz this morning-your favorite foods? Wednesday is grab bag-I kept it warm."

"I'm so sorry," Elaine blurts. Her discomfort is enormous. She imagines running for the bathroom, throwing up, fainting, or somehow impaling herself on Pat.

"We're idiots," Paul says. "Irresponsible, ungrateful idiots."

"Leave it," Pat says, taking them into the kitchen. "You're here now, that's what counts. And I bet you're starving. You didn't eat, did you?"

"Not a bite," Elaine says, hoping Pat doesn't smell the Chinese on them.

"Starving," Paul says, rubbing his gut. "Faint from hunger."

He smiles conspiratorially at Elaine. She can't look at him.

Pat has set two places at the kitchen table. Napkins artfully folded into flowers bloom in the water glasses.

"So incredibly thoughtful," Elaine says, overcome with guilt for not having called, for everything.

Pat leans over the table and lights the candles. "Sit," she says, pulling out a chair. Her hand brushes against Elaine's, and again there is an intense flash of heat.

Paul takes the seat.

"Sit," Pat says again, pulling out the other chair. Pat ties on an apron and begins bringing things out of the ovens, announcing the origin of each item as she puts it on the table. "Fried chicken-a cornflake/buttermilk dip; the recipe is from Margaret's Brownie leader. Brussels sprouts-that's George. Mashed pota- toes-that's one of yours," she says to Paul. "And asparagus-for you," she says to Elaine. "I did it with some Pecorino melted across the top, hope you like it like that-cheese on top. And, of course, a salad."

"My God," Paul says. "My God," he repeats. "This is impressive." "My God" is something Paul has never said before; it is the phrase his father used when he had no idea what to say.

Elaine is practically in tears. She slips a brussels sprout into her mouth. "Delicious," she says, and then remembers that "delicious" is what Pat called her this morning on the kitchen floor. Elaine blushes.

She has let herself take a lover. Her lover is serving her dinner, while her husband looks on. Her head is throbbing, buzzing from the MSG, her lip quivering. She remembers hearing that if you drink milk with Chinese food, that doesn't happen.

"Have you got any milk?" she asks.

"Of course," Pat says, bringing her a glass.

The light above the kitchen table is on, and the candles are burning, the effect a cross between a romantic dinner for two (or three) and an interrogation.

"What's your favorite food?" Paul asks Pat.

He is being a good guest. On a full stomach, he is eating dinner again. Elaine looks at Paul and feels herself genuinely warm toward him. Her husband and her lover.

"Oh, I like just about everything," Pat is saying.

"Your absolute most favorite food?" Paul says.

"I guess, my favorite food, is well.iceberg lettuce," Pat says. "It's nothing, but I love it. Give me an iceberg lettuce salad, with fresh tomatoes, onions, croutons, and I'm in heaven. There it is. Iceberg lettuce."

There is silence. There is nothing to say.

"My God," Paul says again.

"Delicious," Elaine repeats.

"Pat! Pat!" George's voice bellows from deep inside the house. It is stern and unpleasant.

"Excuse me," Pat says, taking off her apron, hanging it on a hook by the door. The kitchen door swings closed behind her.

Elaine is thinking of Pat, Pat on the kitchen floor, her robe opening, the morning light.

"Thank God we had Chinese," Paul says. "I was actually getting a little hungry." He plucks a couple of sprouts from Elaine's plate and then asks if he can suck on her chicken bones.

"Isn't it enough already?" She begins clearing the table, carrying dishes to the sink, moving as if dancing, her body searching for points of contact, for the press of Pat.

Paul sits at the table.

"You could help me," Elaine spits.

There are words in the background. George losing his temper. The little M's crying. Because it is so unexpected, so un- George-like, it is terrifying.

Elaine panics. She confesses, "It's all my fault. I didn't call. I got busy. I got caught up in things. I was with Liz, and then the children were home, and then the agent, and then you."

"Everything is not about us," Paul says. "People have their own problems."

And for the first time Elaine and Paul are glad they are not Pat and George, they are glad that the two howling little MM's aren't their children-it is all too hard, too much to live up to.

Pat pushes back through the kitchen door.

"Is everything all right?" Elaine asks.

"We all have our moments," Pat says, peeling aluminum foil off a baking pan and turning to Paul. "For dessert we have your favorite food-yellow cake with chocolate icing. Can I get you coffee or tea?"

"You really are something special," Paul tells Pat as she eases a huge piece of cake onto a plate.

Elaine can tell that Paul means it, and she's pleased.

"Cake?" Pat asks Elaine. Elaine shakes her head no.

Elaine is in the bathroom, chewing a short stack of Tums and brushing her teeth.

Pat slips in. "I had to wait until they went to bed."

"I feel terrible," Elaine says, lathering her face.

"Why?"

"Dinner. Everything." She looks up, making eye contact in the mirror. "Does George know?"

"Of course not, why would he?"

"The fight."

"The girls didn't get into Hanford; he's annoyed. He thinks they don't work hard enough-it's crazy."

Pat takes Elaine's damp face in both hands and kisses her. They fall back against the vanity. Out of the corner of her eye, Elaine watches herself in the mirror-she has never seen two women kiss before.

"It's been the longest day," Elaine says.

"Sleep," Pat says, slipping out of the room.

Elaine goes down the hall, closes the bedroom door, and puts a chair against it.

"Everything okay?" Paul asks.

"Fine." She undresses. She rummages through her shopping bags. "I have a present for you," she says, pulling out the nightgowns.

"Wow," Paul says, "matching."

They slip on the nightgowns and climb into Paul's twin bed.

"We have to get the house fixed," Elaine says. "We can't stay here forever; it's too complicated."

"Trust me," Paul says, turning out the light. "They're glad we're here."

"Tomorrow," Elaine says. "We start tomorrow."

Somewhere in the house the phone rings. They ignore it; it is not their house, it is not their problem. There is a tapping on their door. "Phone call," George says. "Your boy is on the line. I think you can just pick up Garfield in there; his tail is broken, but the rest of him works."

"Okay, thanks," Paul says.

Elaine has turned on the light and is looking around the room. There's an orange plastic Garfield the cat on the desk. She points. Paul picks it up and hands it to her.

"Hello," Elaine says, talking into the cat's belly.

"I want to go home," Sammy says.

"Are you breathing all right?" Elaine asks.

"I want to go home," Sammy drones.

"Daddy and I aren't home," Elaine says. "Remember, you're at Nate's house, and Daddy and I are with Pat and George."

"I want to come where you are," Sammy whines.

"Honey, everyone here is asleep. Be a good boy and go back to sleep."

"No," Sammy says.

Paul takes the phone. "Is Susan there? Give Susan the phone."

"Hi, Paul," she says. "Sorry to get you up-he had a bad dream. He wanted to call."

"I want to go home," Sammy demands in the background.

"I'll make him some cocoa," she says, "and then I'll put him to bed again."

"Thanks," Paul says. "That's great."

Susan hands the phone back to Sammy. "You and I are going to make ourselves some hot cocoa, and then I'm going to tell you the most amazing story," she says. "Tell your daddy good night."

"Be a good boy," Paul says. "Love you."

In the middle of the night, the phone rings again. George taps on the door.

"Go and get him," Elaine mumbles.

Paul picks up Garfield the cat. "On my way," Paul tells Susan, pulling off the nightgown, sliding back into his clothes.

The bug light is on, Sammy is waiting outside in his Superman pajamas. She is behind him, in a large white men's shirt, the bug light staining her a jaundicey yellow. She bends to say something to Sammy, and Paul's eyes automatically dip into the crevice of her shirt. She is naked. He can see the whole way down-her full breasts languid against her chest. He is hard. Sometimes it takes so little.

"He's a little disoriented," she whispers to Paul, her breath half fouled by sleep. He moves toward her, his fingers quick-slipping under her shirt, fast-finding her, splitting the lips.

"Oh," she says. "Oh."

He is wishing they could duck inside, wishing he could convince Sammy to stay. "Are you sure you want to go?" he asks his boy.

Sammy, staring at the car, nods.

Paul imagines having her in Gerald's Barcalounger, in the full reclining position, her legs draped over the arms, while upstairs her family sleeps.

"Do you have your things?" Paul asks, pulling his fingers out of Mrs. Apple.

She hands him Sammy's knapsack and a brown paper bag. "I already made his lunch," she says.

There is something slightly romantic about this: a father rescuing his son in the middle of the night, Sammy standing on the steps in his Superman pajamas, his superpowers having failed him.

"He wouldn't wait in the house," she says. "He went running out. I actually had to chase him around the yard."

"Maybe it's the medication. Maybe it made him hyper, it can do that." Paul is embarrassed that Sammy is acting so strangely.

"It happens," Susan says.

Sammy starts walking to the car. "Careful," Mrs. Apple softly calls after him. "Your laces aren't tied."

He kisses her cheek and hurries to let Sammy into the car.

Sammy is shivering. It's June but not terribly warm. His teeth are chattering.

"Hurry," Sammy says. "I want to go home."

As they're pulling out, Paul looks up and sees someone in the upstairs window. "Look," he says. "There's Nate, saying goodbye."

Sammy starts sobbing, wailing. "What?" Paul asks. "What is it?" He tries to comfort him while driving. "Did something happen?"

And then just as suddenly as he started, Sammy stops. "I'm hungry," he says.

Paul doesn't know how to respond. He's never seen someone start crying and stop so abruptly. Is Sammy awake or asleep? Is all of this happening in a dream?

"I'm hungry," Sammy says again.

"Didn't you eat dinner?" Paul asks.

Sammy doesn't answer. Paul pulls out the sandwich from the lunch Susan made, gives Sammy half, and eats the other half himself: his third dinner, a sandwich made by Mrs. Apple. He lingers over it, turning the peanut butter and jelly on his tongue, making it last.

"Tiptoe and not even a peep," he says, leading Sammy down the hall at Pat and George's. "Everyone's asleep."

Paul takes off his clothes and crawls back into the bed, where Elaine is already asleep. Sammy climbs aboard as well; the three of them in a twin bed, Sammy in his Superman suit sprawled across the top, laid out over them, as if he's fallen from a great height and landed with a thick splat. Tender Sammy.