Music for Torching

SIX

PAUL IS PLEASED WITH HIMSELF. He is up and out. His sip-cup is full. He has remembered his briefcase. He is walking Sammy to school and then will catch the train. Pat has made Sammy a new lunch-with a big piece of yellow cake from the night before. Elaine is still sleeping. All is well.

McKendrick pops out from behind a bush, pushing his walker into the path, nearly tripping Paul and Sammy.

Sammy squeals.

"Scared you, didn't I?" McKendrick says, the wrinkles of his scowl slightly menacing. "I escaped. If I stayed in that house a minute longer, I'd have gone insane. Been out here since five A.M., waiting for something to happen."

"I looked for you yesterday," Paul says. "The light was on."

"Well, there I was."

"This is my son Sammy," Paul says.

McKendrick bends to shake Sammy's hand. He doesn't get down very far. "Pins in my ass," he says, and slowly straightens up. "What train are you catching?"

"Aiming for the seven forty-three."

"Well, get to it, man," he says, pulling his walker out of the path. "Stop by for a drink sometime," he calls after them. "I've got some things I want to show you, good stuff; I've been downloading little girls."

Sammy waves good-bye.

"Takes me an hour to get up the driveway," McKendrick says to no one in particular. "An hour, and what does it matter? I've got all day. I'm not going anywhere."

Paul takes Sammy to the edge of the schoolyard, to the fence; children stream in from all sides, moving across the playground, up the steps, and into the school, as though the building itself has magnetic pull.

"Can I have a drink of coffee before I go?" Sammy asks.

Paul hands him the cup. "I didn't know you drank coffee."

Sammy takes a sip. "Gross," he says, and then he takes a bigger gulp. "Gross, gross."

"Go to school," Paul says, taking the cup away.

"Hey, Dad," Sammy calls. "What's pins in my ass?"

"I'll tell you later."

Paul is on the train. He is on his way. He is rummaging through his briefcase, pulling out pads and papers, making plans.

He is thinking about his lunch with the date-he will work hard all morning, he will take the meetings and the calls, he will play the part of the go-getter, displaying a level of energy and enthusiasm that can't ordinarily be sustained. He will make sure that everyone sees him, that they notice how hard he's work- ing-and then he will duck out for a long lunch. He will linger in the middle of the afternoon. He is thinking about his hand slipping under Mrs. Apple's shirt, thinking about how lovely it felt to be curled tight against Elaine, with Sammy lying on top like icing on a cake. Thinking.

He is swollen with a strange sense of virtue, still so glad, so deeply relieved about the insurance. He is pleased with his efficiency, his ability to juggle everything. He is determined to pay attention to all the little details, to keep his ducks in a line.

"Fine morning," his secretary says.

"Isn't it," Paul says.

"Can I get you some coffee?"

Paul swirls his sip cup around; what's left in it sloshes. "Dump it," he says, handing it to her. "And I'll have a fresh cup."

"Doughnut?"

He shakes his head. "Pass."

"You already had a couple of calls, two hang-ups and Mr. Warburton wants to see you at ten."

"All good things," he says. "Thanks."

He goes into his office, sticks his finger into his potted plant. It's a little dry. He waters it and makes a note to ask his secretary for plant food.

He makes more notes. He drinks his coffee. "All right," he repeats to himself. "All right," as in all is good, all is right.

He calls Mrs. Apple. "You were so great last night. I just wanted to thank you."

"Did Sammy get to sleep?"

"Like a log. I just dropped him at school. And how was the rest of your night?" he asks.

"Wet," she says.

"Oh," he says. "Ohhhh, you're dirty." Mrs. Apple doesn't usually talk dirty.

"Rotten," she says, laughing. "Rotten to the core."

"You looked great in your shirt," he says.

"It's not my shirt," she says. "It's Gerald's shirt."

There is a pause.

"What about you and Nate?" Paul asks. "Back to sleep okay?"

"Nate?" "Yeah, I saw him in the window as we were pulling out."

"That's odd, I checked him when I went up-he was fast asleep."

"If I give you one of my shirts, will you sleep in it?" Paul asks.

"Does the laundry write your name on the collar?" she asks.

"I'll buy a new one," he says.

"Wear it first. Give it to me dirty."

"See you Friday."

Pat and Elaine are sitting at the kitchen table, having coffee.

They have already gone at it fast and furiously in the laundry room, with Elaine on top of the washer, clinging to the control panel as the machine frantically vibrated beneath her, whipping through the spin cycle, and then with Pat bare-assed on the dryer, tumbling, hot. Elaine remembers looking up at a shelf filled with cleaning products-Downy, Fantastik, Bon Ami-each item suddenly charged with intention, desire-housewife homoerotica.

"Has this happened before?" Elaine asks as Pat refills her coffee cup.

"Occasionally."

"It would never have occurred to me," Elaine says. "When did you think of it?" Elaine asks, as though it is some trick of the body, of the soul, that Pat has invented, as though it is something like wiggling your ears, snapping your toes, or moving one eyebrow, a kind of physical party trick.

"I've always been attracted to women," Pat says.

"So why did you marry George?"

"I've made myself a wonderful life," Pat says. "Nothing matters to me more than being normal. That's what I wanted most, a good life."

Elaine is quiet. "You're good," she says. "I love the way it feels when you touch me. Your mouth is like velvet."

Pat blushes. "Thanks. It's important to me to be good at things."

"You are, very good," Elaine says.

"I have something for you," Pat says, handing Elaine a present.

"But I have nothing for you," Elaine says.

Pat shakes her head-not to worry.

Elaine tears at the package. The wrapping is off. "How to Fix Almost Anything-a book on home repair?"

"It's my favorite," Pat says. "It's got everything from dishwashers to garage-door openers. If you can fix things, you'll feel better."

"I'll give it a try," Elaine says. "By the way, what kind of lightbulbs do you use?" She is remembering the Nielsons' house at night, flooded with fluorescence.

"Mail order. I'll give you the number. They last forever."

Paul is gathering his notes for the meeting, his lists of projects and proposals. He has collected a great pile of papers, hoping to make a show of things. He's heading down the hall.

"Where are you going?" his secretary asks.

"Warburton's," he says.

"No," his secretary says, "he's coming to you."

"Shit," Paul says, hurrying back into his office, rushing to clean his desk, to put his various piles in proper order.

This is the new power play, the home visit, the boss comes to you. Paul hates it. He likes walking down the hall, pulling himself together just outside the corner office. This new twist has a false informality that's really a move to catch someone off guard. Paul rushes. He sweeps everything off his desk and into the trash can-he will empty it later. He stuffs picture frames into his pencil drawer, cracking the glass on Elaine. A desk should be as impersonal as possible, no papers, no mementos, no giveaways.

The secretary buzzes. "He's on his way," she says. "And he's got Wilson and Herskovitz with him."

"Come in, come in," Paul says, ushering them in, like a stop on the Good Housekeeping tour, a white-glove inspection.

Warburton takes the chair just in front of the desk, and the two juniors, Wilson and Herskovitz, perch on the edge of the love seat.

"How's the house?" Warburton asks. "I heard about the fire."

"We're covered," Paul says, sitting. "Under a…a clause." He tries to get comfortable in his chair. "In fact, we're planning to take advantage of the situation and put in a deck and some French doors, do it up a bit."

"Good," Warburton says. "Forward motion."

Warburton is slick. He is also five years younger than Paul; he is what Paul will never be. And Paul has hated him from the be- ginning-which, for Warburton, was only three years ago.

"Let's talk about the program," Warburton says. "Where do we stand? Where are we going?"

"Well," Paul says, "I think we have to look at return. We have to think about giving less and getting more."

"Yes," Warburton says, nodding. Out of nowhere Warburton's rubber band appears. There is always a rubber band; Warburton plays with it when he's thinking, when he's scheming, when he's psyching out the other side. He holds it between two fingers and pulls at it, flicking, flicking.

Paul's secretary buzzes. "Phone call."

"We're in a meeting," he says, surprised she's interrupting him.

"Phone call," she says again.

"Excuse me," Paul says, watching Warburton with the rubber band, wondering what it means if the rubber band snaps, splits in half, what happens if it accidentally shoots off, goes flying across the room. Does Warburton chase after it? Does he let it go? Does he acknowledge that anything happened? "This'll take just a second." Paul picks up the phone.

"Are you prepared to bleed? Are we on? I made an appointment for you with a friend of mine." The date is calling.

Paul can't answer. He can't turn away and whisper, "Your timing is lousy, I'm in a meeting." Instead he just says, "Ummm- hummm."

"Meet me at one at the Road Kill Kaffe, it's downtown."

Downtown, he hadn't planned on going downtown-that'll take forever. "Could we do it uptown?"

Warburton is checking his watch, flicking the rubber band faster.

"No," she says. "The appointment is downtown."

"Okay." He hangs up. "My apologies," he says to Warburton.

Herskovitz on the love seat starts in. "Return is fine, but what about the future? You have to look at what's ahead and not always down at the bottom line. You miss something staring at your feet."

Paul hates Herskovitz, creeping up behind him, gunning to run him over, to skip into the second spot, the big office next to the corner that's been empty ever since Sid Auerbach went into cardiac arrest during a conference call.

"Let me take this one on," Paul says. "I think we can do something here, we can go further if we go deeper."

"I want you to bring me a new way of seeing," Warburton says. "Fresh vision."

Paul nods. He checks his watch-noon.

"Good," Warburton says, getting up. Herskovitz and Wilson also stand. "Good," Warburton repeats, and it's like getting a grade-about a C. It's good, but it's not very good. It's not a

B, and it's not excellent-it's not an A, and it's certainly not bril- liant-not an A plus. He has to do better, to work harder.

Before lunch, Paul calls Elaine. "How's it going?"

"Good," she says, "really good. I phoned Ruth Esterhazy, got the name of her deck guy. He's here now, and we're talking. I also got the name of an architect to help with the French doors. And another painter has come and gone-that's a second estimate. And how are you?" she asks.

"Right now, I'm in kind of a panic. Warburton was here, he had two other guys with him. It wasn't good."

"Well," Elaine says. "We're moving along here. We're talking about all kinds of things; there are decks called Resort Style, Trendsetter, Bold Angled, and Weekend Entertainer."

The deck guy chirps in, "I'll leave some plans you can look at tonight."

Elaine continues, "I also found a commercial cleaning com- pany-they're sending a six-man crew this afternoon. They'll scrub us floor to ceiling, even the walls. And they suck the air out of the house and refill it with something better."

"Yeah, like what?" Paul says. "Laughing gas?"

She ignores him. "After what happened with Sammy yesterday, I'd like to have it boiled and sterilized."

"The painter can take care of the walls," Paul says. "Have them do everything but the walls. We don't need to pay for the same thing twice."

"We're covered," Elaine says.

"Fine, if you're feeling so fucking flush, then why don't you have one of those freaks come in and Feng Shui it? You know, point everything in the right direction. That's probably what it needs, a kind of chiropractic adjustment. Why don't you ask the deck guy if he can do that?"

"Why are you so angry with me?" Elaine asks.

"I'm not angry with you," Paul says. "I'm angry with everyone, and myself most of all. I'm having a lousy day."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I hope your afternoon is better."

"Yeah, I've gotta go," he says. "I've got lunch." He hangs up. He shouldn't have called. All of his anxiety, his stress, his guilt has been hurled at Elaine. He hopes she knew enough to duck, not to even try to catch it. Later he will apologize. He hates it when he does this, when he behaves badly.

Out of the office and into the day. The air is turning thick, like mud. Paul is fucking up. He should be at work. He should be having lunch with the boys, figuring things out. He will have to work harder to catch up. Double time. He makes notes on his palm as he rides downtown. Later they will be automatically erased, sweated away.

Exiting the subway, Paul is all turned around. He has no idea of where he is, which way to go.

"Road Kill Kaffe?" he asks someone.

The woman stops. Points. "Go east," she says, "go right. Go down a couple of blocks."

He is thinking about the date-wondering why he does exactly what she tells him to, why he can't say no. She's not living in reality; nothing is impossible to her. It doesn't occur to her that it might be difficult for him to leave the office and come downtown in the middle of a workday.

He arrives at the restaurant. She's not there. He waits. Finally he lets the hostess seat him. He opens the menu. He decides.

He plans what he will say when she finally arrives. He wants to tell her that he is overextended, that there's too much on his plate, that she is the thing that will have to go. He wants to tell her that he can't afford it on any level-game over. But he won't. He will go ahead. He will do whatever she says. He goes from hating her to being just annoyed and then slightly amused. Finally, she walks in.

"Ready?" she asks. "I want to take you somewhere."

"I ordered," he says. "I waited, and then I went ahead. Do you want something? Should I cancel it?"

"No, go ahead," she says. "I'll have a drink."

"I'm having a lime rickey, it's the house specialty. Lime rickeys and shrimp salad sandwiches. Want a sip?"

She shakes her head. "We have to hurry. The appointment was for one-fifteen."

He flags the waitress. "She'd like a drink," he says. "Iced tea? Lemonade?"

"Frozen margarita," the date says.

"In the middle of the day?"

"What's the middle of the day?" the date asks back.

His sandwich arrives; he inhales it, swallowing the baby shrimp as though they were aspirin tablets.

"What's your favorite color?" she asks "Green? Blue? Black?"

"Blue," he says, signaling for the check. "Where are you taking me-what kind of a place?"

"The kind that gives you pins and needles." She laughs.

"Can't wait." He is thinking that she'll take him to her apartment, there will be another girl, maybe her roommate. It will be the three of them, two against one. He imagines the date on top, riding him, while the roommate squats over his face. His is a pathetically standard fantasy, and yet his groin pulses with the possibility.

"How's Henry?" she asks. "I haven't heard from him in a few days."

"He's away, traveling for work."

"I keep trying his cell phone. First I got some woman, and now it's turned off."

"Oh," Paul says, thinking of Elaine at home with the cell phone. "He'll be back soon."

He pays. She leads him down the street. He's nervous. The neighborhood, if you can call it that, is like a bombed-out war zone. Paul can't imagine that anyone normal lives there. "Who is the appointment with?" he asks.

"Gary," she says.

He begins to sweat. "Who's Gary?"

They're buzzed in. The building smells like gas and cats. They go up an endless staircase, climbing higher and higher, ascending into darkness.

"What's this about?" he says. "What are we doing?"

"I want to get you marked."

"What does that mean?"

"Tattooed."

Paul is reeling. He's thinking she's insane. He's feeling how conventional he really is. With Elaine he is the madman, with the date he's terrified.

"Did Henry do this?" he asks.

"Henry's pathetic," she says.

"I don't think I'll get one, but if you want one, I'll watch."

"I have two already," she says.

He can picture one, a butterfly just above her breast. "Where's the second?"

"Ass crack," she says, "I have a rose coming out of my ass."

"Oh," he says. "Well, get some more. Get a whole bouquet. My treat."

"No. I want to watch you," she says.

A thin, reedy guy answers the door. The apartment is a long, narrow hall, with rooms branching off to the right and left.

"Gary's in the back," the guy says.

"Who's Gary?"

"Nick's boyfriend. That was Nick at the door, he's a painter."

Gary is big. He looks like a Hell's Angel. His hair is pulled back in a high ponytail. He is bearded and his beard is gathered into a second ponytail, in front, held with a ponytail holder, the kind with the two plastic balls, just beneath his chin.

"Hi," the date says.

"You're late," Gary says.

"Sorry, he had to eat." She points to Paul.

Gary grunts. "So, what'll it be?" he asks. "Squirming mermaid, mother's maiden name, anchors aweigh?"

The date asks, "Can he look through the catalog?"

"Sure." Gary gestures at a pile of tattoo books. "You're not a whiner, are you?" he asks Paul.

Paul doesn't speak. Gary shrugs and leaves the room.

"This just isn't a good idea," Paul whispers to the girl.

"Sure it is," she says, pulling at his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. "Just a little something right about here." She puts her mouth on his heart. "I can feel your pulse with my tongue."

"Does it really mean a lot to you?" Paul asks her.

"I like my men to be marked so I can tell they're mine." She pulls at his nipples with her teeth.

Gary returns. "I could pierce those for you if you like." He lifts up his shirt, flashing a multicolored dragon-covered belly and tits punctuated with silver rings.

From Paul's point of view, he looks like a circus act. "I'll pass," Paul says.

"Why don't you hop up here," Gary says, patting what looks like an old examination table from a doctor's office.

Paul sort of wants to get out of it, he wants to say something like-my health insurance doesn't cover tattoos, my mother won't let me, or my wife won't like it. But, on the other hand, he's into the idea of redefining the body, especially as it is changing, as it is beginning to escape him. He is thinking that if he does do it, he'll get something small, something simple, something like an ancient symbol-a hidden source of power. He'll tell himself that it's part of his training-to be a warrior.

"I'm assuming you just want one color," Gary says.

She is pulling at his zipper. "This is where I want it," she says. "Down here, a vine coming up."

Paul shakes his head. "I was thinking on the arm."

"You shave?" Gary asks.

Paul's chest is clean. And as the date pulls down his pants, no fertile forest appears.

"Straight people don't shave. It's kinky," Gary says.

"Swimming," Paul lies.

"I'm getting so excited," the date says, pulling at his pants. Paul is resisting. "Oh, come on. Don't get weird. Gary's not going to hurt you too much," she says. "Just enough."

"You use a clean needle, right?" Paul asks Gary.

"Disposable and sterile. A fresh set for each person." Gary shows him his tools.

And then Paul is lying on the table, wondering how they got to this point, how they got from shoulder, chest, or back to groin. He is nude. Gary has draped a paper towel, a sheet of Bounty, over his cock and balls-a motion toward modesty.

The stencil is applied.

Gary holds a mirror above it so Paul can look. Paul sees a curl of ivy, a leafy vein rising up from below; he sees something about six inches long.

"The right spot?" Gary asks.

"Yes," the date says. "Yes." Her breath blows the paper towel up, tickling Paul's testicles.

"If you decide to let your hair grow back, it'll just about cover it," Gary says, putting on goggles, a mask, and latex gloves.

Paul pops a sweat. His skin goes clammy.

"This is so erotic," the date says.

"So you say," Paul says.

The sensation is one of vibration, of burning, of a thousand pinpricks all at once, of a fiery match being touched to tender skin. It is pleasure and it is pain-more pain than pleasure.

"Oh," the date says. "Oh, it's amazing. Oh. It's so incredible, watching you, watching the little needle drilling. And you're hardly bleeding, just sort of beading up. Oh. Ohhh."

When they are done, Gary lathers the tattoo with antibiotic ointment, tapes a nonstick bandage over everything, and gives Paul instructions.

"Keep it clean-that's the main thing. The bandage stays on for about eight hours, then lots of ointment for ten days. Keep the scab lubricated, otherwise it'll heal peculiar. Questions?"

Paul sits up. The hankie over his cock falls off.

"How much do I owe you?" the date asks.

Paul is light-headed. He wonders why they don't offer him a little cup of orange juice the way they do when you give blood. He looks down at the bandage and thinks of outpatient sur- gery-vasectomy. He wonders if he should put ice on it. He eases himself off the table and gently slips into his boxers, his shirt, his pants, his jacket.

"That was incredible," the date says as Paul comes out of the room.

Paul walks down the stairs, slowly, weak, wrung out. He wishes he could lie down. He wishes he could just rest somewhere.

"I came," she says. "I got so into it. While he was doing it to you, I did it to myself. Did you hear me? I came. You were so incredible."

"Do you live near here?" he asks her.

"Why?"

"Could we go to your apartment?" he says. "Just for a little bit."

"Oh, yeah, sure. I guess," she says. "I wasn't planning on it, but, yeah, let's do it. Right now, I'm so into you, I would do anything."

Paul checks his watch, two-thirty-he should be back at the office. He will rest until three.

They walk up four flights; she uses lots of keys to open various locks. The decor is something that can only be described as demented Gypsy.

"Nothing in this apartment was paid for," she says proudly. "Either people gave me or I found it on the street."

He lies down on her bed, hoping this is one of the things someone gave her. He undoes his pants-it's hurting. A lot. "Do you have some aspirin? And some juice." She gives him a couple of Advil and some sort of herbal ginseng drink. She wants to fuck him.

"I don't think so," he says. "I don't think I should rub against anything." She starts to give him a blow job-nothing happens. He is impotent.

"This doesn't happen to me," he says, propping himself up, looking down at the limp lion. And he's telling the truth. Of all the things that happen to Paul, this isn't one of them.

She rolls her eyes-that's what they all say.

It's all about his blood, the recirculation of blood. It is pooling in the pinhead punctures that now decorate his upper deck, instead of collecting in his cock.

She pouts.

He reaches for her. "Squat over me," he says. "Sit on my face." She tries. He buries himself in the salve of her excitement, working her with his tongue, with his teeth-committed to making her come.

She is bored. She wiggles back and forth. She bounces on his nose. Finally she slides off. This is not what she wants. His face is slick, shiny with her transmission fluid, her motor oil.

"Come back," he says.

"Just stop," she says.

He is left lying there, embarrassed, ashamed. Both Elaine and Mrs. Apple adore him no matter what, sunrise or sunset, but the date seems genuinely annoyed. He pulls up his pants. "I'd better go," he says.

Elaine is working at home. She's met with the deck guy, fixed the running toilet in the upstairs bathroom, and removed the drink rings from the coffee table-using the book Pat gave her-and now, while she's waiting for the cleaning crew to come, she and Mrs. Hansen are chopping up what's left of the dining room table, using an ax they found in the basement.

"What fun," Mrs. Hansen says, taking a solid swing.

Elaine smiles, watching the wood chips spray across the room.

Mrs. Hansen hacks at it again, and a huge section of the table breaks free.

"I could do this forever," she says, raising the ax up high. "Anything else need the old chop-chop?"

"I think that pretty well does it," Elaine says.

Mrs. Hansen rests the ax on the floor and looks out the window at her own yard. "I wonder if that tree out front is alive or dead. I wouldn't mind taking a crack at it."

"It seems to have little green leaves," Elaine says.

"Too bad," Mrs. Hansen says.

Together Elaine and Mrs. Hansen haul the remains of the table out to the Dumpster, and Elaine hurls them over the top.

It is impossibly hot, all day the heat has been mounting, and the weather service has issued some sort of a warning.

"How 'bout a nice cold drink?" They are dripping with sweat. Mrs. Hansen is breathing hard.

"Let me do the mixing," Mrs. Hansen says, offering to

make a pitcher of her "special" iced tea-Lemon Zinger, vodka, and a dozen drops of something called Rescue Remedy. "My secret potion," Mrs. Hansen says. "A friend gave it me. It's holistic."

Paul is lost, he is turned around, he can't tell east from west, up from down. Out of the date's building he takes a right turn, figuring he'll walk down the block, he'll walk until he comes to an avenue, and then he'll be back on track. From there, he'll make his way uptown.

Conflict, confusion, weakness, nausea-his body is demanding attention. He has to pee. He can't wait. He tucks himself into the corner of a building and urinates. Pee splashes off the wall and onto his suit. He steps back.

He is walking. And walking. All the cabs have their off-duty lights on. It is that odd hour of the day, between three and four, when the taxi drivers are changing shifts, and it's impossible to get someone to stop.

Without warning, near the corner of Bleecker and Bowery, Paul vomits, hurling a pink, chunky mess, a pile of whole baby shrimp, into the street. He vomits violently, uncontrollably, again and again. No one stops. No one notices. No one does anything.

He walks on, thinking he might faint. He's panicked, wondering if something went wrong, maybe you're not supposed to have a tattoo done down there, maybe Gary hit something, punctured something significant-a vein, his intestines.

The air is thick, oxygenless; later there will be storms.

Paul looks for a pay phone. He calls his office. "I just got out of lunch," he blurts to his secretary. "I'm not well at all. I must have eaten something bad."

"You sound awful," she says. "Where are you?"

"I'm downtown. In the street. I just threw up."

"Poor guy," she says.

He wants someone to be informed, in case it gets worse, in case something else happens, in case something has to be done-he's afraid to call Elaine.

"I thought I could make it back to the office."

"Go home," she says. "Don't come back here."

There is a pause. A big truck passes.

"Any messages?" he asks, recovering himself temporarily.

"Nothing urgent."

"Oh," he says. "Oh, I'd better go, it's happening again." He hangs up and vomits once more, dragging the dregs of his stomach, the foamy bile that comes when there's nothing left.

Paul takes the subway from Astor Place to Grand Central. He buys a bottle of water for three dollars, rinses his mouth, and spits on the platform. He's on the 3:43 heading home. He is falling further behind. He should be at the office. Herskovitz is probably already making a plan, trying out Paul's desk chair, flipping through his files.

Paul falls into a brackish sleep on the train. His sleep is timed; an automatic alarm goes off thirty-five minutes later. When he wakes up, the train is cold, like a refrigerated compartment. He tucks his hands into his armpits and remembers that his briefcase is still at the office. He recalls the trash can-sweeping everything off the desk into the trash and then sliding it back under his desk. Shit!

From the station he will call his secretary again, he will ask her to rescue the trash before the cleaning crew comes. Notes, plans, files. Frantic, he rummages through his pocket looking for phone change.

Off the train. Paul lunges for the pay phone. He dials 0 and waits. "I need to reverse the charges," he tells the operator when she finally answers.

"I don't know what that means. Do you want to make a collect call?"

"Yes. Yes," he says.

"Moment, please." An automated voice comes on. "At the sound of the beep, please say your name."

"Paul," he says.

"Paul" echoes back in his ear

"Please hold."

There is a delay. Paul watches the taxis load up and speed off.

He hears the phone ringing, he hears the sound of his secretary's voice mail: "I'm not at my desk right now, but if you'd like to leave a message." The oblivious automated voice announces, "You have a collect call from…'Paul.'" Paul hears the sound of his own voice. "Say yes or press 'one' to accept the charges," the digital idiot drones.

He hangs up. He dials again, this time trying the extension of one of the men down the hall. Again voice mail. He tries another fellow, voice mail. He tries his secretary again. She must have taken advantage of his going home to go home herself; maybe that's why she told him not to come back. He dials fast and furiously, trying every extension he can think of until finally he calls Warburton's office; Warburton's secretary answers.

"Oh, thank God, a real person," he says. "It's Paul, Paul Weiss."

"Yes," she chimes, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm sick. I had to leave early. I've been trying to get my secretary on the phone." He babbles. On and on.

"Don't you worry," Warburton's secretary says, "I'll go right down there. I'll take care of it. Personally."

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"You get well soon," she says, hanging up.

Again, he is relieved.

The sky is dark. The station is entirely empty; no taxis have returned. An odd and urgent breeze blows. Paul walks. He walks as if ducking, dashing from safe spot to safe spot, playing hide- and-go-seek, not wanting to be caught out in the open when the storm hits. Whenever he moves, his clothing scrapes his bandage, the pain makes him unsteady, his stomach rolls, his vision thins. He wonders if the tattoo might spread, if too much activity might cause the simple line, the delicate arc of ivy, to mutate, to smear, expanding into an inky-faced monster.

The sky is blacker still. The leaves turn up, flickering nervously. There is the rumble of thunder. Everything is happening at a strange pace, there is the sense of impending disaster. Paul may not make it home. There's a little hut in the playground where you go to sign up for courts and basketball games. He sees it up ahead. He aims for it. He is off the sidewalk and onto the grass, running. More thunder.

There is a pay phone at the hut. Paul will call Elaine-it is safe to call Elaine now, he is on terra firma, he is in the neighborhood, he has calmed down, and besides, he has no choice. He will call Elaine, and Elaine will come and get him. Everything will be all right.

"You have a collect call from…'Paul.'"

"Paul?" she asks quizzically.

"Say yes," Paul says.

"Say yes or press the number 'one' to accept the charges," the now insanely familiar voice goes on.

"Yes," she says.

"Elaine? Elaine, I don't think I can make it home," Paul says breathlessly.

"Are you all right? You sound strange."

"I'm at the park. I had a bad day, kind of an accident." He stops. "Can you come and get me and take me home?"

"Come and get you? Take you home?"

"Yes. I just told you, I had a really bad day."

"Paul, where are you? What kind of an accident? What park are you in?"

He's watching some kids continuing to play tennis despite the oncoming storm. "This is so weird," he says. "I think I see Daniel. Does Daniel have a tennis racket?"

"Paul, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

"It's Daniel," Paul says. "I see Daniel. I'll call you back." He hangs up. Two boys are coming off the tennis courts, looking up at the sky. "Daniel?" Paul calls.

Thunder. Lightning.

The boys walk toward him, looking at him blankly. "Dad?" Daniel finally says.

Paul nods.

"What are you doing here? Are you following me?"

"I'm going home," Paul says.

"Is it the right time for you to be going home?"

"I can go home whenever I want; I'm an adult. Why are you here?" Paul asks. "That's the big question. Why aren't you in school?"

"School gets out at three-thirty," Daniel says.

"Hi, Mr. Weiss," the other boy says.

"Hi, Willy," Paul says.

"And what are you doing now?" Paul asks Daniel.

"Scout meeting," Daniel says.

"My father is troop leader," Willy says. "On Wednesdays he comes home early to lead us. Today we're making plaster casts."

Willy's awful father is the man Paul can't stand, the guy who picked Daniel up at the house, the deputy head of the New York tax department.

"Since when have you been a Boy Scout?" Paul asks Daniel. He has no memory of Daniel's being a Scout. "Don't you have to be a Cub Scout first?"

"Since I've been at Willy's house," Daniel says.

"So, all week?" Paul says.

"You can join at any time," Willy says.

Paul wants to say, Your mother and I don't believe in

Scouts, we think they're a right-wing cult. We don't believe in anything where you have to wear a uniform. This is what we marched for in the 1960s-the right not to have to do this. Paul wants to explain to Daniel that it's not cool to be a Scout, it's nerdy as hell. And Daniel is too weird and too mean to be a Scout. Scouts are good-natured, they are honest and trustworthy, they help little old ladies across the street, he wants to say; you're not like that.

"Did you tell your mother?" Paul asks.

"Yes," Daniel says. "After the meeting I'm supposed to go home, and then Jennifer is taking Sammy and I to the school fair."

"Me," he says. "Sammy and me."

"Yeah," Daniel says.

"My father was an Eagle Scout," Willy says.

"Oh, oh." Paul suddenly runs away, ducks behind the little tennis hut, and throws up again. He comes back. "I'm sick," he says. "I came home early because I'm sick."

"Am I supposed to do something?" Daniel asks.

"Like what?" Paul asks. He sits on the curb, head between his knees.

"My mom will be here in a minute," Willy says.

"I'll be fine," Paul says.

The wind is quickening.

"I hope we don't have a tornado," Willy says.

"There are very few tornadoes in Westchester County," Paul says.

"Where did you learn to play tennis?" he asks Daniel, making conversation to distract himself from the nausea, from the odd sensation that something wet, like blood, is trickling down his leg.

"You taught me, a long time ago, remember?"

"But you're pretty good," Paul says.

"I've been practicing," Daniel says.

"We play every day," Willy says.

Mrs. Meaders pulls into the lot, tooting the horn even though the boys are right there.

Daniel taps on the window. "Could we give my father a ride home? He's sick."

"Of course," she says. The boys climb in the back, and Paul gets in the front. He is afraid to talk, afraid his foul breath will flood the car. "I came home early," he says, speaking out the window, away from everyone. "There were no taxis at the station. I thought I could walk. And then the weather."

"Where am I taking you?" she asks. "Your house or the Nielsons'?"

"Home. Elaine is home. I threw up," Paul says, frightened like a child.

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Better except for the car, the car is making me nauseated."

"Should I go faster or slower?" she asks.

"Faster." As fast as you can, he wants to say.

The rain starts. Fat splashes land on the windshield, drops the size of dinner plates. Thunder. Lightning. Wild trees. And it's only going to get worse.

Mrs. Meaders stops in front of the house; a truck is blocking the driveway.

"Thanks for the lift," he says, opening the door, making a run for it.

Men in yellow coveralls, with goggles and masks, swarm through the house like bees. Paul counts six of them. Their outfits are intimidatingly hard-core; they're dressed as though they're cleaning up a toxic-waste site, as though the house is truly contaminated. Paul wants to tell them to lighten up-it's not that bad. He wants to say, Hey, we live here, we've lived here for years, we're okay.

"You are such an asshole," Elaine says as soon as she sees him. "Where were you? What happened? You called and then you hung up. You can't do that to me-never, ever, again. You scared the hell out of me."

He heads for the stairs, in a hurry to check his wound.

"And," she says, "as soon as you hung up, you had a phone call." Paul imagines the date, checking on him, his health, his well-being, his ill erection.

"Mr. Warburton's secretary called. She said your garbage is fine and she hopes you get well soon."

Paul pictures the trash can on top of his desk, a big DO NOT DISTURB sign taped onto it, written in desperate red Magic Marker.

"What's going on? Did you get fired?"

"They're washing the walls," Paul says, watching the men in yellow. "Why are they washing the walls, Elaine?"

He goes upstairs into the bathroom and pulls down his pants. It is a mess, an oozing gelatinous mess: the dark ink of the ivy, the blood, the shine of the ointment, all conspiring to give the impression that something serious is seeping out of him, something organic and intestinal.

He starts wiping at it, frantically.

Elaine comes in. "Oh, God," she says. "What happened?" Her hand covers her mouth. "What is it?" she asks, speaking through her fingers. "Were you mauled by an animal?"

"Tattoo," he says.

Her hand drops away from her lips. "Erase it," she says. "Erase it right now."

"I don't think I can."

"Is it permanent?" She stoops to look at it a little more carefully.

"I assume so," Paul says, realizing that he didn't think to ask. There is a pause. "Do we have any bandages? Any antibiotic ointment?"

Elaine opens the medicine cabinet. She gets down on her knees in front of him with a bottle of Bactine, a tube of Neosporin, and some nonstick Telfa pads. "Don't move," she says, dabbing at him. Her annoyance is a relief, her rough handling exciting. He gets a little hard-on. "Don't even," she says.

Bactine stings.

"Elaine," he says, "it's like I've lost my mind. I feel so strange." He stops. "I'm sick," he says. "I ate a shrimp-salad sandwich. I've been throwing up all afternoon, four times, right in the middle of the street. No one did anything," he says. "I'm scared," he says. "I'm so scared."

"You're fine," she says, coating the area with ointment, putting a fresh bandage over the wound. "You're probably dehydrated; that can make you feel funny. I'll get you some tea." She picks herself up off the floor.

"Could I have juice instead of the tea?"

"Not if you've been throwing up."

"I have to lie down," he says, moving to the bed.

"I just don't understand," she says. "When did you have time to do it?"

"During lunch," he says. "I ate quickly."

"Maybe that's why you're sick."

"Dunno. Elaine," he calls after her. "It's fine about the walls. Maybe once they're washed they won't need to be painted, maybe we can save some money there."

"I just want everything to be all right for Sammy," she says.

"I know."

He lies down on the bed. There is an enormous crash of thunder. He pulls up the covers, and the heavens open. They pour. Paul lies back, and drops of rain begin to come through the little hole in the roof, they come through the ceiling and land in the middle of his forehead, tap-tap-tapping against his thoughts.

When Paul wakes up, Jennifer, Liz's daughter, is there by his side, the voice of reason.

"Are you alive?" she asks.

"I don't know. Am I?"

"You were breathing strangely."

"Yeah, like how?"

"Panting," she says.

"I must have been dreaming."

"Are you sick?" She presses her punkish seventeen-year-old Florence Nightingale hand against his forehead.

"Demented," he says, propping himself up.

"Do you want a cold washcloth?"

He shakes his head no. "It's like I've been run over," he says. "I threw up. Four times in broad daylight, and no one noticed."

"Chunky or smooth?"

"Extra-chunky," he says. "Shrimp salad."

"Watery," she says.

"Not really," he says.

"Watery isn't a question, it's a comment," Jennifer says. "Watery means, like, gross."

As Jennifer talks, Paul hears a slight slurring, a little lisp that he never noticed before. He looks at her. She starts to say some- thing-a small shiny spot flashes on her tongue.

"Jennifer," he says, "what happened to your tongue? You sound strange. Did something happen to your tongue?"

"I had it popped," she says.

"Popped?"

"Yeah, pierced. I had a stud put in."

"Oh," Paul cries out. "Oh."

"What's the big deal?" Jennifer says. "It's not like I haven't done it before." "I'm going to be sick," Paul says. He gags and sputters and spits into a Kleenex. The idea of pain is making Paul sick. "I feel sick. I feel so sick."

"Do you want some ginger ale?"

She is his Jennifer, his hope, his promise. She is what sold him on this house, this life, a dozen years ago. Jennifer at five, dressed as a clownish Raggedy Ann, playing on the grass; Jennifer dolled up, her cheeks painted with wide circles of zinc oxide, two large rounds of her mother's red lipstick dotting the middles, making twin targets on her cheeks, somehow made him think that life here would be good. He thinks of Jennifer, solid, reliable, resilient, their beloved baby-sitter. And now, Jennifer at seventeen, about to graduate from high school and venture forth. Jennifer with her body pierced, punctuated with the grammar of her generation.

"Ginger ale," she says, handing him the glass. "Elaine left it for you."

He sips. The straw is paper, wilted, limp. It collapses.

"Where is she? Where's Elaine? Where is everybody?"

"Elaine went to the hardware store, Sammy's at Mrs. Hansen's, Daniel's at Scouts, my mother has school till five-thirty, and I'm here with you."

"Are you baby-sitting me?"

"I guess so."

"Do you know what I did?" Paul asks. "Do you know why I'm lying here? Did Elaine tell you?"

Jennifer nods. "Can I see it?"

He is careful to show her the tattoo and nothing else. He keeps his cock covered. He peels the bandage down, flashing the pulpy sore.

She is speechless. Her mouth falls open. The silver stud in her tongue shines.

Quickly, he covers everything up.

"Did you shave yourself, or did they shave you?" she asks.

"I shaved myself."

The storm has passed, and the sun is coming out again, if only temporarily.

A ladder bangs against the bedroom window, a face presses against the glass. There's a knock at the door. The men in the yellow suits are on their way up. "Sorry to startle you," the front man says, his voice muffled by his protective hood. "But you'll have to evacuate the room."

The men in yellow throw open the windows and attach thick white hoses to the house, hoses that will pump clean air in and dirty air out, hoses that will breathe for the house, like a respirator.

Paul slides out of bed. The cleaning crew moves carefully around him, giving him a wide berth, as though he's contaminated. He starts for the stairs. A yellow suit comes galumphing after him. "You forgot this," he says, handing Paul his glass of ginger ale.

On the stairs Paul passes an unusually short guy; the pant legs of his yellow suit are doubled up, rolled over into bulging cuffs.

"Are you ill?" the short guy asks, again his voice muffled by his beekeeper-style hood. "Sometimes we clean a house after someone dies or after a murder, but never when the guy is still here."

"I'm fine," Paul says, pushing past, holding his ginger ale. "Perfectly fine. Just a little nauseated. I had some bad shrimp salad."

Farther down, Paul passes the leader of the pack, the head of the yellow suits.

"Did I hear the short guy talking to you?" he asks.

"Yes," Paul says.

"He shouldn't have done that. No one is supposed to talk. It's supposed to be very quiet."

"Oh," Paul says. "Well, I guess he forgot."

"It's my company," the guy says. "I invented it. I'm the president. Deep cleaning: We suck out your vents, boil your sheets, flip your mattresses. Dust, dead skin, microscopic bacteria-there are pounds of it in every room." The head honcho speaks so animatedly, so heatedly, that his face mask fogs up.

And Paul does notice that things in the house are changing-the musty fog is abating, the soggy, charred odor evaporating. The air seems easier to breathe, and in general everything is becoming more pleasant.

"It's a great thing," Paul says. "Out with the old, in with the new." He slaps the guy on the back. The yellow suit makes a fat, puffing sound.

"I hope you're satisfied," the man says. And Paul isn't sure if the man means it or if he's being snide.

"Hope so," Paul says, going down gently, holding himself as though he'd had surgery, a hernia repaired.

Jennifer is at the kitchen table with a set of children's watercol- ors and paper. Paul is afraid to look at her to spy the silver dot, to set his stomach on a spin. He sits sideways, looking out the window. He can't help but notice that the kitchen is spotless-more than spotless, it is shining brightly. The cabinets have turned a shade or two lighter, and there's something thin and neat about the air-it smells like a showroom.

"You're graduating soon, aren't you?" Paul asks Jennifer.

"Next year," she says.

"Do you know what you want to be?"

"I want to run a large company, like Sony or something. I want to dominate. My plan is to major in world history and then get an M.B.A."

"Really?" Is this the Jennifer of his hopes and dreams, the Jennifer of his imagination? "I thought you wanted to be a folksinger or a potter or something."

"Not for a living. I make pottery to relax, but cash rules. Do you realize that I've worked ever since I was five years old? When I was ten, I had two jobs, and last year I had three part-time positions in addition to being an honor student."

"Can you help me with my homework?" Paul asks, genuinely awed.

"As long as it's not math."

"I'm serious. I'm having a hard time at work," Paul says. "It's like there's animal breath on the back of my neck. I feel like I'm being watched. I need to figure out a few things."

"Like what?"

"What's important right now? What makes a consumer buy something?"

"The idea of something better, something more. Fantasy. Facts are irrelevant."

Paul dips a watercolor brush into the red paint and begins a picture of his own. "Go on," he says.

"Don't compare yourself or your product by saying, 'We're not going to tell you that our product is better than theirs.' Don't announce, 'We're not going to try and sell this or that.' Take a bigger step. Assume. There's power in assumption. Assume Your Right."

"Assume Your Right," Paul says, moving from the red into the black, dipping in. "Assume Your Right"-he paints it across the page.

In the distance there is the thump-a, thump-a sound of the air pump, beating like a heart.

"Somebody? Anybody?" Mrs. Hansen calls, rapping her knuckles against the side door.

"We're in the kitchen," Paul says. "Come on in."

"He's home," Mrs. Hansen announces, delivering Sammy.

Sammy is carrying a plate of cookies. "I baked," he says, holding out the plate. "Want one?"

The idea of food gets Paul's stomach going again.

"I'll have one," Jennifer says. Sammy's cookies are strange- looking, tortured figures, maniacs with bulging cinnamon-dot eyes, crazy sugar-sprinkle hair, and cracked MM mouths.

Jennifer chews off the head of one. "Not bad," she says, her silver stud coated in cookie crumbs.

Mrs. Hansen glances around the room. "Everything looks brighter," she says. "Did you paint the cabinets, or am I getting a migraine?"

"The walls were washed," Paul says.

Elaine comes in, carrying a bag from the hardware store.

"Where were you?" Paul asks.

"I went for a tool so I can fix the drippy pipe."

Outside, they hear Daniel shouting at one of the yellow men, "Hey! Hey, you, who are you? What are you doing here? This is my house."

Elaine hurries out. "Daniel," she says. "Daniel, stop. These are the men from the cleaning company."

"They look like they're from outer space," Daniel says, coming into the house. "What happened to Odetta?"

"She only comes every other Friday, and she doesn't do heavy work."

"And what's that noise?" Daniel asks.

"The air pump. They're changing the air in the house, making everything good again."

Elaine looks around the kitchen, she notices that the patch of crud on the hood above the stove, the spot she's forever trying to Brillo away, is gone. She steps closer. It shines. She checks the toaster oven; it's sparkling and crumb-free, even the little knobs on all the cabinets and drawers have been polished. There are no fingerprints on anything. She breathes deeply. The air is easy.

Sammy picks up two cookies. "This is the good man and this is the bad man," he says, knocking them against each other.

"And the only way to kill the bad man is to eat him." He takes a bite out of the wrong one.

Elaine presses her head against Sammy's chest. "Deep breath," she says, listening. "And another," she says. "Good. Very good."

"It's just like show-and-tell," Mrs. Hansen says. "Sammy made cookies, Paul and Jennifer painted a picture, Elaine bought a tool, and." She turns to Daniel. "And did you make a paperweight in arts and crafts?" She looks down at the white lump Daniel is holding.

He looks at her as if she's an idiot. "It's a mold," he says. "A plaster cast of my left hand."

"It's very handsome," Mrs. Hansen says.

"It isn't about looks, it's about proof. You can make a mold of tire tracks so you can find out what kind of a car got away. You can make a mold of anything."

"How exciting," Mrs. Hansen says.

Daniel shrugs. "It's just a piece of the puzzle."

Mrs. Hansen checks her watch. "Best to go," she says. "Time to feed my hubcap."

"Hubcap?" Paul asks.

"Mr. Hansen," she says.

"You should bring him over for dinner one night soon," Paul says.

"Not so soon," Mrs. Hansen says. "We chopped up your dining room table this afternoon. God, it was fun. Whack. Whack." She demonstrates the motion of the ax.

"I had the sense something was different," Paul says.

The president of the yellow suits steps into the kitchen. He pulls off his helmet and holds it tucked into his hip, like an actor coming out of character to take a bow. He stands in front of them, posed-I am not a smart person, but I play one on TV.

"We're just finishing up," he says. "Disconnecting the hoses, packing up our brushes and sweepers. You'll notice a difference right away, but I find that the full effect usually takes twenty-four hours."

"I can feel it right now," Paul says. "The air is definitely cleaner."

The president smiles, as though it's all so obvious. "I'd like to leave you with a stack of sponges," he says, handing Elaine a plastic-mesh sack filled with sponges in assorted sizes and colors, each with the company's logo printed on it. "Do you know that your kitchen sponge is the dirtiest thing in the house?"

"I had no idea," Elaine says.

"Change it, and change it frequently," the man says. Elaine nods.

The man extends both hands toward Paul, smiles, and presses something into each of Paul's palms. "Petrified horse dung. It absorbs the toxins, pulling them out from your heart through your hands." He makes a gesture that's like a salute. "Be well," he says, stepping out.

The yellow suits have left the house.

There has been a surrealistic edge to the afternoon, which begins to fade once Elaine and the children are home. Each of them is an element in the equation, each is like an anchor, a weight.

"How was school?" Paul asks.

"Okay," Sammy says. "We had rehearsal."

"Rehearsal for what?" Jennifer asks.

"Play," Sammy says. "I'm the head of a rhinoceros."

"Wow," Daniel says. "Last year you were the back of an elephant."

"When is it?" Jennifer asks.

"Tomorrow," Sammy says.

"Tomorrow, and you're just telling me now?" Elaine says.

"He's not even telling you," Daniel says. "He told Jennifer."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Elaine asks.

Sammy shrugs. "I didn't see you," he offers.

Jennifer checks her watch. "Okay, guys, fair time."

"We need money," Sammy says.

"We should be there by seven," Jennifer says.

"Give them some money," Elaine instructs Paul.

Paul moves to reach for his wallet. The motion irritates his wound. He is wearing sweatpants; he has no pockets, no cash. His wallet is upstairs, in his pants.

"Never mind, I've got it," Elaine says, digging into her purse, pulling a pair of twenties off her wad, her booty prize from the yard sale.

"Give Jennifer some, too," Paul says. "She's an excellent babysitter."

Elaine looks at him suspiciously and pulls off another twenty. "Make sure you eat enough dinner," Elaine says. "Have some protein."

"Have some fun," Paul says, and they are out the door.

Sammy's plate of cookies and Daniel's weird mold are left on the table.

"Does Sammy seem strange to you?" Elaine asks.

"It's stress. He's picking up on all the stress. Daniel is the one who scares me."

"Yeah, why?"

"Overnight he's a Scout and a goddamned junior detective. I don't trust him for a minute. I think he's a stool pigeon."

"Paul," Elaine says. "We're talking about Daniel."

"Just you wait and see," Paul says.

Elaine turns to go upstairs. "Are you dressing for dinner?"

"It hurts to wear pants," Paul says.

"Well, I'd offer to lend you a dress, but I'm afraid you'd take me up on it."

"You never can tell," Paul says, following her. "Do you think I can get away with wearing sweats?"

"Can't you just put on a suit and act normal, even if it hurts?"

"If it would make you happy, I'd be glad to hurt myself."

"I think you're confusing me with someone else," Elaine says, and quickly turns away.

"How would you describe your mood?" Paul calls after her. "Does 'bitchy' even begin to do it?"

Elaine ignores him and picks up the phone. "I'm calling Pat and George and telling them we'll meet them at Joan's."

"Do we really have to go? I feel lousy. I've been sick all afternoon." He feels small and weak and not at all sure he can maintain the usual facade. "'I am the egg man.the walrus,'" he sings to himself.

"It will be good for us to be with people," Elaine says, convincing herself. "It will remind us of who we are," she says.

"Who you want us to be," Paul says, going into the bathroom. "What was the name of the guy who shot John Lennon?"

"I don't know, why?"

"I'm trying to remember."

His suit pants are hanging from the shower rod-perfectly pressed. The tile is radiant, even the grout seems to be glowing. Paul can see his reflection in the chrome faucet handles. "How much does the cleaning guy get?"

"You don't want to know."

"I'm curious," Paul says, peeling down his bandage, squirting a little extra ointment over everything, figuring if nothing else to keep the area well lubricated. He can't look at the tattoo. The sight of what he's done to himself is terrifying, a mark of insanity, another in what's becoming a series: the fire, the date, his job.

"Did it hurt?" Elaine asks as she comes in to put on her makeup. "Did it hurt like hell?" Her eyes are rolled back into a strangely accusatory position as she puts on a face she clipped from a magazine-the page is propped against the sink, with step-by- step, paint-by-number instructions. "I'd assume that's a sensitive area," she says, piling it on.

Paul notices that the color of her eye shadow is Fiction, her lipstick is called Sheer Fraud.

"Did you even notice-or were you doing something else at the time?"

He doesn't respond. He waits. He buttons his shirt. He tucks everything in and zips his pants. "What happened to the dining room table, Elaine? Why'd you chop it to pieces?"

"The damage was irreparable," she says, finishing up, smacking her lips, dabbing her mouth with toilet paper.

"We're not millionaires, Elaine."

"Why does it always come down to money? That's how I can tell you're looking for a fight. You say something stupid about money."

Paul puts on his jacket. "Are you ready to go, or do you want to call and tell them that we're not coming because Thursday is our night to stay home and fight?"

"Get in the car," Elaine says.

"I know it's crazy to have a dinner party on a weeknight," Joan Talmadge says, opening the door, "but I thought it would be fun. Ted's leaving tomorrow for three weeks, and my book club is off tonight. I'm so glad you could come."

"I hope we're not late," Elaine says.

"No, you're it, though. The Montgomerys couldn't make it. Something happened," Joan whispers.

"How are you folks?" Ted asks, coming up behind Joan, giving her a squeeze. "What can I get you to wet your whistle?"

"White wine," Elaine says.

"Scotch," Paul says.

"Water?"

"Rocks," Paul says.

The weather is starting up again. Joan opens the front door and takes a peek. "I know it's crazy," she repeats to no one in particular. "But I thought it would be fun." She closes the door.

"Strong front pushing through," Ted says.

"Clear flying tomorrow," Joan says.

"Glasses, glasses," Ted says.

"In the cupboard," Joan says.

Joan leans in and whispers to Elaine, "The Montgomery boy tried to kill himself. Or something. Catherine and Hammy had to take a ride up and meet with the people at the school." Joan pauses and looks out the window. "God, I hope they're not caught in the storm."

Ted is down on his knees in the foyer in front of the cabinet where they keep extra wineglasses, dishes, crockery. He is holding three wineglasses in each hand, and he can't get up. "Joan," he bleats softly. "Joan, Joan."

Ted is a former football player. He works for one of the sports networks in the business office. He used to get everyone great seats to games at the Garden; now he gets them nothing, and Paul can't tell if he's been moved up or moved over.

Joan goes behind Ted, slips her hands under his arms, counts, "One, two, three, push," and lifts him enough so that he can get his footing. She turns to Elaine and shrugs. "He just folds up sometimes, and you have to unfold him," she says.

"My damn trick knee," Ted says, embarrassed.

Paul nods. He thinks he sees the date in the distance, walking from the dining room into the living room. He thinks he must be hallucinating.

"Are Pat and George here?" Elaine asks.

"Of course," Joan says.

Elaine is nervous about seeing Pat out of context, Pat with George, Pat with other couples, Pat with clothes. Will Pat speak to her? Will it be strained? She is nervous and excited-the way you get when you have a crush.

Ted hands them their drinks. They gulp. Paul leans back against the frame of the kitchen door, and Elaine goes in search of Pat.

"Hors d'oeuvres," Joan says, coming out with a trayful. "Mini- blinis." Paul pops one and then another into his mouth, swallowing them whole.

"Good, aren't they?" she asks. "Beluga."

"Ummm-humm." He blots his lips with a cocktail napkin. Again, he thinks he sees her, moving from room to room, back and forth in front of him, a hypnotic tease.

"Surprise, surprise," Henry says, sideswiping him.

"I thought you were away."

"Just flew in-and boy my arms are tired," Henry says, teasing. "I hopped the last plane." He takes Paul's glass. "You look like you could use a drink."

The date slides in next to Henry. "You remember my friend, don't you?" Henry says, winking. His wink is so strange that it looks like an overextended blink, it looks as if Henry's got something in his eye and is flapping his lid furiously trying to clear it.

She is stalking him, setting out to ruin him. She has no judgment, no limits. She is wearing a skirt that is more like an elbow patch, a Band-Aid. Bile rises in his throat. He makes a run for the powder room. The two mini-blinis he swallowed fly up and out as if jet-propelled. They land in the toilet intact, staring up, two eyes in a sea of yellow foam. He rinses his mouth, washes his face, and rejoins the party.

"We waited for you two," George says. "Finally I said to Pat, 'We've got to go on without them. They're smart, they'll catch up.'"

"Sorry," Paul says, hating the paternalistic tone, the rap-on- the-knuckles reprimand. "The kids, the storm, the house-we ran late. We called you," he says.

George cuffs him on the shoulder. "Forget it," he says, handing Paul his empty glass, disappearing into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.

Paul feels drugged, depraved. His wound burns. The date is dangerous; she could kill him. He looks for Elaine. He needs protection. He stands next to her, listening to her talking to Ted. "I've started fixing things," Elaine says. "Yesterday I fixed the disposal, and today I'm working on the toilet. Wouldn't it be great to be able to fix everything? Wouldn't it be wonderful to be an auto mechanic? Or an electrician? Or even a plumber?" She pauses. "I need to believe I can do some good, and it's too late to go to medical school."

"Fine thing," Ted says. "It's never too late."

"Sometimes it is," Elaine says. "The moment passes. It comes and goes."

"Soup's on," Joan announces. "Your places are marked."

Paul circles the table. He finds his name between Liz's and the date's-her card simply says GUEST OF HENRY.

Elaine is across the table between Pat and George.

"Odd woman out," Pat says, settling in.

"I threw up all afternoon," Paul whispers to the date as he's putting his napkin in his lap. "And the adhesive on my bandage isn't holding well-right now my pants are rubbing against a horrible mess."

"You're turning me on," she says, almost loud enough for someone to hear.

"How's the house?" Ted asks, divvying up the fish. "That's what we want to know. Do you know what caused the fire? More importantly, are you covered?"

"We're covered," Paul says, looking at Elaine, checking to see if he's allowed to tell the stupidity bit.

"Instead of just patching things back together, we're using it as an opportunity to expand. We're adding French doors and a deck," Elaine says.

"Oh, I love French doors," Joan says, putting beans on a plate and passing it down.

"Wonderful beans," Pat says.

"I just want to tell everyone," Joan says, "I was at the office all day. This dinner was whipped up in sixty minutes or less."

"And it tastes like it," George spits into Elaine's ear.

"Beautiful flowers," Elaine says.

"It's what I do," Joan says, passing plates. "It's my therapy." Actually, Joan is a financial whiz. When she was home with their first child, she started tinkering with their investments. Last year she told Elaine that she pulled in half a million, and that was when the market was slightly down.

"What about the Fourth? Does everyone have plans for fireworks?" Liz asks.

"We're already planning Christmas vacation," Joan says.

"Do we have plans?" Paul asks Elaine.

She shakes her head.

"Not to worry," Pat says. "You'll do whatever we do."

"We are so boring. I don't even tell the travel agent where we want to go anymore," Joan says. "I tell her, 'You pick it. Pick a place I would never dream of, and book us in for two weeks.'"

Outside, thunder rolls. Wild branches scratch against the house.

Joan rings her spoon against her glass. "It's a real treat to see everyone tonight. I've been instructed to tell you how very sorry Catherine and Hammy are not to be joining us, but they're looking forward to seeing everyone Saturday night."

Ted, Liz, and Pat applaud.

When dinner is done, Ted tries to get up and help Joan clear but has trouble with his legs; he stands and falls, stands and falls, and finally sits back down.

"Stay," Joan says, patting his shoulder. "Sit and stay."

An enormous crash of thunder and lightning shakes the house. "Now, that had to have hit something," George says, racing to the window.

Again, there is thunder, and the power goes off.

Taking the electrical interruption as her signal, the date reaches into Paul's lap and grabs him. He whimpers.

"What?" someone says. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Paul stammers. "I just-the chair-my toe."

The lights come back on.

"I've got cheesecake for the brave among you, angel food cake for anyone afraid of fat, and a bowl of berries for the faint of heart. What'll it be?" Joan asks. "Menage a trois? A little bit of everything?"

Pat and Liz are talking softly. "Pregnant?" Liz says. "At forty- seven? Were they doing things?"

"They did nothing," Pat says.

"What a nightmare, preggers at forty-seven. I can't even imagine having sex," Joan says, licking her fingers. "Coffee?" she asks. "I've got a pot of decaf. Let's see a show of hands. One. Two. Three."

"Get home safe," they call to each other as they're pulling away.

"Drive careful," Joan and Ted say, waving from the door. "See you Saturday at the Montgomerys'."

In the car Paul and Elaine talk.

"Do Joan and Ted not have sex?" Paul asks.

"I don't know, why?"

"She said, 'I can't even imagine having sex.' Do other couples not have sex?"

"I don't know."

"Should we not be having sex?"

"I don't know."

"If nothing else, it seems like the one thing we do well-we fight and we fuck. That's how we know we're still married." Paul laughs.

Elaine says nothing.

"That was supposed to be a joke."

"What's the punch line?"

"You were in a perfectly good mood at the party; what happened?"

"I don't know," Elaine says.

They drive, following the red glow, the afterburn, of the Nielsons' taillights. The electricity is off everywhere-trees are down, flares are up.

"Wave," Paul says as they pass Elaine's cop, directing traffic.

"Do you think we have to check on our house?" Elaine asks.

"No," Paul says. "It couldn't get worse."

The night is ink. It is as though there's nothing out there-if they can't see it, it doesn't exist. They crawl toward the memory of home.

The Nielsons' house hovers, glowing dimly like a spaceship, burning out, low on fuel.

"Pat and George must have a backup generator or something," Paul says.

The two little M's greet them at the door.

"Were you scared when the lights went off?" Pat asks.

They shake their heads. "We played camp-out."

All around the perimeter of the room, battery-powered backup lights beam dutifully.

"You can never estimate how long the power will be out," George says, crawling around the room turning things off.

"How about lights-out for the campers? It's a school night, after all," Pat says, leading the little ones off to bed.

"Nightcap?" George asks Paul.

"Have you got any pain medication?" Paul asks.

"I think there's some Percocet left over from my deviated septum. You having a problem?"

"Percocet would do it," Paul says.

George goes off down the hall and returns with a pill and a flashlight.

"Sorry about all the noise last night," George says, dropping the pill in Paul's palm. "Sometimes it just gets to you. I want so much," George says, "that's what it is, high expectations."

Paul nods.

"Anyway," George says, "I went down into the basement, smoked a little grass, and felt much better. Every now and then I do it. Don't tell Pat; I wouldn't want her to know."

Paul shakes his head. "Don't worry," he says. "I'd never tell." Pot and pornography. No one would believe me anyway, he thinks.

"It's my way of letting a little air in," George says. "Next time join me, if you're inclined. You smoke?"

"Sure," Paul says. Of course he smokes. He does everything. He doesn't tell George about the time he and Elaine smoked crack, how she was the fountain in front of the Plaza hotel, a Roman candle with sparks and color and light pouring out of her. He doesn't tell George that it was one of their highest moments-no pun intended-a moment of communion and communication, and that now he worries he and Elaine have drifted, and he'd not sure that it's the usual ebb and flow.

"Where did Elaine go?" he asks George.

George shrugs. "She must have gone with Pat. What a lousy party, don't ya think?" George says, pouring himself a drink. "What a lousy idea, a dinner party on a work night. People can't drink enough to make it worthwhile." George has never sounded so bitter before.

"I thought it was just us," Paul says.

"It's everyone," George says. "And Christ, Ted's knee, it's depressing as hell. He's falling apart. Big strong guy, can't even pick himself up from the table."

"I wanted to stay home. But Elaine needs to see people. She feels strange if she's left alone for too long. Where'd you say she went?"

George shrugs. He tops off his glass. He hands Paul a flashlight. "Sleep tight," he says, heading down the hall into the dark.

Elaine is in the bedroom.

"Where'd you go?" Paul asks.

"Where'd I go?" Elaine repeats. "Where would I go?"

"Dunno."

The beam of her flashlight is directed down onto the page of a magazine.

"You have a flashlight, too," he says.

She ignores him.

The deep-pink walls of the little M's' room look even meatier than usual; they have the color of something oxygen-deprived, a failing organ. It makes Paul nervous. "We have to get out of here before the weekend," he says. He puts the Percocet on the night table and pulls off his shoes.

"What's that?" she asks.

"A treat."

"Mine or yours?" "Mine," he says.

"Are there more?"

"I got it from George. It's left over from his deviated septum." Paul reaches for the water glass.

"That's my water," Elaine says, taking it away.

"What's wrong with you?"

There is no answer.

He undresses. He peels down his bandage and takes a long look at himself with the flashlight, contemplating. Things are both better and worse in the half-light. There's something about the tattoo that he likes-it's a badge of a certain kind of sick courage.

"Do me the favor," Elaine says, watching him examine himself. "Keep yourself covered. The whole world doesn't have to see what you did, and I really don't want the boys to have to deal with it. It'll frighten Sammy, and God knows what it'll mean to Daniel."

"Why are you being so awful?" Paul asks, putting the bandage back in place, in effect tucking everything in for the night.

"Why?" Elaine throws back the covers, swinging her legs over the edge. She stands up and fixes her flashlight beam on his face. "Why?" she says, coming toward him, zeroing in.

He is naked in front of her. "This afternoon you were so wonderful," he says. "You took care of me, you didn't ask questions. You were incredible. I felt so safe. Filled with hope and love."

She looks at him, stunned, amazed. "What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

"Shhhh, someone will hear you," Paul says.

"Am I supposed to think that you were at the office, working away, and all of a sudden, out of the blue, you decided, 'I need a tattoo on my crotch,' the same way you might think a cup of coffee would be nice?" she whispers viciously. "Or would it be better if I assumed you were kidnapped by aliens on Fifty-seventh Street and that the poison ivy below your belt is their insignia, the logo from their spaceship?"

"I'm not saying." Paul says.

"You're not saying is right," Elaine says, wagging her light at him. "You think you can go off, do whatever with whomever, then come crawling home and I'll take care of you. You think I'm so wonderful, so marvelous and forgiving, that I'll make everything all better. Who do you think I am?" she says, loudly. "I'm not your mother."

"No," Paul says. "You're not. You're out of your mind. You're some suddenly perfect Miss Fix-it who wants to do something with her life. It's not too late to go to medical school," he says, in a mean, mocky voice.

"Who are you fucking?" Elaine asks.

"Who are you fucking?" Paul throws back. "You must be fucking somebody, otherwise you wouldn't be acting like this. Are you fucking Liz? Do you like it? What's it like?"

Elaine hits Paul.

Elaine has never hit anyone before in her life. She hits him again, hard.

He opens his mouth. "Bitch."

She hits him again. Again and again, there's something satisfying about the sting of her hand against his skin.

He grabs her arms, her wrists.

A noise like a war cry comes out of her mouth.

He hopes no one hears her.

"Be quiet," he hisses.

"You be quiet."

He pushes her away.

She falls against the bed, bounces up, and rushes toward him. "Where'd you get the tattoo, Paul?"

"You're acting crazy," he says, brushing her off.

"I'm acting crazy?" she says. "I'm acting crazy?"

He picks up the Percocet and is out the bedroom door; she's after him. Their feet padding fast down the hall. She is on his back, slapping, scratching. He's turning and twisting, trying to shake her off. Sofa, chairs, side tables, lamps-it is a treacherous domestic obstacle course. Everything is in the way. They're dancing around the room, weaving, bobbing, ducking. His elbow meets her cheek. The corner of the coffee table stabs him in the leg-he cries out.

"Be quiet," she mocks.

She lunges. He trips over an ottoman and slams to the floor. There is a groan, the sound of air escaping him. She makes a fist. She punches him in the gut. He pulls her hair, as though by yanking it he will snap her out of it. She is upon him using both fists, like sticks, pummeling him relentlessly.

He is a naked man, and she is his wife in her beautiful new nightgown. She is beating him up in the dark, in the living room of a neighbor's house. He is trapped in the space between the sofa and the coffee table. They are not speaking. There is nothing to say. The only sound is the repetitive, thick thud of her hand against him and the accidental expression of his surprise-grunts and groans. And then it is done. He is curled into a tight ball. Not moving. Not fighting. She takes a pillow from the sofa and pounds him with it. She is crying now. Everything is futile; there is nothing, nothing but sadness and frustration. She puts the pillow down.

He moves to get up.

"Watch your head," she says.

He goes ahead of her, down the hall back into their room. He breaks the Percocet in half; she hands him the water glass. He swallows his half of the pill and has a sip of water, and then she does the same.

They sleep.