Music for Torching

SEVEN

THE WORK BEGINS.

The storm has roughed up every house up and down the block-branches and leaves are everywhere, beheaded geraniums dot the flagstone path, and the potted plants look as though they've been spun around in the night.

Mrs. Hansen is in Elaine's front yard, straightening up. She is hauling branches, one in each hand. Bright green leaves frame her face; her khakis act like camouflage. She is the woman who turns into a tree.

"Hello, hello," she calls from behind the leaves. "Hello, hello," like a little girl playing peek-a-boo.

"Mrs. Hansen, is that you?"

Mrs. Hansen throws off the branches, hurling them into a pile-she's stronger than you'd think. "Wild night, wasn't it?"

"Out of control," Elaine says.

"God's night off," Mrs. Hansen says. "A house on Oak was struck by lightning, and over on Maple there's a tree down on a Mercedes. I'm not sorry for that son of a bitch; I hate German cars," she says. "At three A.M., I was making cold hot toddies trying to calm myself. The whole thing scared the hell out of me."

"Cold hot toddy?"

"Like a hot toddy, only the electricity was off so I drank it cold. The mister and I were up all night wondering what would happen next." She glances around the yard. "Thought I'd tidy up over here. The last thing you need is more mess. Your phone's been ringing like crazy-every ten minutes since seven-thirty. Expecting a call?"

Elaine shakes her head no.

"I would have put on a pot of coffee, I would have gotten the phone, but."

Elaine looks across the street. The Hansens' yard is neat as a pin, the grass so well groomed that it appears combed. The stone front of the house, a perfect facade. "Your yard is amazing," Elaine says, realizing that she has no idea what the house is like inside-she pictures Ethan Allen.

"I was up early," Mrs. Hansen says. "Radio said there might have been a tornado, but it's unconfirmed."

"You really are something," Elaine says, noticing that Mrs. Hansen's tousled reddish-brown hair is dyed, aware that she's made up a little story for herself about Mrs. Hansen that may, or more likely may not, be true.

"I used to be a goer, go, go, go," Mrs. Hansen says. "But then, out of the blue, I decided I didn't want it anymore. I didn't want a schedule or a plan. I wanted out. So I stayed in. More or less for a year. I didn't leave the house. Gave everyone quite a scare, but I knew I was fine-it was what I needed to do.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Twenty-seven years last April."

"Are you happy?" Elaine asks, and immediately worries that she's gone too far.

"You're not thinking of moving, are you? Not after all this, not after we've become friends."

"I'm not going anywhere," Elaine says.

"Don't scare me. Last thing I need is another scare."

Inside the house, the phone is ringing.

"Phone," Mrs. Hansen says.

"I'll get it," Elaine says.

"Why are you ignoring me?" Liz asks. "Did I do something to offend you?"

"I don't know what to say," Elaine says. It sounds like an excuse, but she means it. "I just don't know what to say."

"Well, you're going to have to say something. I can't stand this, it's ridiculous."

"It's not you, it's me," Elaine says.

"I know it's you," Liz says. "You'll tell me all about it. I'll pick you up at noon. We'll have a lump of cottage cheese; I'm on a new diet."

"That's an old diet," Elaine says, hanging up. She looks out the kitchen window and into the Dumpster-it's filling up. There's the axed dining room table, a half dozen assorted shoes Elaine threw in yesterday, and the remains of the grill, which someone tossed in on top.

The phone rings again.

"Elaine, I'm buying you an answering machine," her mother says.

"Have you been calling all morning? Mrs. Hansen said someone's been calling."

"No," her mother says. "But last night I needed you and I couldn't get you."

"We were out." Elaine wanders into the dining room, stretching the phone cord. She stands where the dining room table used to be, wondering what should fill the spot, what comes next.

"Exactly," her mother says. "In a storm, no less. I've got to run, but I'll come by later. I'll bring a new machine."

Elaine hangs up. And again the phone rings. "Hello," she says, exasperated.

"Just checking in," a woman's voice says.

"Who is this?" Elaine asks.

"Who would you like me to be?"

"I think you have the wrong number," Elaine says, hanging up.

She takes a deep breath. The house doesn't smell. It has no smell at all. It is neither here nor there, dead nor living, it is nonexistent, without connotations. Neutral. They did an excellent job.

The phone rings.

"What?" Elaine says instead of hello.

"Hello, it's Rich Perloff, your architect. I've been calling all morning. First it rings and rings and no one answers, and then it's busy. Haven't you got an answering machine or at least Call Waiting?"

"Who is this?" Elaine asks.

"Rich Perloff. Are you home? Can I come over now?" he asks. "If you want me to do this, I have to do it now," he says.

"Fine," she says. "Come. I'm here."

Elaine hangs up. She digs through the cupboard for the Yellow Pages. It's time for her to do something for herself. Elaine is looking for information-schools, vocational programs, ways out of her rut. She lets her fingers do the walking. She dials.

"Westchester Technical Institute."

"I'm looking for some information." Elaine says.

"One moment, I'll connect you."

"Bud Johnson," a man says, picking up.

"I'm looking for information-" Elaine says.

He cuts her off. "Is the student having problems in school, flunking out, has he been expelled or arrested?"

"It's for me. I'm calling for myself."

"How old are you?"

"Forty-three," Elaine says.

"Oh, I don't think so," Bud Johnson says.

"Yes, I am."

"No, I mean, our program wouldn't be right for you. It's for 'stupid' boys," he says to her. "What's your name?"

"Elaine."

"Elaine, do you know what you're looking for?"

"No," she says. "This is the first call I've made."

"Tell me about yourself."

"I'm married, I have two children, and I'm going insane." "And I guess you've already tried to drown yourself in aerobics classes?"

Elaine doesn't answer.

"That was supposed to be a joke."

"I've never taken an aerobics class in my life."

"Okay. So what kind of educational background do you have?" "NYU a long time ago."

"Have you worked?"

"Not since college."

"Umm-hummm."

She doesn't know who she's talking to, she doesn't know what she's looking for; this feels a little like a waste of time and a little like she's called a suicide hotline-she can't hang up.

"And what do you think you'd be good at now?" His voice is calm, soothing.

"I don't know," Elaine says.

"What have you tried?"

"The other day my friend gave me a fix-it book. So far I've

repaired the disposal and the toilet, and I must admit I got quite a kick out of it."

She wonders what he looks like. She pictures dark curly hair.

"In your wildest dreams what do you see yourself doing two years from now?"

Inexplicably, Elaine blushes. "Oh," she says. "Oh, I couldn't answer that."

"Well," he says cautiously, "I'd be glad to talk with you about your situation, and maybe we can think of something."

"I'm scared," she whispers. "I'm so scared."

"Would you like to make a time to meet later today?"

"I have to go to my son's school play at two o'clock. He's the head rhinoceros."

"Let's meet at four. I think I can get out of here by then. Odyssey Diner on Central Avenue?"

"How will I recognize you?"

"I'll be carrying a manila folder." A bell rings in the background. "I have to go," he says. "Hang in there."

The architect pulls into the driveway, just missing Mrs. Hansen, who jumps into the bushes, making a narrow escape.

"Run me down, why don't you. What's the big hurry? Fire's out," Mrs. Hansen says, climbing out of the shrubbery.

"Are you the mother-in-law?" the architect asks, ringing the bell. "Are we adding on a room for you-so the hen can come back to roost?"

Mrs. Hansen gestures across the street to her house. "I'm the lady next door," she says proudly.

"You don't have much left in the way of a roof," the architect says.

"I'm aware of that," Mrs. Hansen says. "That one's been on there seventeen years." "All good things come to an end," the architect says.

"Thanks for being available on such short notice," Elaine says, letting him into the house.

"Did you have the walls washed in here?" the architect asks.

"Yesterday," she says.

"I can smell it," the architect says.

"There is no smell."

"Exactly," he says. "What are you covering up?"

"We had a fire." Elaine leads him to the hole in the wall. The plastic got blown around in the storm, the entire setup is looking a little soggy, the surrounding plaster is starting to show a stain, and there's a kind of weird swelling, a bulge in the wall that wasn't there the day before. "We're thinking we'd like to take advantage of the situation-adding a deck and French doors."

"Face-lift," the architect says.

Elaine ignores him and goes on. "The deck man was here yesterday. I picked this one." She shows the architect a picture and a scrap of paper with the dimensions.

The architect shakes his head. "Too square. You need something narrower, something that has a shape, some style."

And before Elaine can say anything, he reaches out, yanks the plastic off the hole, and starts poking at the edges.

"Who started the fire?"

"Grill fell over."

"I never heard that one before."

Elaine doesn't blink.

"Have you got a ladder?"

"In the garage."

The architect hauls Paul's big ladder out and sets it up in the backyard-not far from the hole. "Go on," he says, and Elaine starts to climb. He follows her up. "I want to hear your

fantasy-you in your backyard, how do you see yourself? Tell me your fantasy, and then we'll talk reality."

Three steps from the top he calls out, "Stop. Turn." And she does. "What do you see?"

"Sky, trees, houses." She looks more closely. "The Mercedes on Maple being towed away."

She can see the intersection of four backyards-wood, wire, and split-rail fencing all coming together in a point. A swing set, an above ground pool, a Japanese garden.

"This is your view," the architect pronounces from just beneath her. He gesticulates, the ladder rocks. "I was supposed to start a big job this morning. At midnight last night, they called to cancel-they're getting divorced instead." He starts down the ladder, it sways. "Something else you might want to think of, while you've got me, is putting in a safe room, I've been doing a lot of them."

"Safe room?" Elaine asks. She's thinking padded walls, no sharp corners, a housewife goes insane.

"The couple I was going to do the house for was getting a safe suite: underground phone line, water supply, oxygen. I could do a single room, say, master bath for under five grand. I've got a great bulletproof door with interior dead bolts. These days you never can tell when you're going to need to just get away, buy yourself a few minutes of calm. You can't count on the police to be there when you need them."

He pulls a straightedge out of his pocket, sits down at the kitchen table, and draws on a sheet of Sammy's construction paper. He swears while he works. "Shit. Fuck. Eraser," he calls out. "Have you got an eraser?"

He measures. He plots. It takes him less than twenty minutes. "These are your French doors," he says, showing her the plan. "And that's your deck."

"Am I allowed to make suggestions?"

"Is there something wrong with what I drew?"

Elaine looks at the picture. "All the doors open onto the deck?"

"Yes," the guy says.

"Well then, I guess it's fine," Elaine says.

"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet. Don't tell me you're saying no. Don't tell me anything I don't want to hear." He starts to have a temper tantrum. He gets up from the table, flapping his arms. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this?" He goes into the dining room. He stares at the hole. He takes a few deep breaths. "Sorry," he says. "I'm sorry if I'm coming across as kind of tense. I didn't meditate this morning. I always meditate in the morning. It focuses me. And I'm so upset about the couple that canceled. It's bad for all of us, when a couple gives up. It means we all failed."

"How much is this going to cost?" Elaine says, feeling obligated to ask. "Shouldn't I call my husband?"

Paul is at the office. He has gone to the toy store and bought himself some children's watercolors and paper. The box says nontoxic, and he thinks that's a good thing. He is painting a plan, conjuring the color of success for a margarine company-lite- butter yellow.

He is behind his desk; his pants are undone. His wounds hurt, but he's cooking, feeling oddly all right. It's a long shot, but that's what's called for now-something different.

The date has called, several times, using several different names. He's not taking calls. He's busy, the work has begun. He's thinking things through, replaying last night: He sees himself talking to George, getting the pain pill, going into the room, Elaine on the bed reading. He remembers undressing; the image of his tattoo appears as a close-up, in full color, the shine of the antibiotic ointment under the thin beam of the flashlight. And then there is Elaine coming toward him, Paul throwing

her off, Elaine bouncing on the bed, Paul out the door, down the hall, chased. Paul and Elaine spinning around the living room, like a twisted game of tag, tackle the marriage and bring it down.

Elaine hitting him.

Paul pulling her hair.

Elaine pummeling him.

And at some point it stops. It doesn't end, it just stops.

He thinks of what Jennifer told him yesterday after- noon-"Facts are irrelevant."

Paul dips a watercolor brush into the purple paint. "There's power in assumption," he tells himself, remembering her words. "Assume your right," Paul says aloud, moving from the purple into the pink.

"I should call my husband," Elaine says, picking up the phone.

His secretary puts the call right through.

"The architect is here," Elaine announces. "He had a cancellation. He can start now, they can bring a wrecking ball this afternoon. But I wanted to check with you."

"I was just thinking of you," Paul says, dipping his brush in water, rinsing it. "I'm sitting at my desk painting."

"I'm standing in the kitchen talking," she says.

"Are you having a good day? Feeling better?"

"Yes," she says, and she can't say any more.

"Is he right there, next to you?"

"Yes," she says again.

"This is the guy who did the Esterhazys', and they're happy?"

"Yes," Elaine says again.

The architect is huffing and puffing, pacing the kitchen.

The house is starting to have a smell; it's picking up the scent of the architect, anxiety and Irish Spring.

"Has he given us an estimate? Do we have to look for a contractor?"

"No. He has someone."

"Do you want to let him have the job?"

The architect takes the phone from Elaine. "Look," he says, "it's a small thing, it's not like you're building a house. You're just letting a little light in; don't make it more than what it is." He pauses. "I don't care what you do, but what I told your wife is that I was supposed to start something today and they canceled, they're splitting up instead of building a house-so here I am. You can do the same thing, you can procrastinate, or you can do the job. If you can say yes, you can have it right now. It's a onetime deal. This isn't something to dick around with. You see a good thing coming, embrace it," the architect says. "Don't waste my time. Everyone is always wasting my time."

"Be quiet for a minute and let me think," Paul shouts.

The architect hands the phone back to Elaine.

"What a fucking asshole," Paul says.

Elaine doesn't say anything.

"Do you think we should do it? Could you get him to write something down, some sort of an estimate, tell him we need it for the insurance?"

The guy takes the phone from Elaine again. "Are you saying yes or no?"

"Don't take a tone with me," Paul says. "I'm saying go ahead, fine, get your hammer in hand. I'm going to need something in writing by the time I get home."

"Short fuse," the architect says, hanging up. "Can I use your phone?" Elaine nods. He dials. "Joey, let's go. Here's the address-it's a deck and doors. I'm leaving a sketch on the kitchen table. You need the mini-ball; there's a stone wall that's gotta come out. I'll be in my office in an hour, I'll call you from there." The architect hangs up. "Did I tell you? The contractor is my brother-in-law, married my baby sister, it's kind of an all-in- the-family business. Safe rooms to swimming pools, soup to nuts."

"No, you didn't mention it," Elaine says, feeling slightly screwed.

Mrs. Hansen comes in, mixes herself a drink-white wine and cranberry juice in a big tumbler-and goes back out again. Elaine checks the clock. Eleven-thirty.

"Listen," Elaine tells the architect, "my son has asthma. I worry a lot about dust. Can you do me a favor and keep it clean?"

"I had asthma," the architect says. "I spent my childhood choking to death. I can keep it clean. We'll seal the whole thing off. You won't even know it's happening. Can I use your phone again?"

She nods.

"Joey, remember that roll of plastic left over from the gym job? Throw it in the truck. We have to keep the house clean; their kid can't breathe."

"Thanks," Elaine says.

"Don't mention it."

The phone rings. The architect answers it. "For you." He hands the receiver to Elaine.

"I hope it wasn't crazy to have a party on a weeknight," Joan Talmadge says.

"It was lovely," Elaine says. "It's always good to get out of the house."

There is noise in the background. "I'm in my office," Joan says. "It's completely crazy. The market's been up and down all day." She draws a breath. "Are you living at home yet?"

"Soon," Elaine says.

"Well, as soon as you're back, we'll have a welcome-home party."

"That'll be nice," Elaine says.

"Ted thinks you're wonderful," Joan says. "After everyone left, we were talking, and of all of the other wives he likes you best."

"Well, thanks. I like Ted, too."

"Are you really thinking of going to medical school? Don't you have to be twenty-two or something?"

"Have you heard from Catherine?" Elaine says, changing the subject.

"Oh," she whispers, "it's bad, really bad, worse than you can imagine. In fact, I've never heard of anything like it. He did something so horrible, unthinkable. He went insane. He bit a teacher's fingers off, the index and-what's the longer one? — the fuck-you finger. He bit them off and ate them. The hand got infected, and then something weird happened, a poisoned blood clot or something, and the teacher died. He killed someone. Seventeen years old and already a murderer, can you imagine?"

"It doesn't sound like he meant to kill anyone."

"He ate human flesh. Imagine how Catherine and Hammy must feel," Joan says, carrying on the conversation with herself. "All morning I've been trying to, and I just can't. He was a wonderful little boy. Always making things with his hands-an artist. Gifted."

"They'll be here within an hour," the architect says, waving good-bye. "Do you want me to talk to your insurance agent? I'm very good with those kind of people," he says, talking while Joan is still talking. Elaine is trying to listen to two things at once.

"No," she says. She doesn't want him to talk to anyone.

"Yes," Joan says. "It's unbelievable and it's true."

"I'm sorry," Elaine says. "The architect was here, and he's on his way out."

"I have to keep repeating the story in order to make it real," Joan says. "I'm at the office, I have to go. I want to call Pat, I'll talk to you later."

Liz arrives, pulling in just as the architect is pulling out.

He beeps. He shouts. "Hey, you're blocking me. You're holding me up."

"Ready?" Liz asks Elaine, ignoring the architect.

"Yeah, let me just tell Mrs. Hansen." Elaine waves at Mrs. Hansen, who's across the yard. Mrs. Hansen waves back.

"How old is she?" Liz asks.

"I have no idea, I'm figuring early seventies."

In the middle of the yard Mrs. Hansen has built an odd altar to the destructive forces of nature, a kind of ersatz tepee, a peculiar pile of branches, leaves, and twigs.

"I'm going out for lunch," Elaine yells. "And then I have an appointment at four-will you be around when the boys come home?"

"Of course," Mrs. Hansen says. "I was thinking I'd teach them how to send smoke signals." She nods at the pile. "I never told you, but long, long ago, I was a den mother."

"All right," Liz says once they're in the car. "What's the problem? Who's doing what to who?"

"I'm stuck," Elaine says. "I'm incredibly, horribly stuck. It's like I'm in a coma and can't wake up. Like I'm under the surface."

"That's why you're not talking to me? Elaine, women have been stuck for years. They write books about it-think of Tillie Olsen's Silences, think of Charlotte Perkins Gilman."

"I'm not talking about books. I'm talking about myself!" Elaine screams. "I am The Yellow Wallpaper."

"Oh," Liz says. "Well, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Elaine says, disappointed at Liz's response. She was hoping for something more-the offer of a collective effort. What can we do, what can I do to help you? "I'm so embarrassed," Elaine says. "This isn't supposed to be happening. Women aren't supposed to be stuck anymore. We're already having postfeminism, and I'm in the Dark Ages. I missed the whole damn thing. Even you did it," Elaine says. It comes out sounding like a cut. She stops.

They sit in a booth in the luncheonette. Liz orders the diet plate.

"I'll have the same," Elaine says, unable to make her own decision.

"I thought you were having an affair and were too embarrassed to tell me with who," Liz says. "I know how you are, very moral, a little naive, and I wanted to tell you that if you've succumbed and become a sniveling horny-hound like the rest of us-it's all right."

"Everyone does it," Elaine says, flippantly confirming.

"Exactly," Liz says, digging into her cottage cheese.

"I don't know what to say," Elaine says. She is humiliated and disappointed. On all fronts, she has failed herself, radically. She stares at her plate; the iceberg lettuce reminds her of Pat.

"I'm your best friend, remember," Liz says. "You can tell me anything, no matter how horrible."

She can't tell Liz about Pat-Elaine imagines telling Liz and Liz being offended, competitive, possessive. She imagines Liz saying, I can't believe that you did it without me, that you didn't think of me first. I would have done it if you'd wanted to.

"Who did you have an affair with?" Elaine asks.

"An affair? Affairs. If it rang my doorbell, I fucked it, no questions asked-like trick or treat."

"I think Paul is having another one," Elaine says. "He's acting weird. He shaved all his hair off. I mean all his hair, and he's sleeping in a nightgown."

"Maybe he's hooked up with a drag queen?" Liz snickers.

"He says it's self-expression. I hope it's no one good."

"Good?"

"Someone we know or someone better than me." Elaine takes a shallow breath. "I hit him," she says. "Last night, at Pat and George's, I got so mad that I punched him."

"Oh, please," Liz says. "I used to pound Roger like I was tenderizing a piece of meat."

"Did he ever hit back?"

"No, he was 'better' than that. He had his own forms of revenge."

"Like what?"

"He left."

There is an awful silence. "Sorry," Elaine says.

"Whatever it is, work it out," Liz says. "The last thing you want to be is divorced. Everything after the first is seconds; it's a scratch-and-dent market."

"It's like I'm doing the dead man's float," Elaine says, picking up the check.

They drive in silence. Elaine's anger and anxiety are paralyzing. She doesn't know how to make herself better, how to save herself. "Do you want to come to Sammy's school play?" she asks Liz.

"Can't," Liz says. "I have to finish an assignment for a class."

Liz drops Elaine back at the house. A group of men are maneuvering a mini-crane up the driveway and around the Dumpster. Like an air-traffic controller, Mrs. Hansen is there, guiding them in.

Elaine checks her watch. Without a word, she gets into her car and speeds away-an hour to kill. Bored and half crazy, she calls Pat on the cell phone.

"Come on over," Pat says.

Elaine pulls into the driveway, parks, and hurries into the house. "Sammy's play is at two," Elaine tells Pat.

"I'll get you there," Pat says. Her kisses are insistent and sure. They taste of Crest and coffee. Pat and Elaine are in the living room, the same living room from the night before. They are on the sofa. Pat knows better than to try to get Elaine down the hall to the bedroom; it won't happen. Pat is unbuttoning Elaine. Elaine is worried that someone might see them through the windows, that the girls will come home, that an encyclopedia salesman will ring the bell. She is thinking of the night before, Paul in the dark, Paul on the floor, wedged in the space between the coffee table and the sofa. She is thinking of the soft sweep of Pat's skin across her own. She is sliding her clothing off.

"Hang on," Pat says, getting up, hurrying down the hall. Elaine sits on the sofa, waiting. She's thinking of the fight, a farcical domestic routine, dancing around the room in the dark, like a scene from an old black-and-white movie, slapstick sick. Futile. Everything is futile.

Pat comes back in her robe. They begin again. Pat kisses Elaine. Elaine is still not at all sure what it means that she is kissing another woman.

Elaine pulls Pat toward her.

The robe falls open. Around Pat's hips is a wide black belt, a silver-studded harness, with straps dipping between her legs. The whole contraption is like medieval armor, or motorcycle gear. And there is something hanging from it. "Buster," Pat says.

"I know someone whose cat is named Buster," Elaine says.

Pat has another one in her pocket. She pulls it out-a pale, fleshy fang that looks as if its skin is peeling. "I made it myself, using a candle mold and art supplies."

Elaine picks a familiar scent out of the air. "It smells like cedar chips," Elaine says.

"I keep it in with my sweaters," Pat says. She reaches into the robe and strokes the one she's wearing. "I bought this one over the phone. It's called a Jelly, a champagne-colored Jelly."

The sight of Pat in a black leather harness with a translucent plastic prick, poking up, like a faux fountain, is incredibly peculiar. Who does Pat think she is? Who does she want to be? Can Pat see how strange it looks? Has she taken a look at herself in a mirror? A thin roll of flesh curls over the harness. Is this supposed to be a turn-on?

"You don't have to do this," Elaine says. "I'm fine without it."

"Please," Pat says, her voice hungry and thick. "I want to. Just let me."

Elaine is on the sofa, and Pat is on top of her-theirs is a graceless, technical composition.

"Is it in?" Pat asks.

"Yes."

A hole is to fill. So different from a hand, from a tongue, from the real thing.

Elaine hears something. "What's that?" she asks, lifting herself up; the angle is good. She holds herself there, peering over Pat's shoulder. She is worried they will be caught. It's one thing for someone to be found doing it with the neighbor's wife, another if it's two wives doing it together, and quite a third if it's two wives and something called Buster. "There was a noise."

"The dryer," Pat says. "The dryer went off."

Pat fucks her. It's not tender. It's not two lonely women making each other feel better-it is something more, fantastically brusque, almost brutal.

Pat humps. Buster slips and slides sloppily, sometimes stabbing Elaine, sometimes poking her ass, her thighs. Pat thrusts. Buster slides out. It goes nowhere.

"Pat it in," Pat says as desperately as anyone. "Put it in."

And Elaine guides it back in, a lifeless probe, a plug, a cork instead of a cock. Chicks with dicks, a pole and a tit. Pat's breasts flap against Elaine. The silky sensation of skin on skin, the motion, the rocking, the deep drilling does the job. Elaine hooks her legs around Pat, holding her there; her cunt clutches the blind, deaf, and dumb thing stuffed inside her, brainless Buster.

"Did you come?" Pat asks.

"Yeah," Elaine says.

Pat rolls away. She snaps off the harness, the dildo falls to the ground-it bounces.

There is a moment of silence, a resting place. Pat is propped up on her elbow, looking at Elaine.

"Do you want me to do it to you?" Elaine asks, hoping Pat says no. "I owe you. You didn't really get any."

"I got enough," Pat says.

The contraption lies limp-not limp, but lame-on the floor.

Elaine notices a second hole, at the back of the harness. "What's that for?"

"A butt plug," Pat tells her.

Elaine has heard the expression only once before-from her children. She can't imagine what it is, how it works, and where her children and Pat learned about it.

"You know what would be great?" Pat says. "If we could go away for a weekend, just the two of us, someplace where we don't have to pretend, maybe Provincetown?"

"Oh." Elaine is putting her clothes on, hurrying to leave. "I don't think this is a good time for me," she says.

Elaine pulls away quickly. The car coasts to Sammy's school as though it is not Elaine driving, but Elaine being driven, pulled on a track that takes her back and forth from Pat to Paul, Paul to Pat, here and gone. There and back.

There is the memory of Buster inside her, her womb still contracting, squeezing the hollow core, beating out blood time.

She has been fucked.

And now she is late.

Sammy's school. High windows, low desks. In every room the alphabet unfurls, A to Z hugging the wall like molding. SPRING INTO BLOOM, the bulletin board announces. Paper flowers abound. MY SUMMER PLANS: On wide-lined paper the children have scratched their dreams-camp, Grandma's, Europe.

Elaine ducks into the girls' bathroom. She towers over everything, the mirror cuts off her head. She can see herself only from chest to knees. Another mother's head pokes up over the top of a stall. They catch each other's eye and laugh.

"I feel like I'm a giraffe," the woman says, flushing.

Library. Art room. Science lab. The auditorium is also the cafeteria; the lunch tables have been put away, and a hundred metal folding chairs have been set in lines. Elaine takes a seat at the end of a row and checks out the room. To the left is Wendy Trumble, who interviews movie stars for women's magazines. She's always catching the 12:15, "running into town for a little lunch," and barely getting back in time to collect the kids from soccer practice. There are other women, halves of couples that she and Paul had dinner with once or twice long ago and then never saw again. Elaine wonders what happened. Who didn't like who? Was there something more she should have done? Ahead on the right is Claire Roth, the shrink whose kids are the same age as Elaine's. Claire, with the fancy practice in Greenwich Village, and Sam, her perfect lawyer husband who drives her to work every morning. When the Roths first moved here, Elaine had them over for a barbecue; she thought the boys might get along. They never saw them again. Claire stares at her.

"How are you?" Elaine asks.

Claire nods. Does Claire Roth even remember?

A woman up ahead is smiling. Elaine smiles back. She has no idea who she's smiling at-could that be the one Paul's fucking? The woman smiles more broadly, her braces show, and Elaine realizes that she's a friend of Jennifer's who sometimes baby-sits.

A boy comes onstage. "The Summer's Parade: A Fable," he announces. The school orchestra begins to play. "I once lived in a small village, deep in the Walnut Hills at the edge of the Honey River. It was a quiet village, until one summer when a man came to town." The curtain lifts.

"What a peaceful village," a boy wearing a beard says, shifting his big gun from one shoulder to the other. Villagers come onstage carrying baskets and hoes and begin doing chores, choreographed as dances.

Two rows up, Elaine sees Nate's mother. What's her name? Why can't Elaine ever think of her name? Elaine stares at the back of Nate's mother's head; something about her makes Elaine think she's a failure-she's the one taking care of Elaine's son when Elaine can't. She's the one who came to the door the day after the fire filled with the best intentions, good ideas. From the back of her head, she seems pleased with herself. She doesn't seem to be suffering. And she has a good haircut.

Shots are fired in the forest, the animals stampede. There is a lot of noise, animals running back and forth across the stage, through the forest, over the river, in and out of the village.

The stage clears, and a village girl-the hunter's daughter-lies dead in the rubble, and a rhino has also been shot. The hunter looks at his daughter's body. "What have I done?" he says. "I have destroyed the thing I love the most." The dying rhino lifts his head and looks out into the audience. The curtain falls.

The mothers applaud. The curtain goes up again, and the animals sing a song-"Let's all get along, every day from now

on.." The actors bow. There is more applause and then the clatter of metal chairs, folding.

"How are you?" Nate's mother asks Elaine.

"Good," Elaine shouts over the din. "And you?" She is stoned from sex.

"I barely got here," she says. "I raced from my aerobics class. If I don't go every day, I get so depressed."

What does "depressed" mean to her? She doesn't bake brownies in the afternoon, she drinks, she fucks the neighbor's wife-what? Elaine looks down at Nate's mother's little pink tennis shoes and impulsively wants to kick her. Susan, she remembers her name, Susan.

"Mom, Mom." Sammy tugs Elaine out of her trance. He's standing in front of her, holding the rhino's head.

"You were so great, honey," Elaine says. "The best rhinoceros I've ever seen."

Sammy takes a bow.

Nate arrives, still in his hunting gear. "You're dead," he says to Sammy.

"Play's over," Sammy says. "I'm living now."

"You're a very strong hunter," Elaine says to Nate.

"Natural-born killer," Nate's mother says. "He gets it from Gerald."

"Can we go home now?" Sammy asks.

"Actually, I thought I'd take them for ice cream," Nate's mother says. "If that's all right?"

"It's perfect," Elaine says, so perfect. She takes a deep breath; the auditorium air is stale, crusty with the fetid scent of half-eaten sandwiches, the curdled, sour smell of spilt milk.

"Will you join us?" Susan asks.

"Please, please," Sammy says, pulling at her sleeve.

"I can't. I have an appointment at four," Elaine says as they're walking out.

"I want to go with you," Sammy says. "I want to go home." "I'm not going home, I have an appointment. But I'll tell you a secret," Elaine says, whispering in Sammy's ear. "You'll be back in your own room very soon. And I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

"I'm getting a banana split," Nate says.

"So am I," Sammy says.

"I'm getting two banana splits and a chocolate milk shake," Nate says.

"Me, too," Sammy says. "Whatever you get, I get, too."

Paul has been at his desk all day-painting. When he went to dump his dirty water, word spread that he was up to something. And that he was walking with a bit of a limp.

"That must have been terrible with the shrimp," his secretary says, ordering him a bowl of chicken soup for lunch. He mentions that he tried to call her about not emptying the trash can. "Oh, I was gone by then," she says, unapologetically.

Herskovitz and Wilson stop by while Paul is eating at his desk, crumbling crackers into his soup. Sheets of watercolor paper are spread out all around him.

"Doing a little OT?" Herskovitz says.

"Overtime?" Wilson asks.

"Occupational therapy," Herskovitz says. "My mother-in-law does that in her Alzheimer's day-care program."

Later, as Paul is about to go wash out his brushes and call it a day, Warburton sticks his head in. "Nice colors. May I have one? Or are they only available in a set?"

"Help yourself," Paul says, quickly zipping his pants, standing, stretching his legs.

Warburton picks the one that says "Assume Your Right." "I'm feeling the need for an inspirational slogan," he says, sitting in Paul's chair, leaning forward. "You don't want that corner office, do you?" he asks conspiratorially. "Theoretically, it could be yours. But I like to keep one office empty; it keeps the tension up, gives the boys something to aim for. There should always appear to be something to aspire to. Don't you agree?"

Paul would like that office. Nothing good has happened to him at work in a long time-he's just been sitting there, waiting.

"It's got a view, it's got an executive loo. Do you know how fantastic it is not to have to go down the hall and lock yourself in a stall when you have to shit? I can't shit in public places, can't do it," Warburton says.

Paul nods. He wonders if Warburton is playing with him. He checks his watch; he's going to miss the 4:23, he's going to be late for Mrs. Apple. "It's a nice office," Paul says. "But the decor is awful. Sid Auerbach had no sense of style."

"It could be redecorated."

"Repainted? Recarpeted?" Paul asks.

"Outfitted," Warburton says. "Just the other day, I saw a desk chair with arms that were adjustable in a thousand small increments. A chair so comfortable it's like a coffin; you can sit in it for years. Something to think about," Warburton says, leaving. "Something to sleep on."

Elaine is going to meet the guidance counselor. He will tell her what to do, she will do it, and she will feel improved. She drives down Central Avenue. The traffic is heavy. She hurries. In the parking lot of the diner, she freshens her lipstick, brushes her hair, and checks herself in the rearview mirror.

He sees her immediately. He waves from a booth in the back. "Bud Johnson," he says, shaking her hand.

"Elaine."

He is dressed like a teacher: short-sleeved dress shirt, pen protector in the pocket, glasses. His hair is not dark and curly;

it is deeply receded, thinning, and largely absent. "You're probably wondering why you're here. Let me tell you who Bud Johnson is," he says. She gets the feeling that he'd done this before. "In high school I was an average student from an average family. I grew up in Yonkers. No one talked about options. At the end of high school, I joined the Army. I believed 'Be All That You Can Be.' I wanted to fly helicopters." He taps his glasses. "I have bad eyes, I couldn't fly anything. I hated it. After four years, I got out, went back to school, and studied counseling, figuring I might be a college counselor, help kids decide where to go. I ended up at Westchester Tech because I mentioned that I like fixing things. Anyway, that's where I am. I arrange internships, placement services-I know lots of good mechanics, technicians, repair people. It serves me well. If I can't fix it myself, I know who can."

"What do you fix?" Elaine asks.

"I can do most of my car, simple carpentry and electrical, a little plumbing, painting, and I like computers." He tells her this the way some people say they speak foreign languages-a little French, a bit of Italian, a few phrases in German. He pauses. "I thought we could talk about what might interest you. I did a little digging; the most obvious areas would be nursing, travel, and real estate. But I don't guess those appeal?"

Elaine shakes her head. Without warning she begins to cry. She doesn't mean to cry, but she does. She pours uncontrollably. He hands her paper napkins. He looks a little uncomfortable-hoping no one sees him with a weeping woman. "I don't think it can be fixed. I don't think you can help me. Our house caught on fire, my husband got a tattoo, the children are staying with neighbors, and you wouldn't believe the rest if I told you. This isn't just about a career. It's my life. I'm stuck." She sniffles. "You're probably wishing you hadn't come. You're probably thinking, Who is this crazy woman?"

"What does 'stuck' mean?"

"It means I should make some big decision, I should do some enormous thing. And I can't do anything. I can't stand my life, and I can't change it."

"Maybe it's not an enormous thing," he says. "Maybe you have to do one small thing and then another small thing."

"How could I let this happen? I don't remember myself this way."

"We're going to take this one step at a time," Bud says. "You reached out and called me-that's a good thing."

Elaine looks at him. He doesn't seem to want to fuck her; Elaine is relieved. Is he married, is he gay? She can't tell.

"I brought some interest questionnaires." This is his big moment, the moment he studied for. He spreads a pile of pages out across the table. Elaine picks up something called "The Fear In- dex-Are you afraid of the vacuum cleaner? Taking a bath? Being naked? Seeing others naked?"

"That's from something else," he says, taking it away. "It must have gotten mixed in."

She picks up another one. More questions: "Do you like numbers? What are your favorite subjects? What is your favorite time of day?"

He orders a piece of pie while she fills in the blanks. When she's done, he collects the pages. "I'll review them later."

The waitress brings her a cup of coffee.

"Some things are nearby," he says. "Iona, Sarah Lawrence, and if you're willing to travel, to go into the city, the whole world opens. You could become a polygraph expert in six weeks, you could learn dog grooming in ten."

"I just want to feel better."

"When you have something of your own, you'll feel better. Go to the library, ask the librarian for career books. Start making lists. You don't have to commit to anything, just start thinking about what interests you. You have my number, call me. And if you need someplace to go, to get out of the house, or hide out, come by the school. I'm there from seven-thirty till four."

The check comes. Elaine grabs it. "Let me get this," she says. "It's the one thing I can do."

"I'll talk to you on Monday," he says. "We'll figure it out. We'll get you unstuck."

"Thank you."