Music for Torching

EIGHT

PAUL IS LATE. He scurries. He gets off the train two stops past home and walks three blocks to the motel. He goes into the office and gets the key.

Her car is parked, waiting.

"I'm late," he says.

"I thought maybe you weren't coming, I always think maybe you aren't coming."

"I missed the four twenty-three. I tried to call."

"I took the boys for ice cream," she says. "They had banana splits. I ate half of each one just to be fair."

This is the part he hates most-standing in the parking lot, exposed. He wonders how many affairs come here, he imagines lots, and yet he's never seen anybody.

"Now I'm nauseous," she says.

"Do you want a soda?" He's jiggling the key in the lock.

"I brought some scotch," she says.

They close the door.

"The school play was this afternoon," she tells him, as he pulls the curtains closed.

"How was it?"

The drapes are heavy like lead. They block out all the light, except cracks around the edges.

She turns on a lamp by the bed.

"Sammy makes a handsome rhinoceros, and Nate's quite the hunter," she says proudly.

The motel room is brown. Dank. It consists of various shades of dirt, of earth, of funk. The wallpaper is vinyl and curling in spots, the carpet is bald chocolate, the bedspreads coffee chenille. The television set is old and has rabbit ears, the phone between the beds is tan and has a rotary dial. "Our Love Cave," she calls it. Sometimes, if he gets there early, he buys coffee and doughnut holes from the place around the corner and they sit on the edge of the bed eating and talking. It's too weird to always fuck and go.

"We don't have much time," she says, pulling a small airplane bottle of scotch out of her purse. He gets a glass from the bathroom-SANITIZED FOR YOUR COMFORT AND PROTECTION-and rips off the paper. She pours herself a little and gives him the bottle. He sips.

She undresses. He takes off his shirt and gives it to her-she wears it. They lie together on top of the bedspread, the scotch between them.

"How are you?" she asks, and he thinks she really wants to know.

"I'm all right," he says. "And you?"

"Okay."

They kiss. They share the flavor of the scotch, the thickness of the tongue. He kisses her in a way that he can't kiss Elaine anymore, deep, filled with need and longing.

He feels himself getting hard and is relieved-it isn't broken.

"Were you in a fight?" she asks, sweeping her nails over his arms, his shoulders and back. He is green and yellow, purple and red, meaty and raw. He shivers.

"I had a little accident."

"So butch," she says. "I don't think of you as black and blue."

He is at her breasts. He loves her breasts; they are full and heavy and tug at her shoulders.

She reaches for his zipper.

"Be careful," he says, licking her.

"What is it?" she asks when she sees the bandage.

He peels away the tape-like pulling the cloth off a canvas.

"When did you do it?"

"Yesterday at lunch."

"How wild." It means nothing to her-it's not a testament to his infidelity. The date is irrelevant, as far as she's concerned-she is the date. "How does it feel?"

"Better today."

His dick is in her mouth. They fuck.

They fuck wildly. They fuck, and it is about fucking and nothing else-not bills to pay, decisions, resentments, failures. They fuck, and it is his dick and her tits. And there is the slap-slapping of their skin, the musical squeak of the springs. He is glad they are friends and that they talk to each other. She thinks he is wonderful, and they are both glad that they are not married to each other. "Fuck me," she is saying. "Fuck me. I want you to fuck me." His hands are under her ass, and he's pulling her open. The headboard bangs against the wall, she holds on to the frame of the bed. He is hard like marble, he is burning at the base of his balls. The light is on because she doesn't like it in the dark. He is watching her. "No, no, no," she cries. "Oh, no, don't stop. Oh, no." She is on top of him; her nipples are wide moons, purple and hot. And he is behind her. She clutches the edge of the night table. Her face goes deep red. The muscles in his neck strain. Noisy. And then it is over.

They lie in a sweaty heap.

A strange, steamy funk rises around them. It happens every time. It is something about the room; they can never tell where it starts, if it's the bedding, the carpet, the cheap pressed fibers of the sordid walls. It smells like sweaty socks, like stale popcorn, like a dog's paws. They lie in it for a few minutes, catching their breath.

"Do you ever like one of your kids more than the other?" she asks.

"I like them differently," Paul says. "Why?"

"It's been nice to spend some time with Sammy. He's totally different from Nate, sweet, almost fragile." She rolls onto her back. "If I ever have another kid, it'd better be a girl."

"Is that something you think about?"

"Sometimes," she says.

"And whose child would you have?" he asks, jealous and possessive.

"Quit," she says, getting up. She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. That's how you can tell it's an affair-they close the door.

He pulls down the covers and rolls across both beds, rumpling them. It's something he's compelled to do-as though there's the remotest possibility of a legitimate reason why two adults would need a motel room for an hour-a shared medical condition that requires emergency naps? He hates how obvious his life is. This afternoon when he went into the motel office to check in, the guy said, "You're late, pal. You'll be lucky if you get any now." He half thought the guy said, "You're late, Paul," and started worrying that his cover was blown, that it was really Elaine waiting for him in the parking lot.

She comes out of the bathroom and presses against him. He holds her. They kiss again.

"Do you want a ride home?" she asks.

"That'd be great," he says.

"Shower fast," she says.

Paul steps into the tub and pulls the curtain-the liner is moldy. The water-lukewarm. He peels the wrapper off the soap and lathers up. He rinses his mouth with suds, scrubbing out the scotch. The soap has a sharp, deodorant taste. He gags and spits. He tries a little soap on the tattoo; it burns. He lets the water run.

The towels, thin and rough like a medical treatment, leave him with a rash-small red dots on his back and neck.

He watches her dress. He watches her finish the scotch and fix her hair.

He opens the drapes.

"Ready?" she asks.

He picks up his briefcase.

This is the part that's tricky-the minutes in the car, when they might pass Elaine on the road. He always thinks of what he will say; his explanation changes depending on where they're dis- covered-how close to or far from home.

"Are you still at Pat and George's?" Susan asks.

"Yeah," he says. "But we'll be going home soon. They've started work on the house. We're putting on a deck."

There's a pause.

"So, what else is new?" he asks. "How's Gerald?"

"Gerald is Gerald. He's going to war camp again on Saturday to shoot paint balls at his friends-he wants to take Nate."

Paul interrupts. "Sammy cannot go to war camp," he says, emphatically.

"I know," she says. "And as far as I'm concerned, neither can Nate. Anyway, they have soccer," she says. "And then Monday he's off on a business trip."

Paul lifts his eyebrows-as if to ask, Does that mean special opportunities?

"We'll see," she says. "Are you picking up from soccer?"

"Guess so."

She pulls over to the curb. They are still far from home.

He opens the door. "See you tomorrow," he says. "Sorry I was late."

"I'm glad you came," she says.

"I always come," he says.

"Me, too." She drives away.

He looks around. He has no idea where he is. She always leaves him in a different place. He walks to the corner. He is on Locust going south. He turns on Hickory. He is thinking about this afternoon-replaying the scene with Warburton. "You don't want the corner office, do you? Theoretically, it could be yours.." Was Warburton offering something or just tempting him? Sometimes Paul is so caught up with what's going on in his head, he misses an opportunity. Situational stupidity. He wonders what to do about it now. "Assume your right," he tells himself. He thinks of the palm kisser who he ran into on the afternoon train.

"Why you going home so early?" the guy had asked, sliding in next to Paul.

"Under the weather," Paul said. "You?"

"I always go home early," he said. "Wonder why?"

Paul shrugged.

"I'm the boss," he said, and laughed. "Feeling a little low? Sit on it," the man said, still smiling. "Sitting in a comfortable position, just following your breath for twenty minutes, can make an improvement. And if that doesn't do it, take some of these." He shook a gold vial of pills at Paul. "I believe in combining old and new. There is no one right answer."

"I've never seen a gold pill bottle before," Paul said.

"My wife had it made for me-perfect gift for a pharmaceutical man." He poured a pile of bright, shiny pills into his hand. "Mood enhancers," he said. "I can get you started, but then you'll really need a prescription."

Paul shook his head. "No, thanks."

"In a few years they'll be over-the-counter, nonprescription, I'm banking on it. A pill-pop shop on every corner, the same way there are coffee places now." He shook the pills in his hand; they were all different colors and rattled like Good Plenty. "Mix 'em and match 'em," the palm kisser said. "You take what you need, depending on what ails you-they're very specific. He tossed a pink one down his throat. "Good Humor," he said. The train pulled into the station. "Isn't this your stop? Don't you usually get off here?"

"I'm going on," Paul said.

"Oh," the guy said. "Oh." And fell silent.

Now Paul is walking home. He still has a way to go. He's thinking about her, how she looks sipping scotch, how she looks in her beige slip, her breasts pressing against the satin, straining. He thinks of her, naked in the brown motel room, the feel of her body, still unfamiliar, still unknown. He turns right on Walnut.

Elaine is at the library. She has made a decision; she hides in the stacks and calls Pat from the cell phone. "Sorry to be so erratic," she says, and then has a flash of thinking like Paul-thinking she's said erotic instead of erratic. "Sorry," she says. "But we can't come tonight. We have to stay home." She shifts her position, and the phone makes a static sound like a wave crashing.

"Why?" Pat asks.

"There are things to be done. We have to pay attention to the house." She breathes. "It's our home, we have to go back."

"Well, you're welcome to stay with us for as long as it takes. Months even. Mi casa es su casa," Pat says.

Elaine doesn't want to seem hostile, ungracious, or impolite. But she can't go back-it's not just one thing, it's not just the perfection thing, perfect house, perfect family or that Pat

fucked her, perfectly fucked her, not just a kiss, not just fingers, not just a tongue. It's not just that, it's all of it.

"I made dinner," Pat says.

"You always do."

"I made grouper, and the children made a movie; they're screening it for us tonight. Come back. I want you back."

"I can't," Elaine says.

A man pokes his head around the stack and gives Elaine a strange look. "Do you know where Ellery Queen is?"

She shakes her head. "I have no idea."

Pat goes on. "I'll keep the room ready, in case it doesn't work out."

"Thanks," Elaine says. "Thanks so much, for everything. You've been incredible."

She pushes "End." She goes to the reference desk. "Where would I find books on careers?"

"What kind of careers?"

"I don't know," Elaine says.

"Well, I'm not sure I can help you if you don't know what you want."

Elaine feels as if she's going to scream; it rises, a tornado in her belly. Her mouth opens, it should blow like vomit. Nothing happens. She coughs. She summons what she can, a short burst, vowelly, cattish.

The librarian punches something into her computer. "I've got something on witchcraft," she says, jotting down a call number and handing the paper to Elaine.

Elaine goes home. She sits at the kitchen table with Mrs. Hansen, having a glass of wine. Out the kitchen window she can see the wrecking ball dangling-the dull purple and gray light of early evening throws the steely black ball and chain into relief. It hangs twenty feet off the ground.

"Your mother was here," Mrs. Hansen says. "She waited for about an hour. I got the impression that she didn't particularly like me. Finally, I told her to go home. I hope I didn't do the wrong thing-she is your mother, after all. I told her you'd call as soon as you came in."

"I don't know what I would do without you," Elaine says.

"She brought you an answering machine," Mrs. H. says, patting the box on the kitchen table. "The architect was here, too. He left you an envelope. And Pat called and asked that you reconsider. You're to call her-either way."

Mrs. Hansen takes a sip of her wine.

"How is it?" Elaine asks.

"Very dry," Mrs. Hansen says.

Elaine picks up the phone and calls her mother.

"Who was that woman, that Nazi drunk? Your cleaning lady? How can you afford to have someone every day? Is she a live-in? She tried to get me to go along with her. I wouldn't have any of it. And then she asked me to leave. She put me in such an awkward position, I didn't have any choice but to go. You would never ask me to leave, would you? I'm your mother. Does she know what that means?"

"Thank you for the answering machine," Elaine says.

"Oh, you're welcome. I'm glad you got it. I was hesitant to leave it with her. I thought she might take it for her own."

"I got it," Elaine says.

"And you know how to hook it up?"

"I do."

Paul comes in. He makes himself a drink.

"She's talking to her mother," Mrs. Hansen whispers loudly.

"Mother, I have to go, Paul just came in. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Mrs. Hansen finishes her wine and stands up. "Hello and goodbye," she says. "I bid you adieu." "You don't have to rush off," Paul says.

"Oh, but I do," Mrs. Hansen says. "I've got to feed the hubcap, and I'm sure you two unrulyweds could use a few minutes alone. Don't forget-call Pat," Mrs. H. says on her way out.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hansen," Elaine says. "For everything."

"Don't thank me," Mrs. Hansen says. "Thank God."

Paul adds a little more to his drink. He and Elaine look at each other tentatively.

"Hi," she says.

"Don't forget to call Pat," he says.

"Why?"

"Because Mrs. Hansen said so."

"I called this afternoon and told her we weren't coming back, and she still wants us-it's like she's chasing us. I can't go there," Elaine says.

"If we don't go to Pat and George's, what are we going to do for dinner?"

"She made grouper."

"I hate grouper," Paul says.

"And the girls made a movie-what do you think that means, they made a movie?"

He shrugs. "What are we going to do?"

"Fend for ourselves."

"The Dumpster is full of rocks," Paul says, looking out the window, surveying the situation.

Elaine nods.

They take a tour of the house. The dining room has been sealed off floor to ceiling with multiple layers of plastic wrap and duct tape. Outside, around the back of the house, there are deep tracks, like dinosaur prints, where the wrecking ball came through. The back wall of the house is gone-metal support columns have been put in place.

"The architect mentioned that taking advantage of natural disasters was one of his specialties," Elaine says.

"It's going to be good," Paul says. "French doors, a deck-we can barbecue." He catches himself. The word "barbecue" is complicated. Paul goes back into the house. He makes himself another drink.

"Here's the estimate," Elaine says, handing Paul the architect's envelope.

He opens it. "Do we really need French doors?"

She looks over his shoulder; eighteen thousand and some-Elaine has no idea if that's high or low. "You smell," she says, sniffing him.

"Like what?" he asks, nervously.

"Deodorant soap."

"I washed my face in the men's room at work. That's probably what was in the dispenser."

"Hard on sensitive skin," she says.

Paul notices that the hole in the ceiling has been left off the estimate. "You'll have to tell him," he says.

They sit in the kitchen with one light on. Drinking. It is not dark, not day, not night-twilight.

"Just think, last Friday we had people in for dinner, I made lamb, you ate four slices."

"And look at us today," he says. "The dining room table is in pieces at the bottom of the Dumpster."

"Are you starving?" she asks.

"Not yet," he says.

"We don't have any food. There's nothing for me to prepare."

He remembers the Peppermint Patty that he bought for Mrs. Apple at the blind man's stand in Grand Central-it was meant to be a door prize for his tardiness. He forgot to give it to her, and now he hands it over to Elaine. "Get the sensation," he says.

She bites into it.

"I made you a picture," he says, giving her a watercolor of the house, a split view, one scene with the whole family standing in a line out front; the second is the house from the back with the French doors and deck-all fixed.

"Nice," Elaine says. The painting looks like folk art, flattened, unrealistic. She tacks it on the fridge with a magnet.

It is getting darker.

"Are you in the mood to go out?" she asks. "We could go to the supermarket."

"Sure." He is glad to get out of the house. The house was built before either of them was born, and the fact is, they tried to level it, to burn it. He's a little uncomfortable now, home alone-unsupervised. "Let's go."

"I'll drive," she says.

They are on Central Avenue. Elaine passes the Odyssey Diner and says nothing. Who is she: Paul's wife, the boys' mother, Pat's lover? Who is she for herself? What would she like to be doing in a year? Can she talk to Paul about it-can they have a real conversation?

"How was work?"

"I made watercolors all day," Paul says.

"Is that a good thing?" Elaine asks, thinking of the one on the fridge.

"Warburton thought so."

"Good," Elaine says.

"And you?"

"The architect, lunch with Liz, school play-Sammy was great."

"Sammy is great," Paul says.

The supermarket is deserted. It is frigid and bright. Paul squints. Elaine fumbles through her purse for her sunglasses. The long fluorescent tubes blast them with an unearthly white light. Elaine takes a cart, pushing it up and down the rows. The wheels rattle. Paul trails behind. Aisles and aisles, brand names, variations on a theme: Buy me, try me, new and improved, better color, texture, flavor.

Elaine has a long list; she's written down everything they need. Butter, sugar, milk, happiness, comfort, satisfaction.

Milk, OJ, coffee. There is a row for everything. On some aisles she shops well, planning ahead, buying the economy size in anticipation of desire, need to come. On others she takes nothing from the shelves; expiration dates make her anxious, the dairy case upsets her enormously-too much pressure.

She imagines not being married to Paul. Could they live without each other? Without the weight, the pull of one against the other? This is the fabric they are made of-they are a knit, like Siamese twins. What would ending it mean? She can't imagine it over. What is "over"?

"Do you even like me?" she asks Paul in the produce section.

"Oh, Elaine," he says.

"I thought so," she says. "Do you like fruit?" she asks.

He looks at her oddly-Mrs. Apple?

She flashes a few plums in a bag.

"Fine," he says.

The squeaky wheel. The wire basket. She throws things into the cart. What does she want? What does Sammy like? What does Daniel need? What does it take to keep them happy?

Cookies.

Paul goes for the sugar. In aisle 19, the cell phone rings. His pocket rattles like an alarm.

"You're ringing, sir," the stock boy says.

He ignores it.

It rings twice more.

"Ringing," the boy says again, loudly, as if Paul didn't hear him the first time.

Paul hands him the phone. "You answer it."

"Price Slasher, may I help you?" the boy says.

Pause.

"I'm in baked goods, near frozen foods."

Pause.

"No, ma'am, I've never had a Hungry Man Dinner."

Pause.

"Five-seven, blond hair, green eyes, zits. I get off at ten." He hands the phone back to Paul. "Cool, very cool," the kid says, and goes back to pricing angel food cakes.

"Don't mention it."

Elaine is on the other side of the store, searching for spray starch. Pat used it on everything; it kept the fabric stiff.

If the marriage is falling apart, is there anything they can do to stop it? Or should they just let it go, let it completely unravel? Elaine wonders. She wheels past a display of Jell-O letters laid out on Styrofoam boards like chicken parts. An edible alphabet in orange, red, or green. Elaine imagines writing a Jell-O note: Welcome Home. Back at four. Help me. She imagines writing something in Jell-O and wonders how many packs it would take to say something substantial. She throws four into the cart.

"What do you want for dinner?" Elaine asks Paul when he comes back, a pound of sugar in hand.

"Why don't we each have whatever we want, a free-for-all?"

"I'm sick of whole meals," Elaine says. "Let's just have appetizers, all appetizers-gherkins, Stilton, smoked salmon."

"Kippers and cream," Paul says. "A big antipasto. Artichoke hearts. Miniature egg rolls, cheese puffs, pigs in blankets."

"Whatever you want."

"I'm thinking martinis," Paul says.

Elaine puts a jar of jumbo olives into the cart.

"Do we have gin?"

"I hope so," Elaine says.

"I hope Mrs. Hansen didn't drink it all."

"Do you want to run to the liquor store?"

"Maybe." He goes off.

If Elaine and Paul divorce, how will they pay for things? They will be two poor households instead of one. Elaine will have to work-who will hire her? Will she be a saleslady with swollen ankles, folding clothes at Bloomingdale's, or will she become a travel agent and plan other people's exotic adventures, or sell Avon products door-to-door? The career counselor said nothing about working in retail.

She wanders through the bakery department. There are half cakes for sale. There's something depressing about half a cake, the cut frosted over as though no one would notice. A cake isn't something that's supposed to be split; it can be bigger or smaller, but not cut in half.

Paul has her paged. "Elaine. Elaine. Please meet your party at the Customer Courtesy Counter."

She pushes her cart to the front of the store.

"May I help you?" the courtesy lady asks, leaning over the counter as Elaine approaches. "Have you reached your party?"

Paul is there in his raincoat. He has dashed to the liquor store and is holding a paper bag, a bottle of gin and some horrible blue carnations wrapped in cellophane.

"Where were you?" he says. "I went up and down the aisles, I looked for you everywhere. I thought you'd evaporated."

"I'm stuck," Elaine blurts. Neither the courtesy lady nor Paul has any idea what she is saying-is it about the cart, the wheels? "If I don't do something soon, something horrible is going to happen to me." She had no intention of saying any of this here, now, but there it is.

The courtesy lady has politely turned away.

"Me, too," Paul says. "I think that's why I got the tattoo. I thought it would wake me up-like electroshock."

"We're all we have, and we're not enough," she says.

"It's good we noticed," Paul says. "We can go on from here."

"Do something," she blurts.

"What?"

"I don't know."

"Home," Paul says. "It's time to go home."

"You got gin?"

He nods.

It is almost ten o'clock. They still haven't eaten. His stomach is growling. They check out.

In the car on the way home, Elaine thinks of Paul, Paul when he was young, when he had hair and enthusiasm and energy, Paul when they first were together, when they talked about the future, when the boys were born, when they moved into the house-ascending. She thinks of Paul-there was supposed to be more, and now there is less.

Home.

"Doesn't look so bad, does it?" Paul says, pulling into the driveway. The house is dark. They sit in the car for a few minutes. Elaine doesn't want to go in; she doesn't want the house, she hates the house.

She remembers the last time she was happy with the house-it was the day before they moved in, the house was big and empty, and they hadn't started to pay for it yet.

Paul opens the door and unloads.

"It is a bottomless pit," Elaine says, getting out.

She turns on every light. She turns on the radio in the kitchen; they usually only use it on stormy mornings to listen for school closings.

Paul unpacks. Elaine goes upstairs to put toilet paper in the bathrooms.

There is a padlock on Daniel's door.

"Paul," she calls, her voice quizzical, curious.

A hasp and staple have been fixed to the wall. A metal loop and bracket, shiny, galvanized, bound by a thick padlock.

"Paul," she calls again.

"When did it happen?" he asks when she shows him the door.

"Can't tell."

"Do you think he did it, or was it the workmen?"

"Why would the workmen do it?"

"Well, he can't put a lock on the door. What has he got to lock up? What's he hiding?"

"Maybe it's just normal adolescent behavior."

"I'll take care of it," Paul says. "Do you have a hairpin?"

She gets him one and stands watching while he picks at the lock. He wiggles and jiggles, trying to get the innards to drop, to let go. It gets him into a frenzy. "I told you he was up to something." He slams his shoulder against the door. He kicks it hard. The door strains against the frame.

"Do you think it's drugs?" he asks frantically-his tone half implying that it wouldn't be the worst thing, maybe they'd get a discount.

"I doubt it," she says. "He's been wearing a suit. Drug dealers don't usually wear suits."

"Then what is it, Elaine? Banking? Do you think he's become a banker and that's why he's got the place locked up like Fort Knox?"

Elaine stands back. Paul is heaving, banging, pounding. Finally, the molding gives way. The hasp and a great chunk of wood rip off. The staple flies. A screw skittles across the floor. The door pops open.

The room is undisturbed. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Elaine picks up a shirt and folds it.

Paul goes to the desk. He reads aloud from an open notebook. "'On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.' My patrol call is Slithering Snake. I make a rattling hiss."

"I bet something's in here," Paul says, picking up a chunk of plaster from the desk. "I bet it's buried in here." He drops the mold on the floor and stomps on it with his shoe. White plaster powder rises like smoke. There is nothing inside.

"I'll tell him it's my fault, it fell while I was cleaning up his room," Elaine says, sweeping up.

She opens a dresser drawer to put away the shirt and feels something. She pulls out a Ziploc bag-her lipstick, Strong Persuasion, is inside. She reaches in again and pulls out a handful of Ziploc bags. Each contains a single item: a sock, a pack of matches, a chip of red enamel.

"Evidence," Paul says.

"Evidence of what?"

"I don't know."

They sit on Daniel's bed.

"Does he know about the fire?" Paul asks. "Does he know not to talk to anyone about it?"

"You'd think he'd know instinctively," she says.

"That's what worries me, he has no instincts." Paul stops. "Do we have to be scared of him?"

Elaine thinks of Catherine and Hammy's son eating the science teacher.

"Do you think he's going to bust us?"

"Why would he do that?" she asks.

"He hates us. Kids get hung up on right and wrong. They get very righteous and moral. We have to find out what he's got," Paul says, ransacking the room, dumping dresser drawers on the floor, turning the place inside out.

"Enough," Elaine shouts after a few minutes of frenzied chaos. "Enough," she shouts. "We're overreacting. Let's clean up. Let's put it all back together."

She goes to make the bed, to put on clean sheets and the new comforter she bought him the other day-black on white, a repeating figure of a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. She lifts the corner of the mattress; magazines slide out: Chunky Bunch, Big Jugs. Fat-girl nudie magazines. Big women. Enormous. Elephantine. Not just chunky but oozing flesh.

"Have you ever seen anyone who looks like this?" Paul asks her.

"Never."

"Not even in the Loehmann's dressing room?"

"No," Elaine says, horrified. She turns the page and begins to read the story of a woman so fat she can't get out of bed, a woman whose legs have to be held open by a special machine in order for her to have sex.

The doorbell rings. They jump. Paul gets up to go. Elaine puts the magazines back. She puts them in a neat stack under the mattress. She folds all the clothing, puts it back in the drawers, puts the drawers back in the dresser, and tucks in the Ziploc bags.

Who is she cleaning up after, Daniel or Paul?

Jennifer is downstairs. "Is Daniel home?"

"No, why?" Paul asks.

"He called me," she says.

"Not here," Paul says, wondering if Daniel often calls Jennifer, if they have some sort of relationship he's not privy to. "Do you want a snack? We're just about to have dinner." They go into the kitchen. He preheats the oven, gets a cookie sheet, and lays out the delicacies, a row of pigs in blankets, a row of mini-egg rolls, a row of cheese puffs. He gets the pitcher and starts to mix the martinis.

"I'll just have a gherkin," Jennifer says.

"Have two, they're small," Paul says. "Why did Daniel call you?"

"I guess he had a question or something," Jennifer says, eating gherkins. "Do you realize that in two weeks I'll be a high school graduate?"

"Yes," Paul says. "Elaine and I would like to get you something special for graduation. Something that would really have mean- ing-any ideas?"

"A Chanel suit," Jennifer says.

"Oh," Paul says. The thought would never have occurred to him-or anyone. "What size?"

"Like an eight," Jennifer says.

Paul jots down "Chanel 8" on a piece of scrap paper. Later, he will see it and wonder if there was something he was supposed to watch on channel 8.

"I should go," Jennifer says, looking up at the kitchen clock. Light glints off the silver ring sticking out of her eyebrow.

"Where do you go at eleven at night?"

"Out," she says.

"With who?"

"People."

"Well, have a good time," Paul says, pulling the cookie sheet out of the oven.

Elaine comes down. "Who was that?"

"Jennifer," Paul says. "Here and gone."

"Where does she go at this hour?"

"Out," Paul says.

"With who?"

"People."

"You don't have to be so rude," Elaine says. "It's not like I'm going to tell her mother."

Paul ignores her. "Where do you want to eat?"

"Upstairs in bed, with the TV?"

They load things back into grocery bags and carry up the loot. Paul brings a tray of hot snacks and the pitcher of martinis.

"God, I'm glad to be home," Elaine says, settling in on the bed, arranging an assortment of jars and boxes in front of her-olives, onion, crackers, Stilton.

The phone rings, the machine answers.

"Hi, Elaine, it's Mom. That's nice you're using the new machine. All right, I guess you're not home, otherwise I'm sure you'd take pity on your poor mother and pick up." She pauses, waiting for Elaine to answer. "All right, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Paul pours martinis.

"Our kid is a pervert," Elaine says, dropping olives in. "We have to do something about it."

"Tomorrow. We'll fix it tomorrow."

They gorge. They eat pigs in blankets, cheese and crackers, sardines-stinky things that will make them steam and smoke. They flip channels-going round and round, 1 to 99, backward and forward; basketball, old movie, sitcom, sitcom, Headline News, The Weather Channel. They dip their fingers into jars, pulling out tastes of this and that-juices drip everywhere. Paul refills their glasses-his homemade rocket fuel splashes over.

"Did we finish last night or did we just stop?" Elaine asks.

"Is there such a thing as an end?" Paul says.

"I hope so."

"Who wins?" he asks.

"It can't continue," she says. "None of this can continue." She finishes her drink and quickly has another. Her face goes white. "Do you want a divorce?"

"Do you?"

"I asked you first."

"Why are you asking me that?"

"I have to," Elaine says.

"No. Not really," he says.

"Which is it-no or not really?" "No," he says.

"Do you want to go off with her?" Elaine continues.

"Who?" he asks nervously.

"Whoever she is."

"No," he says. "Is there somewhere else you want to be?" he quizzes her.

"No," she says. "There's nowhere. There's nothing."

They drink, they eat.

Paul unzips his pants; pills roll out of the pocket.

"What're those?"

He recognizes the bright colors. "Mental candy, mood enhancers," Paul says, wondering how the magic trick worked, how the palm kisser got the pills out of the gold vial and into Paul's pocket.

"Where'd you get them?"

"A guy on the train gave them to me," he says, picking pills up off the floor, counting, eight, nine, ten.

"Mr. Wash Your Bowl?"

"Exactly." Paul shows Elaine a palmful. "Different colors for different effects. If you're crabby, you take an orange; if you want bliss, eat a blue. Red is for energy. You can take a few at a time."

"What happens if you take too many?"

"You get overwhelmed and maybe a headache, but then you take a couple of aspirin."

Elaine picks out an orange and a red. She swallows them with the last of her drink.

Paul sits on Elaine's side of the bed, naked except for a shirt and tie. He takes a bottle of nail polish out of the night table and proceeds to paint his toes-fire-engine red.

"Should we go and talk to somebody?" Elaine asks.

"What could someone tell us?" Paul asks, working on his little toe. "Everything we're doing is wrong-we're lousy parents, criminals. If anyone knew us, they wouldn't like us."

He's got one leg crossed over the other. Elaine's view is up under his shirt-his balls, his bandage.

"What is it with you anyway-the shaving, the nail polish, the nightgowns?"

"Exploring parts of myself that I'd otherwise ignore."

"It scares me," Elaine says. "I find it weird and scary."

"Haven't you ever been tempted to do something that others might find unusual?"

Elaine doesn't answer. "It's important to try and be normal, as normal as you can possibly be."

The phone rings again. They freeze. They listen. Elaine wonders if it's Sammy, homesick Sammy.

"Just calling to say good night. Are you in there?"

"Pat," Paul says, identifying the voice.

"Did you two already go to bed? Nighty-night," she says. "Sleep tight."

"Let's get the children back," Paul suddenly says. "Their rooms are ready, everything is ready, waiting. Let's go and get them." Paul imagines getting into the car and driving over to Mr. and Mrs. Meaders, banging on the door and insisting that they surrender the little pervert. He sees himself pulling up in front of Mrs. Apple's house-tooting the horn and plucking Sammy from his sleep; in effect kidnapping their own children and bringing them home.

"It's one-thirty in the morning, and you're drunk," Elaine says. "We'll get them tomorrow, when it's light, when we can see what we're doing."

There is a silence. They doze.

"It's so good to be alone," Elaine says.

"We can be ourselves."

"We can be nothing."

"Are you feeling anything yet?" he asks.

"No. What colors did you take?"

"Green and orange." "Green-what's that do?"

"Not much, apparently," Paul says.

"Maybe you have to take them for a while before they work," Elaine says.

"Like how long?"

"Antidepressants take three to five weeks."

"We only have a dozen," Paul says.

"Well, maybe that's what it takes," Elaine says, noticing that Paul's big toe, with the hairy knuckle, looks interesting painted red.

Paul is dreaming. He is dreaming that he's ice-fishing, he's holding a long line that goes down into a hole. There is a tug. He pulls on the string-his own head pops through the ice. His lips are blue. "What took you so long?" he says to himself. His eyes open.

The bed is wet.

Paul panics. His thoughts race-the tattoo guy hit a nerve and has rendered him incontinent. He is forty-six years old, neither young enough nor old enough to wear diapers. He starts to cry; a pathetic rush of fear bellows out. "Oh, God, I think I wet the bed," he says. "Oh, God!"

Elaine wakes up. "What?"

"I wet the bed."

She feels around; the bed is damp.

"There's something horrible wrong with me," Paul sobs.

"You drank too much," Elaine says. "You fell into a deep sleep. You had an accident. Everything does not require a diagnosis."

She gets up, pulls the sheets back, and looks at Paul. He is still in his shirt and tie. He is not wet. She smells the bed. "It's not you," she says.

He cries.

Elaine looks up. "The roof is leaking," she says. "It's raining."

Paul can't stop crying.

"It's the hole," she says.

He looks up. A drop falls.

"Move the bed," she says.

He gets up, and they push the bed off to the right. Paul takes the damp bedding off and stuffs it into the hamper.

"I'm sorry," he says, still sobbing, great gulps. "I'm sorry."

"It's late, Paul. It's very late," Elaine says, remaking the bed.

Elaine can't sleep. She goes downstairs, gets her tools, and fixes Daniel's doorframe. Reconstructive surgery. Putty and glue. Waiting for it to dry, she reads the book Pat gave her, How to Fix Almost Anything-there's a handwritten card from Pat tucked into page forty-three, the laundry section: "Elaine-My ideas don't come from nowhere. My ideas aren't always my own." The page is about how to remove a coffee stain. Elaine remembers splashing the coffee, taking off her shirt, Pat slipping the pot holder under her head. Fine. Everything is fine.

When the glue is dry, Elaine repaints the frame around Daniel's door. She washes her paintbrush. She cleans up after herself.

In the middle of the night, Elaine is sitting on the sofa in the living room. She is thinking about what she wants. She is reading an alphabetical list of occupational titles: candy puller, elephant trainer, fatback trimmer, feather washer, felt finisher, female impersonator, field attendant, fig sorter, film inspector.

The cop car whisks by, siren silenced; red light flashes over the walls, flickering like fire.

Elaine is not alone.