Music for Torching

NINE

THE WRECKING BALL WAKE-UP. A hard knock shakes the house. They don't so much hear it as feel it-slapping them out of their sleep, pushing the air out of their lungs.

Elaine rolls over. "Wrecking ball," she says as it slams into the house a second time.

Paul sits up. "Are we safe? Do they know we're in here?"

"What do you want to do, wave a white flag out the window?" Elaine says, turning onto her back.

Paul goes to the window and waves frantically at the men in the backyard. "Were you expecting them this morning?"

"I wasn't expecting anything," Elaine says.

One of the guys waves back. "They see us," Paul says. "They know we're in here. We're okay."

Again the ball slams into the house. Elaine wonders what would happen if it came crashing through the bedroom wall. She pictures the swinging ball, like a black bomb, coming toward her; she imagines jumping on it, riding away, like Tarzan or Jane, legs wrapped around the hard metal, fingers clutching the chain-white knuckles. She gets out of bed.

"You're in a weird mood," Paul says.

"What?"

"You're standing in a puddle of pickle juice."

She looks down. There are jars surrounding her-artichoke hearts, olives, debris from dinner-an odd altar to appetizing. She's knocked over the bread-and-butter pickles, green juice has splashed her toes.

The wrecking ball slams the house again, percussion, punctuation, punch line. The capers dance in their jar.

"Get me a towel," she says to Paul.

Nude. Bent over, gathering wrappers and jars, sorting trash from leftovers, her thin belly and breasts hang, everything is a little loose on the bone. She catches Paul looking at her, taking inventory. "Can I help you?" she asks.

He hands her the towel.

She wipes the floor, puts on her robe, and goes downstairs.

Paul is in the bathroom, staring at himself. Things are beginning to grow back. His body is covered in rough fuzz, itchy bristle. Pimples. He applies hydrocortisone and decides that he will leave himself alone, no more experimental grooming. So what if his head looks like he's wearing a broken halo, a ring of chestnut stubble, a crown of thorns? What's the big deal if his chest hair turns into silver-wired topiary, if he becomes dotted with liver spots and his leggy down disappears, revealing shining varicosities? He checks the tattoo-still spooked every time he sees it. It's crusty now, the hair is growing back-sharp pubes, like bristles, poke out of his skin. Soon the inky line of ivy will be buried, it will be hidden in a forest, it will be something you always know is out there, lurking.

He is thinking about Henry, and the date. He is thinking about McKendrick and how he's got to drop off the tapes. He is thinking about work, about the corner office, new carpet, a new chair. He is thinking about aging, about failure and reinvention. He needs to get back into the game, to be on top, to win.

Paul looks in the mirror. He cannot leave himself alone; he cannot surrender to nature. Everything that you can't see, everything undercover, he will skip, but his head, his exposed dome, he will continue to groom-a shaved skull is a kind of power play, mental nakedness, brain display. He sprays his head with shaving cream and scrapes it clean.

Elaine comes in, she pees, she flushes.

These are the moments Paul likes, moments of intimacy, of familiarity. At Pat and George's they took turns; somehow they weren't comfortable going into the bathroom together. "You were really good last night when I wet the bed," Paul says to Elaine.

"There are six men out back," Elaine says. "The yard is full of rocks. Let's not forget to tell them about the hole," Elaine says.

"I wonder how long it will take?"

"They seem to be moving quickly," she says, walking out.

Elaine's mother is downstairs, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Morning," Elaine says, finding her there.

"The lock on the front door is broken," her mother says.

Elaine shrugs. She's not surprised at how other people are able to float in and out as if they have special powers-can walk through walls and travel great distances at a blink, etc., whereas Elaine is always earthbound, stuck.

"You should get the lock fixed," her mother says. "You don't want just anyone to be able to waltz right in."

"It's on the list," Elaine says.

"Would you like some coffee?" her mother asks.

"I made it an hour ago," Elaine says.

"I'm sure you did," her mother says. "It's not really strong enough for me. Can I pour you a cup?" "I'll get it myself."

Her mother wanders into the dining room and stands near the plastic wall. It's as if a curtain has been pulled around the scene of the accident, a blanket over a corpse, in an effort to be discreet, to spare everyone the upset, the embarrassment.

On the other side of the plastic, there are men working-muted voices, hammers.

"Is this a good idea?" her mother asks.

"What?"

"Adding on to the house?"

"We're not really adding on," Elaine says. "We're repairing. We had a fire."

"Should I be thinking about renovating my house? Is this something I should be doing?"

"It has nothing to do with you," Elaine says.

"Your father talks about fixing up the house so we'll get more money out of it. We're not going anywhere, how are we going to get money out of it? Besides, what do we need a bathroom downstairs for? If someone has to go, go upstairs in private. I don't have to be informed every time someone goes."

"It has nothing to do with you," Elaine repeats.

Her mother points at a pillow on the living room sofa. "Where'd that come from?"

"I don't remember," Elaine says.

"Yes you do."

"No I don't."

"Bloomingdale's," her mother says.

"Pier One," Elaine says.

"I knew you'd remember," her mother says. "I could use a couple of pillows like that. Do you think they still have them?"

Elaine shrugs.

There is a sound outside, an incredible clatter, like a thousand things falling at once.

"What's that?" her mother asks.

Elaine looks out the window. "Lumber. The wood has arrived."

A man presses against the plastic wall; his nose makes a dent. "Excuse me," he says, his breath making a wet mark. "Excuse me." He tries to get Elaine's attention.

Elaine turns toward the plastic. "Yes," she says.

"Sorry to bother you." His voice is gurgly, as if he's speaking underwater. "Have you got some ice? I hit my hand."

"Oh, sure. Of course," Elaine says, "we have plenty of ice." She goes into the kitchen, fills a plastic bag, wraps it in a kitchen towel, and goes back into the living room. She is standing on one side of the plastic, the man is on the other. She tries to lift it from the bottom to pass the ice under-but it's tacked down. He's pulling from the top to no avail.

"Stand back," he says, penetrating the plastic with a sharp blade. His hand juts into the living room, the fingers purple and swelling.

"I think you might have broken something," Elaine says, handing him the ice pack.

"I wouldn't put it past me," the man says.

"I meant to tell someone," Elaine says, speaking directly into the trapdoor. "There's a hole in the master bedroom ceiling; it leaked on us last night."

"I'll send a guy in."

"Thanks," Elaine says. "If you need more ice, just holler-I've got a freezerful."

"Do you want me to leave this open?" the man asks, gesturing at the trapdoor.

"Close it," Elaine says, thinking of the dust, of Sammy.

"Hello, stranger," Elaine hears her mother say. "Long time no see. Have you got a kiss for your grandmother? Well, I've got one for you."

The image of Daniel in the kitchen, being kissed by her mother, floods Elaine with a peculiar rush of discomfort. She thinks of the fat woman from the magazine, the woman whose legs have to be held open in order to be fucked, she thinks of her lipstick in the Ziploc bag in Daniel's drawer and wonders what it means.

She hurries into the kitchen and glares at Daniel.

"How'd you get in?" she asks.

"Door," he says.

"Did someone leave it open?"

"Lock's broken," he says, looking at her strangely.

She nods. She doesn't know how to talk to him.

"I need Polaroid film," he says, "for a project."

She imagines him taking photographs of fat women on the streets of Scarsdale, riding his bike to Mamaroneck and Yonkers, prowling for bulk, waiting outside the Weight Watchers office, hunting down chubbies at Overeaters Anonymous meetings, using his allowance to buy film, to buy Twinkies and HoHo's, to bribe the fat girls to show him their padded parts.

"I need some coffee," Elaine says.

"I need film," he says.

Need this, need that. Need ice. Need film. "Then get it," she says.

"What's your problem?" he says.

What's yours? she wants to ask.

He goes upstairs.

Elaine waits for the eruption. She counts the seconds.

"Who went in my room?" he yells less than a minute later.

"It's not your room," Paul shouts from the bedroom. "It's my room. I own this house."

"You went in my room? Why did you do that? Why would you go in my room?" Daniel runs down the hall, screaming.

"Why would you put a lock on the door?" Paul hollers.

"Because I didn't want anyone to go in my room."

"That's why we went in your room." "Because of the lock?"

"You bet."

Elaine wonders if she should go upstairs and moderate. "We bought you a new comforter," Elaine calls up the stairs. "We were trying to fix things up for you and Sammy."

"You sure fixed it," Daniel shouts.

"Whose shirt are you wearing?" Paul asks Daniel.

"Not yours, that's for sure."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Paul shouts. "What kind of monster are you?"

"I am not a monster," Daniel yells back.

"What the fuck are all the Ziploc bags?"

"Evidence."

"For what, what are you trying to prove?"

"I don't know," Daniel shouts. "I don't know, I read about it in the junior-detective book. You don't own me," he yells, crashing down the steps, pushing past Elaine, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"Out," he bellows.

"Look," Elaine says, "if you want more privacy, all you have to do is say so, but no padlocks on the doors. If there's a problem, let's talk about it."

Daniel stops. He turns to her. "Dad is a lazy fuck, and you're pathetic," he says.

A switch flips. She goes from being the concerned and confused mother to pure rage. Daniel is everything that Paul is and worse. She hates him.

She takes off her shoe and hurls it at him. "Brat."

Daniel runs out of the house.

Elaine's mother starts to say something.

"Shut up," Elaine says, before she can get a word out. "Just shut up."

Her mother makes a gesture like she's zipping her lips.

Paul comes down. "Did we handle that well?"

Elaine's mother clucks.

One of the men knocks on the door. "You have a hole?" he asks, stepping in.

"Upstairs," Elaine says, "in the master bedroom-look up and you can see the sky."

"What's the suitcase for?" Paul points to a suitcase by the kitchen table-Elaine hadn't noticed it before.

"I can't take it anymore," Elaine's mother says. "A woman of my age, of my position, deserves more." She pauses. "I'll stay in one of the boys' rooms. You can talk all you want, you can fight, you can make love, you can kill each other for all I care, and I won't say a word."

Elaine imagines her mother upstairs, discovering the lump in Daniel's bed, lifting the mattress. Her mother flipping through the stack of Chunky Bunch magazines.

"The house isn't ready," Elaine says.

"It's ready enough for you," her mother says.

"Mother, please."

"Your father isn't being nice. Why should I stay where I'm not wanted?"

"It's your house, you don't have to be wanted. And Daddy does want you, but you're driving him crazy."

"I'm driving him crazy. I'm driving him. What about what he's doing to me?"

"What do you want from him?"

"Some attention. I want someone to pay some attention."

"Maybe you have to pay attention to him first. If you pay attention to him, he'll pay attention to you-that's the way it goes."

"That's manipulative. I am not a manipulative woman."

Elaine rolls her eyes.

"I'm not. Are you telling your own mother that she can't stay in your house?" "Mother."

Paul leaves the room.

"Where are you going?" Elaine shouts after him.

"Getting ready for Sammy's soccer," Paul says.

"I thought you were just picking up."

"I thought I should go and watch-isn't that what parents do?"

"You don't usually watch."

Paul doesn't respond.

"Did you call Nate's mother and ask her about packing Sammy's stuff? Did you tell her that he's coming home?"

Paul doesn't tell her that he called from upstairs, that he arranged for Sammy's return, arranged for an extra date next Wednesday afternoon, and got a great high-concept blow job over the phone-"I want you to feel my mouth sucking your prick, your balls rubbing my face, my finger on the edge of your asshole." The finger on the asshole was the unexpected bit that did it; he shot off instantly, splashing the wall of the walk-in closet where he was hiding with the cordless phone.

"It's taken care of," Paul says.

"Does she get to stay here?" her mother asks.

"Who?" Elaine asks, distracted, thinking about Nate's mother, her good hair, her big boobs.

"Her," Elaine's mother repeats.

"No," Elaine says, realizing that her mother is talking about Mrs. Hansen. "Mother, just stop it. Go home, go back to Daddy."

"You're sending your mother away. I knew you would. I always knew that eventually you would send me away."

"Not away. Home. You want something from me. You're the mother, and you act like the child. I want something from you: I want to be the child."

"You want to be the child." Her mother snorts. "You're forty-three years old with a husband and two children of your own; you're not a child."

"Fine, if you're not going to take care of me, then go away." Elaine isn't sure what she's saying-it half makes sense and half makes no sense, but she's saying it. She feels the need to say something.

"Do you want some coffee?" her mother asks. "Should I make a fresh pot?"

"Yes," Elaine says. "Yes, I want coffee."

"See you," Paul says. "Anything you need, anything I should do while I'm out?"

"Just bring Sammy home," she says, opening the door, letting Paul out, checking the broken lock.

There is silence.

Elaine sits at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee.

A horn beeps. The guy upstairs working on the hole calls down, "There's a car out there, waiting for someone." Elaine goes out. A station wagon is idling at the curb. "Is Daniel here?" the driver asks.

Elaine shakes her head. "Not here," she says. The station wagon is driven by a complete stranger, it's filled with kids she's never seen before. "What is this?" Elaine asks.

"Scout trip. Any idea where he is?"

She shakes her head, none.

"Don't worry," the driver says cheerfully. "We'll find him."

"All right, I'm going," her mother says, picking up her suitcase as soon as Elaine comes back into the house.

"Okay, talk to you later," Elaine says.

"You do whatever you want," her mother says.

"I'll talk to you later, Mother," Elaine says.

"Whatever," her mother says.

"I'm too tired," Elaine says.

"Think of other people, Elaine," her mother says, walking out.

The workman comes downstairs. "It's patched for now," he says. "We'll get in there and really do the work on Monday-it'll hold over the weekend."

The house is empty. The wrecking ball is leaving. It is being taken away, guided back down the driveway.

The morning is gone-burned off, like fog.

Elaine opens the refrigerator, pulls out bits and pieces of things, condiments and crackers. She pours herself a glass of wine; she thinks of Mrs. Hansen, who didn't come today. She hopes everything is all right; she wonders if she should worry. Elaine sits at the kitchen table, daydreaming. She pictures herself as a different person in a different life. She sees herself in places she can't even point to on a map, high in the thin air of the Himalayas, wandering the hills of Tuscany, traveling under a new name, making no reference to her life before.

Every day Elaine thinks of disappearing. She will leave and take nothing with her-"You have yourself" is what people say, and that's what stops her. She fears she is nothing. Nonexistent.

The cop is in the kitchen. He arrived unannounced. He stands in front of where she's sitting at the kitchen table, a white foam cervical collar around his neck.

"You're home," he says.

"Last night," she says, coming out of her daydream/travelogue.

"How was it?"

"Fine."

"Did you sleep well, or were you up reading all night?"

Elaine is puzzled.

"You need me," he says, moving in.

"What happened to your neck?" Elaine changes the subject. She gestures toward the foam cuff, thinking of an ox in a yoke.

"Fender bender," he says. He comes closer. His knees press against her leg. "I can tell you want me; I've known all along."

She stands up, banging against the table-things rattle.

"Remember when we first met? I saw you the next morning, crawling naked across the floor, I saw you stand up with dirt on your belly. You put on a coat, and then you answered the door. I've been watching you ever since."

"Watching me?"

"Keeping an eye out. I've noticed a few things, like with your recycling, you don't separate colored glass from clear, your plastic from your paper-I could give you a citation for that." He squeezes her breast. "Go upstairs," he says.

"They'll be home soon."

"Hurry," he says.

His uniform is sculpted to his body, his body is all muscle; every time he moves, another bulge pops out. The sight of his erection pressing against his tan trousers is what gets her. It rises like a pornographic emergency, engorged, trapped.

He undresses her. He doesn't ask. He is persistent and rough.

"How old are you?" she asks.

"Twenty-six."

He takes off his gun belt and lays it down on the dresser. His body is smooth, muscular, and hairless. She is confused, conflating Paul's hair, Pat's breasts, the cream of skin.

"Should I handcuff you?" he asks.

"Do you think it's necessary?"

"Will you resist?"

"No," she says.

His nipples are tiny and hard, like pink match heads. "Bite them," he says, and she does.

He pulls a handful of condoms out of his pocket. "Pick a color, any color."

"Red," she says, and watches him roll it on.

He is huge, his penis is hot and pink and raw like a doggy dick.

He fucks her, harder than Pat, harder than Paul. He is cold and a little cruel. She thinks of Pat, soft, enveloping. She thinks of Paul, the deep familiarity, assorted stubble, flabby ass, a roll around the middle.

"Fuck me," the cop says. He is stronger than she is and a little scary. "Fuck me," he says, pushing off the headboard and slamming into her. "I want you to fuck me."

They are on the bed, they are in Elaine's own home. "I'm fucking you," she says, holding his shoulders. "I'm fucking you."

Elaine sees Pat standing silently in the doorway-she's not sure if what she's seeing is real.

"Fuck me," the cop says. "I want you to fuck me."

Pat goes to the dresser, pulls the gun out of the holster, squats in her version of a police pose, and aims at the cop. "Freeze."

He rears up, thrusting deep inside Elaine.

"You get off her. You leave her alone," Pat says.

The cop looks at Elaine.

She has closed her eyes, her face is contorted, waiting for the shot.

He pulls out. Elaine's eyes pop open. She sees his stiff penis, the bright red condom, shiny with her juices.

"Are you all right?" Pat asks. "Should I call the police? Should I shoot him?"

Elaine shakes her head.

"I am the police," the cop says.

"Did you let him in? How did he get in?"

"Who the hell are you?" the cop asks.

Pat waves the gun at the cop. "I'm asking the questions now," she says. "I'm giving the orders."

"The lock on the downstairs door has been broken since the night of the fire," Elaine says, sitting up.

"Get dressed," Pat tells the cop.

He pulls on his clothes. Despite the disturbance, his cock is still stiff, the condom is still on. He's young, he's a cop, he thrives on scenes like this. He has trouble zipping his pants.

Elaine starts to cry. She sits on the edge of the bed, sobbing.

"When you didn't come over last night, I was worried," Pat says. "I stopped by to check on you."

"Give me the gun," the cop says when he's all zipped up, when he's got his holster strapped on again.

Pat hands him the gun; he puts it away and is quickly down the steps and out the door.

"I feel so alone," Elaine says.

"I don't know what to say," Pat says. She looks around the room. "I can see your Martha Stewart," she says, pointing to the magazine on the night table.

"I can't take it anymore," Elaine says.

Pat leaves.

Elaine cries. She wails, primal pour, the pain of a lifetime, every disappointment, every failure, every missed opportunity is mourned. She cries, and then abruptly she stops-it's enough, it's all she will allow. She looks at the clock; it's almost three. Elaine peels the sheets off the bed, dresses, goes downstairs, throws the sheets into the washing machine, pours the detergent in, and sets the machine on normal.

Outside: an atomic blast of light and heat. The sun is high, the air is hot. She squints. The car is gone-Paul has taken it to the soccer game.

"Fuck." Elaine throws her keys down in the driveway. She brushes it off. She takes off running one way, then turns and runs the other. She runs in a circle. Her heart races. There is no air, nothing to breathe. Bile rises in her throat. Blind panic. She retches. She is afraid she is being etherized, atom- smashed-blasted out of existence.

She runs toward Pat and George's. The Nielsons' driveway is empty, both cars are gone. She scours the streets, searching, thinking she will find Pat. She finds nothing. She rushes to the train station-down the steps to the platform. Empty. Elaine waits-wondering what she will do when the train comes, will she get on it, or throw herself in front of it? She walks back up the steps and down the street. She is headed in a certain direc- tion-the vocational school. The air is heavy, the trees and grass bright green, flush with fresh growth. There's a yellow-and-black symbol on the side of the building-FALLOUT SHELTER. Another sign in a wire-threaded window-SAFE HAVEN.

Elaine pulls at the doors. "Open," she screams. "Open." It means nothing to her that the parking lot is empty, that it's Saturday and school is not in session, the doors are locked. "Shit, shit, shit." Guidance. She needs Bud Johnson. And where is he now? Parked outside some garden apartment with the hood up, working on his car? Elaine kicks the doors, she smacks the brick with her bare hands. "Damn it," she yells. "Fucking goddamn it."

Two halves of a prefabricated house are parked on the grass beside the school, cracked open, split like an English muffin. She steps into one, loses her footing, and accidentally slams her hand against the wall-it goes straight through. The Sheetrock is like cardboard. She punches the wall again intentionally-bam, bam, bam, like a hole punch. There is a hammer on the

floor and a box of nails. She goes to it, slamming common nails into the wall, hammering until she is spent, until she has nothing left to say, until she has spelled out FUCK THIS two feet tall. She throws down the hammer and walks away, a vocational vandal, a thief, a woman run amok.

"What do you want?" she asks herself aloud. "What do you want? You tell me," she says. "You tell me." Without thinking, she has taken herself home. She walks past her own house; the car is back in the driveway, Paul is home. She walks up and down the sidewalk, not sure what happens next.

Sammy is in the front yard at the peak of the hill, witnessing her obsessive parade, back and forth, up and down. "Mom," he calls, and at first she doesn't answer. "Mooommm," he tries again, louder.

She looks up, confused. "Mom," he says again, as if reminding her of who she is.

"Oh, hi," Elaine says.

"What're you doing?"

"I went for a walk."

"You were talking to yourself," he says.

She nods. "I was having a little conversation."

"What do you want?" he asks, repeating her incantation.

"I don't know," she says. "What do you want?"

Sammy shrugs.

"Where's Daddy?"

"Inside."

"What are you doing out here?"

"This is the house that hurt me," he says.

Elaine climbs up the driveway and puts her hand on Sammy's shoulder. "Have you seen your room? Come on, I'll show you," she says, guiding him toward the front door. "I had it all cleaned up, scrubbed top to bottom, no dust, no dirt."

Sammy shakes his head. "No."

Out of the corner of her eye, stuck on the branch of a bush, Elaine sees the red condom-like a red flag, hung out to dry.

"My balloon," Sammy says, making a dive for it, pulling it off the bush. The condom stretches and snaps, splitting at the rim, flying off the branch.

"No," Elaine says, grabbing it from him.

"It's my balloon. It's mine, I found it."

"Where did you find it?" Elaine asks, trying to find out who stuck it on the bush.

"Down there," he says, pointing to the street.

"It's a dirty balloon," Elaine says, stuffing it deep into her pocket. "Come inside and we'll find you something else to play with."

Sammy pouts. Elaine opens the front door and leads him in-she is thinking about the cop and the broken lock, wondering if it's something she can fix herself.

Elaine shows Sammy what the workmen have done. She shows him the plastic wall. "See how it's sealed off? That's to keep the dust out. And if you walk around out back, you can see-we're going to have pretty French doors and a deck. Won't that be nice?" She speaks in a chirpy voice that's entirely unfamiliar.

Sammy nods solemnly.

In the kitchen, Elaine pours glasses of lemonade; she drinks hers quickly and refills it, adding a splash of vodka when Sammy's head is turned.

"Everything all right?" she asks. "Are you breathing?"

Sammy doesn't answer, he just stands there.

Elaine digs out the fix-it book and her tools. She sits on the floor in front of the open front door, fiddling with the lock. Sammy stands next to her. She studies the diagram. "How was soccer?" she asks, trying to make conversation.

Sammy shrugs.

"Did you score?"

Again he shrugs.

"Did your team win?"

"Not because of me," he says.

Elaine examines the lock-the strike plate and the bolt are not hitting in the right place, and the cylinder seems misaligned. She unscrews the mounting plate and returns the cylinder to its original position. It works. The door opens and closes and locks. She's pleased with herself. "Now no one can come in unless we invite them," Elaine tells Sammy as she closes the door.

"Open it," Sammy cries.

"Why?"

"Open it," he says, panicked.

She opens the door. "Let's go find Daddy," she says, changing the subject.

"Don't close the door," Sammy says.

"Okay, but when it gets dark out, we have to close it, all right?"

Sammy nods.

Paul. He hears them coming. He gets up off Daniel's bed and meets them in the upstairs hall. "The wrecking ball is gone," he says.

"It was a rental," she says.

"The backyard is dirt," he says.

"They're digging for the deck." Elaine takes a deep breath; the house still has the non-scent of the cleaning company.

Sammy's toe taps the baseboard in a repetitious rhythm, banging out coded communication.

"Where have you been?" Elaine asks.

"In Daniel's room," Paul says.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking."

He leans against the wall. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he took a look at the molding around Daniel's door and that she did a really good job putting it back together-he doesn't tell Elaine that he's impressed with her craftsmanship.

"The walls look lighter," he says, referring to the layers of grime peeled away by the deep cleaning.

Elaine nods.

Paul and Elaine are in a peculiar place where they really can't do much for each other; they are going forward, lost in them- selves-each awkward in a different way, each with reasons.

Paul looks up at the ceiling. He doesn't tell Elaine that he's been in Daniel's room crying; he doesn't tell Elaine that he wishes it were his room, that he wishes he were twelve again and could have another crack at everything. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he's worried about work-he doesn't even understand what work is anymore-he's worried about money, he's screwing Mrs. Apple and doesn't have a clue what it's all about, and that there's this thing with the date that scared the hell out of him. He doesn't tell Elaine that he can't believe that last night they knocked down the door and raided their son's room, and he can't understand how Daniel turned into someone he can't talk to and how Sammy is so sweet and so adorable and Paul is horrified because he can't even take care of him. And Paul knows Elaine is suffering, and he doesn't know what to do for her. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he doesn't feel like an adult, that he has no idea what it means to be a man, that in fact he's a total jerk. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he doesn't know what to do-so he sat in Daniel's room crying and then he pulled out the fat-girl porno magazines and jerked off.

"Did you have an okay day?" Elaine asks. "Was the game good?"

Paul bows his head, he glances at Sammy. Paul doesn't tell

Elaine that when he got to the soccer field, the game was already going and that he didn't recognize Sammy right away-Mrs. A. had to point him out, and Paul joked that it was because Sammy was wearing different-color socks than usual. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he stood next to Mrs. A. with a hard-on during the whole game and that they whispered tempting and tortuous things back and forth, verbally screwing each other for an hour and a half until the woman next to them walked away snorting in disgust and they realized that maybe they weren't whispering. Paul doesn't tell Elaine how uncoordinated Sammy was, how he missed the easiest shot, how all his teammates jumped on him-literally-and how Sammy had an asthma attack and no one could find the puffer. And so Sammy sat on the sidelines wheezing for the last quarter and then Paul drove him around in the car with the air-conditioning on for another hour, waiting for things to settle, afraid to bring him home like that. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he took Sammy with him to McKendrick's house to drop off some tapes he picked up for him at the sleaze store near the office, and when the old guy opened the door he'd said, "They're watching me. Be careful."

"Who's watching you?" Paul had asked, thinking the old guy was losing it.

"Feds."

"Why would the feds be watching you?"

"Because I'm special," McKendrick hissed. "Come in, come in," the old guy said.

Paul handed him the tapes. "Just a little something I picked up for you."

"Goodie," the old guy said, then he goosed Sammy's ass. And while Sammy didn't seem to mind, it drove Paul crazy. Don't touch my kid, he wanted to say, don't lay your filthy hands on him. "Time to go," Paul said, tugging Sammy's sleeve, pulling him out of the room.

"They're across the street," McKendrick said. "Wave on your way out."

"What's he talking about?" Sammy asked as they were leaving.

"Old people get a little weird," Paul said as they walked down the flagstone path. Across the street Paul saw a plain parked car with dark windows. He had the strangest sensation that someone was taking their picture-he could almost hear the whir of the auto-wind.

Paul doesn't bother to tell Elaine that when they finally pulled up to the house, Sammy wouldn't get out of the car and Paul wasn't sure what to do, whether to force him or lay a trail of Cheerios and hope that he'd eat his way inside. Paul waited for a few minutes and then just left Sammy sitting there with the car door open. Paul doesn't say that when he went into the house and Elaine wasn't there, he was worried that she'd left for good. He doesn't say that he doesn't know what they would do without her.

Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he's aware that almost anyone else would think it's a perfectly lovely Saturday but that he's scared, absolutely petrified, and he doesn't know why. Instead he says, "Phone rang a little while ago and I didn't get it."

"I'm sure the machine picked up," Elaine says.

Sammy steps into his room and checks everything out: toys, books, bed.

"Are you all right?" Paul asks Elaine. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that about half an hour ago he looked out the bathroom window and saw her walking back and forth in front of the house, muttering to herself, her hair hanging in front of her face, like a lunatic.

"I'm worn out," she says.

"Rest," he says.

"The hole is temporarily fixed," she tells Paul. "The sheets are in the wash."

Elaine follows Sammy into his room. "Everything up to snuff?"

"Open the window," Sammy says, and she does. She lies down on Sammy's narrow bed, her head against the comforter, buried in blue sky, clouds. "Tell me everything," she says, and Sammy starts to spin a story about a giraffe, a monkey, and a little boy. Elaine falls asleep. She drools.

Sammy lies on a small rug near the open window curled into a C. He naps-dreaming lightly.

It is Saturday night.

Elaine wakes up and goes looking for Paul-he's downstairs folding laundry. "Sheets are dry," he says. "I pushed the bed back to its original position. Hopefully, there won't be any more leaks."

"Hopefully," Elaine says. "What are we supposed to be doing tonight?"

"Dinner at the Montgomerys'," Paul says, "but Joan called to say they canceled, they're in bad shape, a complication with the crazy kid. She seemed annoyed-what will we do, Saturday night and all of us on our own? Should we do something without them? Can we get a reservation anywhere?" Paul does a good imitation of social desperation, the panic of people left without plans. How dare the Montgomerys.

"Did Daniel come back?" she asks.

"Not yet." Paul sits at the kitchen table. He has made himself a drink. He sips. "And Jennifer will be here in half an hour," Paul adds. He pulls a Baggie out of his pocket, takes out his rolling paper, and turns out a neat and narrow joint.

"Not in the house," Elaine says.

"Come on," Paul says, "it's Saturday night." He opens the door to the basement and coaxes her halfway down. "Do it with me," he says, flicking his lighter, taking a deep drag. The stairwell glows. Paul hands the joint to Elaine. "We have to get Daniel back," Elaine says, blowing smoke.

Paul nods and takes a hit.

"I fixed the lock on the front door," Elaine says. "Now no one can arrive unannounced."

For Elaine, pot is like a prism, a kaleidoscope turning things; objects and emotions fragment, stretch, and slow, everything looks a little different-mentally muted, visually more intense.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Paul asks.

"I wish we could just be normal. One normal happy family," Elaine says, drawing a deep hit.

"And if not that?"

"Could we do nothing? Why do we always have to do something, why does something always have to be happening?"

"What about Daniel, should we call those people"-their name intentionally escapes him-"and have them send him back?" Paul asks.

"We have to go and get him," Elaine says. "We have to bring him home."

"Mom," Sammy calls. "Mom?" There's a pause. "Dad," Sammy calls. "Dad?"

They each take a last hit, and Paul pinches the joint, putting it out. "Ollie, ollie, oxen free."

"You're awake," Elaine says, coming up the stairs.

"The front door is closed," Sammy says.

"It's okay," Paul says.

"Where were you?" Sammy asks.

"Downstairs," Paul says.

"Did you have a good nap?" Elaine asks.

"You snore," Sammy says.

"Would you like some cran?" Elaine asks, pouring juice.

The phone rings.

"It's Joan," Paul says before anyone answers.

Elaine picks up. "Hello?"

"Henry and his date are going to scale the rock-climbing wall at his gym, and then they're going to the movies in Yonkers. They're planning to eat popcorn for dinner," Joan reports, as though popcorn for dinner is shockingly decadent, unforgivable.

"And what are you going to do?" Elaine asks.

"I'm not sure at all. Ted keeps telling me to calm down. But I don't think I've spent a Saturday night at home since I was fifteen."

"Look at it this way." Elaine hears Ted in the background. "At some point in your life, you're going to be spending Saturday nights at home again. Why not just relax and see what the evening brings-you never know."

"I can't stand it," she says, bickering. "I'm not ready to stay home. What are you and Paul thinking?"

"We're just going to keep at it, we have so much work to do on the house," Elaine says, relieved to have a good excuse.

"Well, let's talk tomorrow and compare notes," Joan says.

Someone pounds on the front door.

Paul lets Jennifer in.

"Door's locked," Jennifer says.

"Elaine fixed it," Paul says.

"Handy." Jennifer sniffs around. "It smells good in here. Did you spray something? Burn a reversing candle?"

"Tell him that," Paul says, pointing at Sammy, who's walking around holding a wet washcloth over his nose and mouth.

"We had it washed, scrubbed floor to ceiling," Elaine says.

"Scrubbing bubbles," Paul says, thinking of the thick white foam.

"What's your mom doing tonight?" Elaine asks.

"Homework," Jennifer says. "Secretly she's thrilled dinner got canceled, she's 'sick to shit' of obligations. What's the plan around here?" Jennifer asks.

"We're going to get Daniel," Elaine announces. "We'll be right back. Are you guys okay for now? You're not starving, are you?" Elaine asks. "Can you wait?"

"We're fine," Jennifer says, looking at Sammy.

"Not hungry," he says, his voice muffled through the washcloth.

"Actually, I'm hungry," Paul says, grabbing a stack of Oreos.

"Give me one," Elaine says as they're backing out of the driveway. The munchies have descended.

A buzz. A little high, vibrating. As Paul drives, Elaine pulls the Oreo apart, licking the middle, scraping it with her teeth, eating the cookie.

Their teeth are quickly coated, caked with black cookie crumbs like tobacco stains that stick like mud on the gums. If they smiled, they'd look like Halloween hoboes.

"Are you stoned?" Elaine asks.

"It was just one joint."

They pull into the Meaderses' driveway, and what seemed like a good idea, a show of parental prerogative, now seems asinine.

Elaine sits in the car, paranoid-wishing she hadn't smoked, thinking they smell like pot and scotch, thinking she looks strange.

"Are you getting out?" Paul asks.

Together they walk up to the house. Paul rings the doorbell. He giggles. "Don't you wish we could run?" Paul says. "Make it like a prank? I want him to open the door, stick his mealy head out, and then I'd like to pelt him with tomatoes or roll the yard in toilet paper or something."

Elaine hates Paul, he's an embarrassment, a liability. "Behave," she says.

Mr. Meaders opens the front door.

"Hi, how are you?" Paul says, his words coming out in a jovial burst of laughter. "Sorry to arrive unannounced."

"We've come for Daniel," Elaine says. "We'd like to take him home."

"Is he expecting you?" Mr. Meaders asks.

"We thought it would be best if we didn't make a big deal out of it," Elaine says.

Paul and Elaine step into the house; it's like stepping back in time. The colors are browns and golds, deep greens and blues, the colors of 1957, of Ozzie and Harriet. Mr. Meaders is wearing a cardigan, and Mrs. Meaders comes out of the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist. She puts a basket of rolls on the table.

"Oh, bad timing," Elaine whispers to Paul. "They're about to eat."

"The boys are upstairs in Willy's room," Mr. Meaders says.

Elaine leads Paul and Mr. Meaders on a march up the stairs. Going up, her legs are rubbery, as if she's stretching with every step.

Mr. Meaders knocks on the bedroom door. "Daniel, your parents are here."

Elaine sticks her nose in, pressing her face close to the door. "Time to go home," she says cheerfully.

There is no response.

"I don't think he's inclined," Meaders says.

They stand in the hallway. Meaders checks his watch. "Seven twenty-two," he says. "Supper's at seven-thirty."

"Could we have a moment?" Paul asks, and Meaders backs off, descending the staircase, hands thrown up in the air as if he's being held at gunpoint.

Paul taps on the door, then opens it. Willy Meaders's room is a generationless homage to being a boy-two twin beds, trophies, sports posters, hockey sticks, a trombone.

Daniel sits on one of the beds, his back against the wall. "We want you to come home. Dad is sorry about the lock," Elaine blurts.

Daniel stares at the fish tank.

"Sammy's back, and Jennifer is there. We're having a family night at home; we might rent some videos or just play a game-like Monopoly." Paul talks, not quite knowing what he's saying. "How's that sound?"

Daniel stares. He absently picks through loose bits of tile from a mosaic project.

"We're fixing up the house. It's going to be great," Elaine says.

"Look, I'm sorry about the lock. To be honest, it frightened me. It was like you'd become a stranger, I lost my head," Paul says. "I'm not perfect."

"None of us are," Elaine elaborates.

"I'm trying to talk to you honestly," Paul says. "Give me a break here, would ya, pal?" He stops and looks around at the posters on the wall, the fish tank bubbling, Willy Meaders sitting in the desk chair. Paul can't believe that the little Meaders is stupid enough to just sit there-doesn't he feel uncomfortable? He just sits there staring at them dispassionately as though they're a movie.

Finally Paul glares at him and says, "Willy, could you please excuse us?" and the boy leaves.

"You're making a scene," Paul tells Daniel. "How do you think it looks-your mother and I having to come here and beg you to come home?"

The longer it takes, the worse it gets. Moment by moment the situation becomes exponentially more humiliating.

"You're embarrassing us," Paul says. "It's almost seven-thirty, the Meaderses want to eat their dinner. You know how serious they are about things like that."

Paul is climbing the walls; he wants to box Daniel's ears,

knock his block off. He wants to haul off and yell, "Get in the fucking car right now, or I'm going to kill you."

Elaine sits down hard on the opposite bed; the bed groans. She is about to cry; in fact, she starts to cry, but knowing that it will only cause more trouble, it will only make Daniel less inclined to come home, she quits. Paul and Daniel look at her. She sniffles.

"What's for dinner?" Daniel asks.

"What would you like?" Paul asks.

Daniel doesn't answer.

"Where's your stuff?" Paul is trying to speed things up. "Is this yours?" He picks dirty clothes up off the floor. "Do you have a suitcase?"

Daniel points to the closet. Paul drags out an old Samsonite.

"Do you have things in this dresser? Where're your socks and underwear? Do you have other shoes? Jeans? T-shirts?"

Paul throws things into the suitcase.

"Do you have a dopp kit?"

"A what?" Daniel asks.

"Toiletries?" Elaine says, still on the bed.

"A toothbrush. It's in the bathroom, should I get it?" Daniel asks.

"You don't need the toothbrush," Elaine says. "We have one for you at home."

"What about your books, your schoolwork?" Paul asks. Daniel stuffs books, scraps of paper, sports magazines, into his knapsack.

"Ready?" Paul asks.

Daniel picks up a tile ashtray, three-quarters finished, gritty grout overflowing the rows. He hands it to Elaine. "This is for you," he says. "I made it for no real reason."

"Thanks," Elaine says, taking the ashtray, genuinely touched by the ugly artifact.

Paul, the escort, goes first with the suitcase; Daniel, the prisoner, is in the middle; and Elaine follows up, pressure from behind to make sure Daniel doesn't take a wrong turn, doesn't change his mind and bolt.

Mrs. Meaders stands by the swinging door to the kitchen holding a platter of food.

"Good-bye," Mr. Meaders says, tucking his napkin under his chin, not getting up.

"Take care," Mrs. Meaders says.

"See you tomorrow," Willy says.

Daniel's place has already been removed from the table.

"Thanks for everything," Paul says as the procession leaves the house. "It's been a rough time. We really appreciate all you've done."

"Thank you again," Elaine says, closing the door behind her.

Elaine is sweating. Whatever buzz she had before is gone. She feels as though they just put one over-on whom, she's not sure: the Meaderses, Daniel, themselves. Inside the house Paul and Elaine talked a good game, but it's immediately clear they can't live up to the promises. Not that they promised so much or that everything they said was a lie-more a fantasy.

"Monopoly, yeah, right," Daniel says, stretching out in the backseat. "We don't even have a Monopoly game."

"Don't we?" Paul says. "I thought we did."

"The Meaderses were having liver. Liver and onions. I hate liver," Daniel says. "Could we order some pizza and maybe rent movies or something?"

"Sure," Paul says.

"Of course," Elaine says.

They drive to the video store. Paul borrows the phone and calls the pizza place while Daniel picks out horrible movies: The Price of Misfortune and BadZone-A Place You Don't Want to Go with Anyone. At the pizza place Elaine jumps out, picks up the pizzas and two six-packs of Cokes. They make one last stop for ice cream. "Mint chocolate chip," Daniel screams at his father across the parking lot.

Paul waves back at him-"Gotcha."

The sky is fading fast, dropping down into a deep navy blue. Pulling into the driveway, the headlights land on Sammy and Jennifer sitting outside on the kitchen steps.

"I thought the house was fixed," Daniel says when he sees them.

"There are still a few problems," Elaine says.

"Sammy's afraid to go inside," Paul says.

"Retread," Daniel says.

"Hi," Elaine calls, getting out of the car. "We're home, look who's here."

"The Scout returns," Jennifer says.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Daniel asks.

"It means hi," she says.

"Pizza anyone?" Paul says.

They all go into the house. "Don't close the door," Sammy says.

"Did you hear about the two-digit snacker?" Daniel asks Jennifer.

"Who?" Elaine asks.

"Montgomery kid," Jennifer says.

"Shhh," Elaine says, not wanting anyone to talk about it.

"Like we haven't heard," Daniel says.

"Who's the snacker?" Sammy asks.

"The Montgomery kid-he bites the fingers off little boys like you and eats 'em," Daniel says.

"Fake," Sammy says.

"Real," Daniel says.

"Sit and stay," Jennifer says.

"Stop," Paul says.

Paul puts the pizza boxes on the coffee table while Elaine lays out plates, napkins, Cokes, and Daniel pops in the video.

"The less violent one first," Elaine requests, thinking of Sammy-more than impressionable, he's like a sponge, absorbing everything.

They dig in. Sammy pulls the cheese off his pizza. The opening sequence unfolds. A lost soldier with machine guns slung over both shoulders barrels through the forest.

"Nate's dad has lots of guns," Sammy says. "Bigger guns than that, guns he got in Vietnam."

Sammy pronounces "Vietnam" with what Paul thinks of as the redneck, Republican, or Nixonian intonation-"nam," like "ma'am."

"Interesting," Paul says, curious to hear more about Gerald, the mystery man, the silent type, former Green Beret.

"What's Vietnam?" Sammy asks, again pronouncing it wrong. The hair on the back of Paul's neck rises.

"Vietnam," he says, correcting him. "It's a country in Southeast Asia."

"Mr. Meaders used to live in Washington. He was going to be in the IRA, but then something happened," Daniel says. "He's a total math whiz, he even won a math prize."

"It's IRS, not IRA," Paul says, struggling to straighten things out, to unseat these men from the thrones his sons have set them on. "And Meaders is a weaselly numbers cruncher."

"I could live with the Meaderses," Daniel says blithely.

"For how long?" Paul asks.

"As long as I want," Daniel says.

"It's costing us more than twenty thousand dollars to fix up the house," Paul says. "That's a pretty penny."

Elaine looks at him; talk about pathetic. What do the boys care about what it costs to fix the house? They're kids, what do they know from twenty thousand dollars?

"Nate does push-ups. He tried doing them on me," Sammy says. "It was a special kind; you lie on top of the other boy and you do push-ups. I couldn't breathe. He punched me."

On-screen, helicopters search for the missing soldier, one of the choppers blows up, another crashes into the side of a hill, blood splashes across the windshield.

"Mr. Meaders whacks off twice a day, to keep himself fit," Daniel says. "That's what his father taught him. Frequency solves urgency."

"My mother has a vibrating bed," Jennifer says. "One of those Craft-Magic things they advertise on TV. It's deeply adjustable-head, feet, up, down, higher, lower. She calls it her luxury. She says, 'I'm going to go up and lie on my luxury.'"

Elaine is hearing things she doesn't want to know. "Everyone's got something," she says, shaking her head, emptying her ears.

Daniel takes another piece of pizza.

"How many is that for you?" Elaine asks.

"Only my fourth," he says.

Paul belches. "Leave room for ice cream," he says, kicking off his shoes.

Elaine gets up to clear the plates. She trips over a tennis shoe. Pizza crust falls to the floor.

"Shhhhh," Paul hisses.

"Sorry," she says, apologizing reflexively.

She looks at Paul, Daniel, Sammy, and Jennifer, woven onto a pile on the sofa, spilling over onto the floor. Paul stretches out to fill Elaine's spot. It's as though it's fine, as though it's well and good to burn down the house, fix it, and move back in, as though nothing has happened, as though nothing has changed.

Something has to change. Someone has to notice.

Elaine carries dishes into the kitchen.

She doesn't go downstairs, unscrew the fuse box, plunge them into darkness, and then turn around and march back into the living room and say, Okay, cavemen, it's my turn now, listen up-I want to be cooked for and cleaned up after. I want to be accommodated and paid attention to, instead of always worrying about how I'm failing you. I want to think about what I'm not getting here. Let's take a moment.

She thinks of Paul, of Pat, Bud Johnson, the cop. Everyone is fucking her, everyone is getting what they want except Elaine-Elaine wants relief, and Elaine wants attention. She wants someone to respond to her, not because they get something out of it, not because it fills some pathetic need of their own, not because they want something back, but just because..

She thinks of Mrs. Hansen, who she hasn't seen or heard a peep out of all day; she wonders if it's too late too call.

"You're such a good cookie," Mrs. Hansen says. "I'm just having a bad day. Tomorrow I'll be fine. I'm glad you called, glad someone noticed." There's a pause. "What are you doing home? It's Saturday night."

"The Montgomerys canceled at the last minute."

"Oh, baby, I bet that got everyone in a twist."

"Yep," Elaine says.

"Something with the boy."

"A complication," Elaine says.

"What about your two? Where are they?" Mrs. Hansen asks.

"We're all here," Elaine says. "Everyone's home. They're on the sofa watching TV."

"Good," Mrs. Hansen says. "That's the way it should be. See you tomorrow. Good night."

Paul's roach, the end of his joint, is on the counter, next to the car keys, pushed back-out of sight. Elaine peels open the gluey paper and eats the pot. She chews it; it's a little burned, a little like lawn, like twigs. She eats it-it's evidence she feels compelled to get rid of. She has some nervous compulsion to keep the house clean, to put something in her mouth. There is a distant memory of hash brownies, escape. The pot sticks in her throat. She eats some ice cream to wash it down. She pours herself a glass of wine. She is still thinking of the cop, of Pat. She should call Pat, but what would she say? What did you and George do when the Montgomerys canceled? Idle conversation, cheap chatter. She finishes her snack, pours herself a glass of wine, picks up a disposable camera, and wanders around the house, taking pictures. She goes into the living room and watches them staring at the TV. Images, colors, flicker across their faces. She aims. She snaps. Flash. Flash.

"What are you doing?" Paul says. "We're watching a movie."

"Documenting," she says.

"Very funny," he says.

The movie ends, no one wins, everything goes up in smoke.

"I'll drive Jennifer home," Paul says, putting his shoes back on.

"I'm so glad you were here. We don't see enough of you," Elaine tells Jennifer as she's opening her wallet, taking out a twenty.

"Hush money?" Paul asks.

"Baby-sitting," Elaine says.

"You didn't go out," Jennifer says, refusing the money.

"You baby-sat the whole family," Elaine says.

"I ate pizza and watched a movie. I put no one to bed, I didn't call poison control, the pediatrician's pager, or the parents at a dinner party-forget it."

"It's Saturday night," Elaine says. "I'm sure you had a hundred better things to do." "It was a night off for me," Jennifer says, following Paul out of the house. "Deeply relaxing."

"Back in a flash," Paul says, picking up the car keys.

Elaine is afraid to be home alone even though the boys are there-she imagines the cop is still out there, still hard. The condom is in her pocket-she doesn't know what to do with it, save it like a caul, a scrap, the skin of her infidelity, or take it out and toss it in the Dumpster.

Elaine tries to sit somewhere in the living room where he wouldn't be able to see her. She sits in the corner holding the portable phone. If he comes back, who will she call?

Sammy wakes up. "Where am I?"

"You're right here at home," Elaine says.

"Is the door closed?"

"It's nighttime, and the door is closed," Elaine says.

She shakes Daniel's shoulder. "Come on, Scout, up to bed." Daniel babbles something about making a left turn at the what'd- ya-call-it tree, losing the route of the trail.

"You're talking in your sleep," Elaine says.

"No I'm not," he says.

She tucks both boys in and goes down the hall to her room.

They are home, back where they belong. Elaine hears the car pull in, the engine turn off, she hears Paul come into the house, she hears him whistling downstairs, making a drink. He comes up, offers the glass to her.

"Nightcap?"

"Pass," she says, pulling her nightgown over her head.

"Twelve-twenty and all's well," Paul says, unzipping his pants. "Kids asleep?"

"In comas," Elaine says.

"I'm so glad to be home," Paul says, sliding in next to her.

"Door locked?" Elaine asks.

"Bolted, chained, and I threw the sofa in front just in case."