A. Homes: Music for Torching

"I could take Sammy for the night. I just rented Bambi for Nate."

"Seen it," Sammy says, watching Nate.

"Well, maybe you'd like to see it again," Paul suggests.

"We could go to the drive-thru, I bet you'd like that," Nate's mom says. "McNuggets and fries."

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Elaine says.

Sammy nods. Paul takes out his wallet and attempts to give Mrs. Apple money for the snacks. At first she declines. "Oh, you don't have to give me anything." But the truth of it is, Paul owes her thirty bucks-last week he didn't have enough cash, and she had to chip in for the motel. He hands her two twenties stuck together, hoping Elaine notices only one, and Mrs. Apple takes Sammy away.

PAUL AND ELAINE ARE ALONE. The children have been farmed out, given away to good homes like kittens. Inside the house, it gets darker and darker, and there is less and less they can do. They have forgotten that civilization is just across the street, that there is electricity next door. Finally, when they can't so much as see their fingers in front of their faces, they step outside. An afternoon shower has cleared the air. The sky is Prussian blue going into night.

Elaine tugs on Paul's belt loop, and they start walking toward the Nielsons' house. They could have driven, but it doesn't occur to them. The act of burning down their house has sent them back; it is as if their licenses have been revoked. They walk.

"Should we bring something?" Elaine asks.

"Like what?"

"A bottle of wine, a pie?"

Paul doesn't answer. They pass under a streetlight, Paul looks at Elaine, and then reaches for her arm and pulls back on it, like a blackjack handle, stopping her. He spits onto his fingers and rubs her face, again he licks his fingers and then rubs more. "You're all smudged," he says.

They walk on, the breeze lifting their clothing, the smell of smoke rising up as though they are smoldering, as though they are still on fire.

"Shortcut," Paul says, taking Elaine through various neighbors' yards. All the things that yesterday were so familiar, so comforting, now seem thoroughly foreign. They sneak through backyards like criminals, peering through kitchen windows to watch dinners being pulled from ovens, like a magician's trick-the rabbit from the hat.

A shift in the wind fills the air with the trailing spoor of a barbecue.

Elaine sniffs.

"The scent of guilt," Paul says, stumbling, swooning, his stomach spinning with anxiety.

"We're almost there. Isn't it lovely, Pat and George inviting us to stay over like this?"

"Have you ever heard anything about them?"

"About who?"

"George and Pat."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, things."

They turn the corner; the Nielsons' house is just ahead. "What kind of things?" Elaine asks.

"Never mind."

They are at the Nielsons' door. They ring the bell. They knock.

"Is this a game?" Elaine asks. "Are you doing this just to get me?"

Paul rings again. No answer.

"They said they'd leave a key under the mat," Elaine says, stepping back.

Paul lifts the mat.

"How can you do this? They're among our closest friends. They've invited us to come and stay with them-'For the duration,' Pat said."

"Don't blame me, I'm just repeating what I heard."

"What did you hear?"

"Nothing, just something, that there was something, no one knew exactly what."

"That's awful," Elaine says, stepping inside. "That's how rumors start-when people are too good or too nice, no one can stand it, they have to wreck it, undermine everything good."

The Nielsons' house is cool and still as though today was the maid's day and no one's come home yet to spoil it. The lamp hanging over the kitchen table glows. The refrigerator hums steadily. How much help does Pat have? That's what Elaine wants to know. The spotlessness, the absolute absence of chaos is otherworldly. Elaine and Paul walk silently in a loop, a crazy eight, through the living room, the dining room, into the kitchen and back again. Without hosts they don't know what to do. They are lost, without direction.

"Now what?" Paul asks.

"I can't believe you told me that about Pat and George," Elaine hisses.

"I didn't tell you, I asked you."

They're standing in the living room. Paul moves to sit on the sofa.

"Don't," Elaine says, grabbing his arm. "Your hands are dirty, you're covered in soot, you smell."

He escapes her. He wanders into the kitchen. She follows, making sure he doesn't do anything weird or wrong. "There's some food," he says, opening the refrigerator. "Do you think we could have a little snack?" She comes up from behind and closes the refrigerator door. His handprints are on it; she wipes them away with the edge of her blouse. "Wash your hands," she says.

There are canisters on the counter: tea, flour, sugar, a

cookie jar-three-quarters full. Everything is in perfect order. It's because they have girls, two girls instead of boys; girls are neater, Elaine tells herself. At Paul and Elaine's house the cookies don't even make it into the cookie jar; they go straight from the package to the mouth-the cookie jar is always empty.

With a dull rumble, a slow roll, the icemaker spills its cubes into the storage bin.

"Sit," Elaine says, and they sit at the kitchen table.

Slowly, as if breaking down, Paul asks, "Could I have some water?"

It's as though he has no standards, no boundaries, no sense of what's appropriate. Elaine rolls her eyes.

"Is that asking too much? I'm sure if Pat and George were here, they'd give me a glass of water. I bet George would give me a scotch. Why, I bet if I asked, he'd give me a whole bottle of my own."

Elaine gives him a glass of water, running it for a minute first to let it get cold, noticing how clean the sink is, how the stainless steel sparkles. She hands him the glass, then dries the sink with a paper towel and sits back down at the table.

"Is there something to eat, maybe some cheese? Crackers?"

"Why do you ask me? Do you need my permission? Are you so crippled that you can't do anything for yourself? Just wait," she says. "They'll be home soon."

"Don't hold me hostage," Paul says, remembering the game Sammy and Daniel were playing. "What's hostage?" Sammy had asked. "Do the kids know where we are?" Paul asks Elaine. "Does anyone know where we are?"

They hear the sound of a key in the door. "Behave," Elaine says.

"Anybody home?" Pat calls.

Elaine and Paul wait in the hallway.

"Sorry we're late," George says. "Time got out of hand."

"I hope you helped yourself. I hope you're not starving."

Pat slips out of her sweater and neatly hangs it in the front hall closet. "I'm so glad you're here," Pat says, giving Elaine's arm a little squeeze. "What would you like first?" Pat asks. "To get out of those clothes? Have a hot shower? Some dinner?"

"How 'bout a drink?" George asks. "A little refreshment? How would that be? A drink?"

The perfect pleasantness of Pat and George offering only the warmest welcome, hot water, drinks, the promise of a fine dinner and a good night's sleep, is overwhelming.

Elaine and Paul stand speechless. Their sullen steam, their tension, their bitterness and disgust rises up off them, evaporating like the heat of a sudden summer storm.

Pat and George are before them, dying to be accommodating, looking at Elaine and Paul as if to ask, What can we do for you? How can we best serve you? And their two children, Mary and Margaret, are right there next to their parents, beaming at Paul and Elaine, also offering themselves.

"Scotch?" George asks.

"I'd love one," Paul says, smirking at Elaine as if to say, Told you so.

"Elaine?" George asks.

"Something a little lighter."