A. Homes - Music for Torching

"I've put you in Mary's room," Pat says, leading them down the hall. "The girls are doubling up for the duration."

"We like to share," Margaret, the younger, says. A wave of nausea sweeps over Elaine.

The walls of Mary's bedroom are a shade of pink that Elaine can identify only as vagina pink. There are two twin beds with quilted pink-satin bedspreads, a white lacquer dresser, a small white desk, and white lace curtains.

Fluffy white terry-cloth robes have been laid out on each bed, there are his-and-hers slippers on the floor, and on the dresser are individual toilet kits like the kind you get when you fly first class.

"If there's anything you need, I'm sure we have it," Pat says cheerfully.

"We have everything," Mary says. "We have everything," she repeats to get Elaine's attention.

Elaine smiles.

"And more," she adds happily.

"Your drinks," George says, handing them their glasses.

The ice clinks. Paul and Elaine sip quickly.

"And you can just throw your clothes in here." Pat puts a laundry basket on the floor at Elaine's feet.

There is something oddly forced about the way they're all crowded into the narrow bedroom, drinking. It's as though they are hurrying through a program, a required set of exchanges, in order to get on to the next thing, as though they've come in late and are rushing to catch up.

"Let's give them a minute," George says, backing off. "Everything doesn't have to happen all at once."

"We're just so glad you're here," Pat says.

And then, as if leaving them to prepare for some kind of treatment or procedure, Pat and George step out of the room. Elaine and Paul are left alone, drinks in hand. Paul takes a couple of large swallows and puts his glass down on the dresser. Elaine quickly picks it up, wipes the dresser, and tucks a book under the glass. Paul sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his shoes. Elaine is about to move in, about to suggest that he not sit on the satin spread.

"Fuck off," he says, seeing it coming. "Just fuck off."

They undress silently, awkward in the deep pink, towering over the furniture, which is scaled for a child. Here they are giants, oafish and clumsy. They peel off their clothing and see that it is soiled with the heavy soot of charcoal gone awry. Thick bracelets of grime wrap their wrists and ankles. Elaine, embarrassed, stands in her bare feet; her toes-the red-hot polish of an old pedicure three-quarters chipped away-curl into the plush pink carpet. She waits in her bra and panties, hesitant to go further, to drop her private garments into the basket.

"Take it off, take it all off," Paul says, stepping out of his B.V.D.'s.

Reluctantly, she unfastens her bra and pulls down her panties, hiding her underwear at the bottom of the basket. "They should be boiled," Elaine says, "or burned like something contaminated."

Elaine pulls the belt of her white terry robe tight around her waist as Paul opens the bedroom door. Pat and George are waiting in the hall. Elaine wonders what would have happened if she and Paul had decided to lie down for a few minutes, to take a little nap-would Pat and George have knocked and said, "We're waiting"? She wonders what would have happened if they'd had a fight-would they have rapped against the door and said, "Break it up"? She wonders if they were listening….

"You look better already," Pat says, leading Elaine down the hall to the middle bathroom.

George steers Paul through their bedroom to the master bath. "Plenty of towels for you," he says, pointing to a huge stack.

They shower. Elaine washes her hair with shampoo that smells like apples. She watches the dirt running off, gray water rushing for the drain. She washes her hair three times, then slathers it with cream rinse that sings of citrus. She turns the water hotter and then hotter still, washing, washing, obsessed with scrubbing herself clean.

In Pat and George's shower, away from Elaine, Paul is unleashed, able to assert himself. His scalp, coated in a layer of fuzz, itches. He lathers up and, using Pat's Lady Light leg razor, works in strips, sweeping over his head, around his ears, and down his neck. He gets carried away and moves on to his arms and legs, trimming his chest down to the primal pattern, scraping his armpits and groin. Aerodynamic and unburdened, Paul feels free from certain worries and boundaries. Stepping out, he takes great care to rinse the tub, to wash away the evidence, the fur, the feathers that flew.

Back in the room, Elaine is famished. There are ten Hershey Kisses in the pencil tray on Mary/Margaret's desk. Elaine takes two and then two more, balling the aluminum foil into tiny pebbles, minimizing the evidence. The chocolate is melting in her mouth when Paul comes in. He grabs her and kisses her-his mouth is minty-fresh. She slips a half-gone Hershey Kiss into his mouth-the chocolate and mint combo is refreshing. They laugh. They make out until the flavor has faded. While they were showering, clothing was laid out on their beds-sweat suits, socks, underwear. They have entered a new regime, a cult of perfection and procedure.

"Wrong size," Elaine says. "It's not even the fucking right size," she blurts.

"It's about learning to let go," Paul says, pulling on his sweat suit. Extra fabric pools at his ankles. He rolls up the legs and sleeves.

There is a knock, the rap-rapping of a little fist on the door, and one of the girls calls, "Dinner."

The table is set beautifully-crystal glasses, delicate china, shining silver. Paul and Elaine sit in their sweats, in their oversize pajamas like children who have been allowed to stay up late. George waits patiently at the head of the table. And when his wife and daughters are ready, he thrusts a two-pronged fork deep into the roast. Bloody juice springs out of the browned round-tiny droplets splash onto the white tablecloth. They all notice.

George stops carving. "Do you want to get that?" he asks, his voice edged with panic.

"I can get it later," Pat says calmly, indicating that he should keep carving. "I have my ways."

She has made a roast, she has made potatoes, she has made glazed carrots and string beans almandine. She has made sure there are hot rolls and crisp salad, and that everything is just right; nothing is early or late, nothing is raw or burned.

How does Pat do it? Elaine needs to know. The roast wasn't cooking when Elaine and Paul got there, it wasn't even out on the counter defrosting. And when did Pat do the potatoes and the carrots? The string beans definitely aren't frozen-where did Pat find them? Elaine hasn't seen string beans in the store for months. She understands the rolls, and that's a comfort. They're from a tube, the kind you crack on the counter and the dough pops out, but still.. And the kitchen isn't a mess; just before they sat down, Elaine poked her head in and asked Pat if she needed a hand, and Pat was already cleaning up, drying the pots and pans.

"Saves time," Pat said.

And so Paul and Elaine sit at Pat and George's table, in silence, as though their personas were lodged in their possessions, in their clothing, which Elaine hears tumbling in the dryer-the buttons of Paul's pants scraping. They dine, dipped in the devastating confirmation that everything they ever suspected about how much better the lives of the neighbors are has been proven true. Everyone else is more organized, happier, their lives less fraught, more satisfying. Without a doubt, other people do it better.

The fraud factor is what Paul calls it, the fear of being revealed. Paul and Elaine already knew it, and in fact, setting the fire was on some level a declaration of their awareness, the great and formal announcement: This is not who we are, we are not like you, we have failed, we are failing, we are failures. And yet, this is exactly who they are; they are not different at all. They are exactly the same as everyone else, and worse yet, they are trapped in it, entirely engulfed-this is their life.