A. Homes: Music for Torching

He nods. He eats his cookies.

"I sleep from twelve to three and work from three to six, then I nap from six to seven."

She goes back to her charts and graphs, her menus. She has it all figured out, shopping lists of what she needs to buy on what day, how long things take to cook, and, given the family's schedules, which night is better to make stew, which is better for lamb chops, etc. She erases an entire week and redoes it.

"You missed some brussels sprouts," he says, pointing to a Tuesday.

"Back to bed, mister," Pat says when Paul's snack is gone. "You've got a couple of hours to go." She leads Paul back down the hall and opens the bedroom door. He goes in without a word, and she closes the door behind him.

Morning. A borrowed suit hangs on the doorknob. A freshly pressed white shirt is draped over the chair.

"I thought I put the chair against the door," Elaine says.

"I was up in the night," Paul says, stretching. He is refreshed. Chirpy.

She resents it.

There's a knock on the door. They throw on the robes.

"Mummy asked me to bring you this," one of the little M's says, delivering Paul and Elaine's clean clothing, pressed, folded, practically packaged. "She's busy making waffles. Do you like waffles?"

"No," Elaine says, taking the clothing from the little girl. "No, I really don't."

"You lose," the little girl says, closing the door.

"What's your problem?" Paul riffles through the clothes, pulling out his underwear, still warm from the dryer. "You should be grateful."

"What's your problem?" she asks. "Since when are you Mr. Bluebird of Happiness?"

Paul tries on the suit jacket-one of George's. It's small. Paul's arms jut out of the sleeves, the shoulders ride up.

"George must be a runt," Elaine says. "You look like an idiot."

He ignores her and climbs into the pants. He likes that he is bigger than George; it makes him feel powerful. He zips up.

"You're not leaving me, are you?" she blurts.

"Leaving you?" He unconsciously mirrors her anxious tone, her flood of anxiety.

"Why are you wearing that suit? What do you think you're doing? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to work."

"Our house burned down," she says. "You helped."

"It was a holiday weekend. Today I'm going to work. I have a job. I have to earn money. This is going to cost us. I have no choice. You need to come up with a plan," he says. "That's how you'll free yourself. Act normal."

"I don't feel normal. I have an incredible headache."

"If you act normal, you'll feel normal. Get dressed and take some aspirin," Paul says. "We'll have breakfast with them, and then I'll walk you home."

"I can't have breakfast. I can't have waffles." Elaine is whining. She can't be good. She can't take any more perfection. She doesn't want to go home, and she doesn't want to be left with Pat. She can't win. She's afraid that she's going to scream. For the first time in years, she is clinging to Paul-he is what defines her, he is familiar. Without Paul, Elaine's head will explode. She can picture it: There will be an enormous and ugly eruption. Human splatter. Pat will be the witness, and without a pause she will rush to get her rags, her bottles of Fantastik and 409. As fast as it happened she'll be at it, wiping up, as though it's just another household spill, all in a day's work. Spic and Span.

"Come on, we'll have some juice and then we'll go. Why don't you make a list of things to do?"

"Did something happen during the night? Did you have a personality transplant?" Elaine asks.

"It's just common sense," he says. "You have to step back, get some perspective. Everything is fine. Nothing has changed, nothing is different."

She is silenced. Nothing has changed. Nothing is different. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

"Sleeves are too short," George says to Paul when they go into the kitchen. "Other than that, you're okay."

"Waffles?" Pat asks. "With or without fresh fruit?"

Elaine looks at Paul, knowing he wants waffles, knowing he could eat two or three, doused in fruit, drenched in syrup.

"Juice and coffee," Paul says. "That's it for me, just juice and coffee."

"And you?" Pat asks.

"Coffee would be great, and a couple of aspirin," Elaine says.

Paul also has a muffin. It's there on the table in a basket. He takes it. He butters it. He looks at Elaine guiltily. She smiles. He's cute. His bald top has a shine, a glow like the dome of a state capitol. She's seeing something boyish and lovable in Paul, something she hasn't seen in a long time.

"Hurry," the little M's tell each other. "Hurry, let's not be late."

Elaine braces herself against their enthusiasm by thinking about her own children. "It's seven o'clock," she announces every morning like a human cuckoo clock. "It's seven-fifteen, you're going to be late. Seven-thirty, you're in trouble." She has to pull back the bedclothes and make them cold and uncomfortable before anything happens. "I've made you a nice hot Pop-Tart, burned on the edges, just the way you like it. Do you want some cocoa? Some chocolate milk?" She gets them going the cheap way, glucose, sucrose. If they pass out once they're at school, at least she got them there. She wonders what they are doing right now-are they behaving, are they making some other mother's life miserable, are they happy?

"Bye-bye," the angelic M's say, kissing their parents good-bye, flying off with their knapsacks strapped to their backs like ballast.

Elaine finishes her coffee and puts the cup down. Paul drains the dregs of his juice glass-fresh-squeezed.

"What time will you be home?" Pat asks.

They all stop. Who is being spoken to? George? Paul? Elaine? There is a long pause.

"We're usually home by seven," Elaine finally says.

"That works," Pat says.

Outside. The grass is green. The sky is bright. The air cool and fresh, like water. It is as though they've woken from a dream. The dew on the lawn soaks their shoes; they squeak across the grass and leave footprints on the sidewalk. They move quickly, race-walking toward home, arms and legs pumping.

They have escaped.

Paul and Elaine speak quickly, as though they haven't spoken in weeks, as though they haven't been able to talk until now.

"I had fun last night," Paul says, confessing his pleasure. "I like wearing a nightgown. It's loose, liberating."

"We'll have to get you one of your own."

"And she makes good coffee," Paul says, romanticizing their adventure. In his mind he's back at Pat's-Pat taking care of everything, Pat in her pajamas in the middle of the night, Pat with the cookies and milk.

"Better coffee than mine?"

"Not better, just good."

As they walk, they get quieter. Their conversation loses its structure; it turns into odd single words, huffed, puffed, spoken as though spit out. They are going uphill.

The school bus passes them. A face is pressed to the glass. Sammy waves. They don't see him until it is too late. They wave after the bus.

They are more together and less together than ever before. They are close, but as they get near the house, they drift. He moves out ahead of her. He is going forward. She is falling back. She is running out of air. The house is haunted, it will turn on her. She is expected to take care of it, to nurse it, to love it, to coach it back to health. She hates the house. She is afraid of the house. She doesn't want to be left there. She would rather go into the city with Paul, would rather go to a museum, wander, go shopping.

"Should I come with you?" she asks.

"Where?"

"I don't want to go home," she says.

"Things have to be fixed, Elaine. The children need a place to come home to."

Her anxiety. She is having an anxiety attack. Her heart is racing. Her hands are clammy. She thinks she is dying. Drowning. She runs. She runs across the street. Paul follows her. He thinks it is a joke, a game; she is running from him, wanting him to chase her.