A. Homes - Music for Torching

She runs faster.

"Hey, hey," he says, catching her, stopping her.

Her eyes are fierce, wild.

He pulls her toward him and holds her pressed against his body. "You're okay," he says, even though he is frightened. "It'll be okay," he says, guiding her back to their side of the street. "It's just the shock. The shock is hitting you."

Home.

Her mother's car is parked on the street. He is relieved. "Your mother is here," he says. "Everything is going to be all right."

Mother is here. Mother will take care of it. Everything will be good again. An early incantation.

"Are you going to be at work all day?" Elaine asks Paul.

"Where else would I be?" He wonders what she's getting at. Does she know that sometimes he goes places-to see people, Mrs. Apple, etc.?

"I just need to be able to reach you. What if I have a question about the house?"

"Why don't I give you Henry's cellular." He hands over the phone. "My office is on autodial. I'm auto 0–2."

"Who's auto 0–1?"

"Henry," he says. It's never occurred to him that the phone has information, things it can tell him about the date. Who's 0–3? he wonders, and 0–4, and 0–5? The memory holds 99 numbers-who's 99?

Elaine's mother is waiting on the lawn. "I've been calling you since Saturday night," the mother says. "There was never any answer. I got worried, and so I came. What happened?"

"We burned the house down," Elaine says.

"I see," the mother says. "I thought something must have happened. Your yard looks like a million people trampled through. I thought maybe you had a crazy party. Well, I tried to call," the mother says. "I needed to talk. When I talk to you, I feel better."

"It's supposed to be the other way around," Elaine says.

"Whenever I talk to your father, when I try to have a serious conversation with him, he turns on the TV. You were away."

"We had a fire," Paul says. "We're staying with friends."

"What happened to your answering machine?"

"We sold it."

"Well, I wanted your opinion. I came home the other day and your father-"

"The house burned down," Elaine says, interrupting.

"I saw. I couldn't help but notice. I walked around the back-there's a huge hole in the dining room wall."

The three of them stand on the front lawn, waiting. Paul checks his watch. "I have to go," he says.

"Guess so," Elaine says.

He gives Elaine a quick kiss on the cheek. It's the first time he's kissed her good-bye in years. "Have a nice day," he says, walking off.

"Is Paul not well?" the mother asks.

"In what way?" Elaine asks.

"What happened to his hair? He looks like he's getting chemo."

"Oh, that," Elaine says. "That's what they do. When it starts to go, they go with it. They get rid of it. Better bald than balding."

"He's a shaved fish."

"It's a control thing," Elaine says.

There's a pause.

"I was worried," the mother repeats. "I tried to call. There was no answer."

Paul walks toward the train. His mind wanders, it races. He thinks about Henry and the date; why is Henry so willing to share? He thinks about Mrs. Apple, about Sammy waving from the bus. He thinks about Pat and the pajamas and Elaine on the floor last night, pulling out a big tuft of the pink shag carpet. Fucking.

He passes house after house. From a distance Paul sees someone coming down a driveway, an old guy with a walker. He hears the wheels of the walker squeaking as if teasing. The old guy holds on tight, taking the driveway with the full concentration of a skier taking a downhill slope. Paul watches, trying to decide if the guy broke his hip, had a stroke, or both-had a stroke and fell, breaking the hip.

The man sees him, lifts his head, takes one hand off the walker, and sweeps it through the air in a large, floppy greeting.

Paul is two houses away and closing in.

"Did ya see the tatas on Miss October?" the man calls out. "Big ones. You think those were implants? Hey, what do you know about nipples? What happens to the nipples when they put in implants?" The man is shouting. His voice, cracked with age, is surprisingly strong. Embarrassed, Paul looks around; there are no people, no one can hear. He stops at the end of the driveway.

"Morning," Paul says.

"George?" the man asks, looking at him strangely, already disappointed, already almost sure that Paul is not George.

"I'm Paul."

"I thought you were someone," the man says. "I thought you were George." He leans over the walker toward Paul. "Do you know him, George Nielson?"

"This is his suit," Paul says, pulling at his lapel.

"Well, no wonder," the man says, beaming with relief. "My eyes aren't too good, but they're not too bad either. I thought you were George."

"I'm Paul."

"The fella whose house got toasted?"

"That's me."

"Good to meet you. I'm McKendrick. Walter McKendrick." They shake hands. McKendrick settles in on his walker and heads down the sidewalk with Paul. "Going to the train?"

"Yep."

"I can't stand not getting up and out first thing. Makes me feel dead. No matter what, I go out. I go down the driveway, around the block and back. Rain or shine. So, what do you know about nipples?" the old guy asks. "How do they handle that? Used to be there was no such thing as implants; you either had tits or you didn't. Now you can get 'em big as the Goodyear Blimp. They got whole magazines of big tits-George showed me."

So George has some juice in him. Thank God. Paul laughs.

"What'd you say your name was?" the old guy asks.

"Paul."

"You going to the train?"

"Yeah."

"Getting kind of a late start." The guy checks his watch. "Nine- eighteen. You won't get in before ten-thirty, quarter of eleven."

"It's the day after a holiday."

"Doesn't matter what day it is. Punctuality counts. You never caught me late for work."

Paul changes the subject. "What happened?" he asks, gesturing to the walker. "Was it an accident?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't intentional, if that's what you're getting at. Busted my ass, pardon my French, but it's true. Two years ago, Grand Central Station, I was running to catch the train home. Lost my footing, fell down a flight of marble stairs, almost did myself in. Seventy-four years old-it gave them a great excuse to put me out to pasture. I got pins in my ass now, no joking. Pins in my ass, in my hip, in my leg. It's my punishment for all the nights I worked late. I would have died at my desk if I could have. That's where my life was. That's where I was happy." They come to an incline, a long rolling hill. "I can't go down with you," McKendrick says. "Much as I might like to. I did it once and couldn't get back up. I had sit down there and wait for someone to rescue me. A lady in a station wagon brought me back up to the top. He stops. "I'm exhausted. I'm going home." He starts the slow pivot, the four-point choreographed move that turns the walker around. "Stop by sometime, I'll show you a few things. I've got quite a collection."

"I will," Paul says, waiting, feeling he should keep an eye on the old guy, make sure he crawls home safely.

"Go," McKendrick says, swatting Paul away, pushing him off. "Don't miss the train."

Paul checks his watch. It's 9:27. The train comes at 9:35. Paul still has a long way to go. The old guy is right, he can't miss the train. He can't be any later; he is already late. He starts to run.

"Atta boy," the old guy yells after him. "That's the way you do it."

Elaine and her mother go into the house.

"Open everything," her mother says, making grand gestures with the windows and doors. "It smells. It smells," she shouts as she works.

Elaine is in a daze, a stew. Has anyone ever listened to her? Has anyone ever asked what she wanted? Has she ever thought to tell? Elaine tries to open the window over the kitchen sink. She bangs on it, pounds at it. Bam! Bam! Her hand almost goes through the glass.