A. Homes - Music for Torching

Elaine checks the Polaroid-it's coming out dark, with a spot of light in the middle. "Maybe you'd better take another shot," she says.

"Do we have any Ziploc bags?" Daniel asks.

"For what?" Elaine asks.

"Something."

"Something like what?" Paul asks.

"Do we have any?" Daniel asks.

"If we do, they're in the drawer downstairs next to the aluminum foil."

"I already looked there."

"Then we don't have any."

"Could you get me some?"

"Your wish is my command," Elaine says. "What size?"

Daniel shrugs "Medium, I guess."

Paul stands on the bed, aims at the roof, and clicks again. "On my way home, I saw a squirrel get run over," Paul says.

"Should we get a ladder and try to stuff it, in case it rains?" Elaine says.

"Stuff it before it rains?" Paul asks. "The squirrel?"

"The hole."

"No," he says, stepping down off the bed. "Let's just move the bed. What time do we have to be at Pat and George's?"

"Seven."

"We'd better get going. I need clean clothes," Paul says.

"I did laundry."

"Good." They push the bed out of the way.

Elaine packs the bag to take to Pat and George's, wondering, are they moving in or are they moving out?

On their way out the door Paul remembers the Life Savers in his pocket. "Hey, come here for a minute," he says, gesturing to Elaine and the boys. This is all he has to offer them, and it is nothing-stale candy, a desperate attempt to win them back. He steps into the half bath by the kitchen door.

"Into the bathroom?" Daniel asks.

"Yes."

"All of us?" Elaine asks.

"Yes."

They crowd in. Sammy stands on the toilet-seat lid. Paul pulls down the window shade. "Close the door," he instructs Elaine. "I heard something once; I just want to see if it's true." He throws a few disks of Wint-O-Green into his mouth. "Watch for sparks," he says, rolling his lips back and crunching down, teeth bared. He has a split second to charm them.

Sparks fly.

"Wow," Sammy says.

"Weird, really weird," Daniel says.

"How'd you do it?" Elaine asks.

Paul passes out the rest of the roll, and they all crunch down, and their mouths light up like little sparklers, a spray of glittering phosphorescence. It's Paul's moment to feel like a father, it's the first thing they've done as a family in a really long time, and it's perfect; no heat, no flame, no risk of injury.

"Pretty great," Elaine says, stepping out of the bathroom.

"Weird, really weird," Daniel says again.

"Have a lovely evening," Mrs. Hansen says. "See you tomorrow."

In the car, buoyed by the success of the Life Saver display, Paul throws out an idea. "How would it be if one night this week the four of us went out for dinner, someplace nice?"

"Why?" Daniel asks.

"So your mother and I don't get lonely."

"You'd better check with the Meaderses," Daniel says. "They're very organized about things."

"Should I call what's-her-name?" Elaine turns to Sammy. "What's Nate's mother's name?"

"Mom?" Sammy says.

Daniel hits him. "Butt plug."

"Help me, what's her name?" Elaine asks Paul.

"Susan," he says. "I'll ask her when we drop Sam." It's a convenient excuse to get out of the car, to talk to her-Nate's mom, Susan, Mrs. Apple. Paul pulls into the driveway and toots the horn.

The front door opens. The hall light frames Mrs. Apple's head like a halo. Glorious dinner smells waft out into the twilight. Paul fights the urge to push Sammy out of the way, to run into the house, slam the door behind him, lock it, bolt it, wedge a chair up against it, and hold his fingers over his head in an X, a cross protecting him from Elaine, from his children, from his life.

He wants to go home. He wants to rest. He wants the comfort of a bosom that expects nothing of him. He wants his mother.

"I missed you today," he says to Mrs. Apple.

"My time is not my own," she says, annoyed. "I called you."

"Did you get my message?" he asks.

"I did," she says, putting her hand on Sammy's shoulder, bringing him into the house. "I drive car pool tomorrow."

"Does that mean no?" he asks.

"It means I haven't figured it out. I'll call you," she says, closing the door.

"Night, Dad," Sammy says through the crack.

Paul walks back to the car. It's getting dark, that odd hour when earth and sky merge, when it's hard to see clearly.

"What night did she say would be good for dinner?" Elaine quizzes.

"I forgot to ask," Paul says, backing out of the driveway.

"What were you talking about?"

"Would you like me to turn around and go back?"

"No. You can call her tomorrow," Elaine says.

"Fine."

They pull into the Meaderses' driveway.

"Don't forget my Ziplocs," Daniel instructs Elaine. "And I might need a few other things, supplies and stuff," he says, getting out of the car.

"No doubt you'll let me know," Elaine says. "Have a good night. Do your homework."

"And don't forget to find out what night is good for dinner, or your mother will kill you," Paul says.

They are on their own, on the road to Pat and George's. They ride in silence-not the steely silence of anger or the censored silence of frustration, but the simple silence of a pause, a moment alone, a quiet calm.

When they get to Pat and George's, the lights are all on,

the house is filled with music. Pat and George and the two little M's are dancing around in costumes of the islands with plastic leis around their necks.

"Tuesday-night dinners are theme nights. We put on a show, and between courses we dance," George says. "You're a few minutes late, we started without you."

One of the little M's offers them pineapple cubes on toothpicks, while the other M takes center stage in the middle of the living room.

"She's been rehearsing all afternoon," Pat whispers.

"Tonight we're doing South Pacific," George says. And as if playing ringtoss, he throws plastic leis over Paul's and Elaine's heads. Elaine stands holding the bag she packed at home, feeling like a traveler who got off at the wrong stop.

The little M opens her mouth. "'If they asked me, I could write a book,'" she croons.

They can't compete. Paul and Elaine's few good mo- ments-Mrs. Hansen's tea party in the backyard, Paul and Elaine lying on the bed looking up at the hole, the glow-in-the-dark Life Savers in the bathroom-their tiny flickers of hope can't go up against the Nielsons' full-scale production. Paul and Elaine are back to square one.

Elaine looks at Pat, thinking she must have had a very different day. Elaine is exhausted-the afternoon felt three weeks long-and Pat is exuberant, sitting on the sofa with her two little girls, pantomiming "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair."

"We're always doing things like this to keep from getting bored," George says. "That's how you conquer it, head it off at the pass."

The girls do their song and dance, and dinner is served on trays in the living room-something hot and sour and poi, "which is made from taro roots," one of the M's explains. And the show goes on.

PAUL IS UP EARLY. He is out of his nightgown, into his suit, and out the door. "I have to get to the office," he whispers in Elaine's ear.

"Are you talking in your sleep?"

"No, I'm all dressed, I'm ready to go."

"Have a nice day," she says, rolling away from him.

"I have to get to the office," Paul says again as he passes Pat in the hall.

Pat is in her robe, unkempt, uncollected, not at all her usual self, who by now would be dressed, set, made for the day.

Paul checks his watch. "It's seven A.M.," he says, figuring if he hurries, if he keeps to it, he can make the 7:33-it's mostly downhill from Pat and George's.