A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Good morning," his secretary says.

"Morning," he says, his tongue tasting the hazelnut afterburn of the joe that the jerk at the Terminal Bakery poured him. His stomach is starting to gnaw, to chew on itself.

"Can I get you anything?" his secretary asks. "Cup of coffee?"

"How about something solid," he says, "something like a roll?"

"A doughnut?" she says. "I saw a big box of doughnuts in the kitchen this morning. Krispy Kreme."

She brings him a doughnut on a paper napkin and sets it on the edge of his desk. It has been glazed, dipped to a dull shine, doused in a white icing, splashed with brightly colored jimmies, a visual antidepressant that a four-year-old would find appealing. He goes at it and then licks the crackly glaze off his fingers. He is sick. He is stoned. He checks his watch: 8:57. Off to a good start.

Elaine is awake. She is embarrassed to have slept late. She lies in the bed, feeling the strange absence of her morning panic-a panic she didn't know was panic, until now. Usually Elaine wakes with the full force of a high-voltage electrical shock. She is ejaculated from the bed, thrown down the hall to Daniel's room, to Sammy's room, rebounding back to Paul, then bounced down the steps to the kitchen, to the coffeemaker, the orange juice, the toaster tarts, lunch money, permission slips, pushing and packing to have the three of them out the door before seven forty-five.

She breathes deeply.

How are you? she asks herself.

Fine.

It's interesting, this absence of anxiety. She didn't wake up whistling, but it's okay, things are not so terrible. She has the feeling things are possible; there's room for improvement.

And she is actually thinking-not worrying, not racing-thinking. She is thinking that what she has to do now is get up, get dressed, and go home. She has to fix the house, fix herself, and focus on what comes next. She has to plan for the future. And she has to call her friend Liz-she meant to do it last night, but felt funny calling from Pat's house, like she was cheating on someone-she didn't know who.

She glances across the room. Paul made his bed. He hung up George's suit. Looking down the length of the bed, she notices that the blanket is dotted with Post-its. Elaine is decorated with notes from Paul, each one with a message, something to do: Pick paint. Repair or renovate? Contractor. Do you want a deck? Roofer-ask Pat. French doors? Make dinner plans. The car is for you-keys on the dresser. Insurance company will come. Measure.

It is as though he couldn't contain himself, as though he had to relieve himself before leaving for work.

Elaine gets out of bed, carefully collecting the Post-its and putting them in a pile. She makes the bed, brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and washes her face. The house is quiet. She puts the Post-its in her pocket and slides into a clean white shirt that Pat pressed for her yesterday. Elaine's plan is to go into the kitchen, have a quick cup of coffee, and then go home.

"Wash your bowl," she remembers Paul saying as they were going to sleep. Wash your bowl. He was going on about some- thing-a man on the train who had kissed him and then told him to clean up his room. Was Paul talking or dreaming? Elaine wonders.

Pat is in the kitchen. She is on the phone and also ironing. "Eight-four-nine-oh-X Azalea in a medium," she says, spraying starch on a shirt.

"Good morning," she whispers to Elaine.

"Seven-four-oh-seven-Y, two size smalls, one Tangerine, one Pistachio, and if you've got it, a four-three-oh-six-A in Sapphire."

"Morning," Elaine says.

Pat smiles. "Is there a belt for that? Something brown would be perfect," she tells the operator.

"I have big feet," she whispers to Elaine. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very," Elaine says.

The coffeepot is on. Elaine pours herself a cup and leans against the counter. Pat is still in her robe. Her hair is a mess. On the table is a bowl of pineapple slices, left over from the night before-no muffins, no warm morning pastries, no fresh-baked bread. Elaine checks the clock-10:00 A.M.How odd. Pat in her robe, Pat serving leftovers. If Pat can't keep it together, who can?

Pat is smiling at Elaine, practically grinning. Why?

"What?" Elaine asks.

"You're so lovely," Pat says, and Elaine isn't sure if Pat is talking to her or the woman on the phone.

"No four-three-oh-six-A in Sapphire? Well, do you have it in Ruby?"

The kitchen table is stacked with how-to books, fix-it manuals, handy, helpful hints. There's a big fat one opened to the page on clothes dryers. Elaine sits down with her coffee and begins reading the part about testing the switches: "Set VOM on RX 100; clip probes on leads, look for moderate resistance.."

In the background Pat is placing another call-she's ordering lamb. "Page forty-three. Could I have three racks and then one leg?"

Elaine had never heard of anyone having meat mailed to them.

"And page fourteen, the cans of colored sugar, one set."

"For decorating cookies," she whispers to Elaine.

"Ummmm," Elaine says.

"Over the phone. Door-to-door. Hardware, underwear, shoes, food, everything," Pat says as she's hanging up. "It saves me so much time." Pat sprays starch on the last of the shirts and digs in, wrestling the wrinkles.

"I slept late," Elaine says sheepishly.

"Every day isn't perfect," Pat says. "Some days start strangely."

Is that why she's still in her robe? Should Elaine ask more?

Pat taps the repair book Elaine's been looking at. "My favorite," she says.

"I thought George was Mr. Fix-it," Elaine says.

"George couldn't fix his way out of a cardboard box. He's not mechanically competent," Pat says.

"I never would have known."

"Life's little secrets." Pat sits down next to Elaine. "Looks like I'm going to have to replace an idler pulley on the dryer. And I'll probably go ahead and do the drum belt as long as I'm in there. It's pretty well worn. Twelve years already. Can you believe that? You can't control everything."

Elaine has no idea what Pat is talking about. She sips her coffee while Pat studies the diagram. As she reaches across the table for the newspaper, the coffee sloshes, it splashes onto Elaine's clean white shirt. "Shit," she says, jumping up, running to the sink, blotting it with a kitchen sponge.

"Take it off," Pat says.

"I'm not dressed," Elaine says, pulling the stained fabric away from her skin-she's braless.

Pat takes something out from under the sink, squirts it directly onto the shirt, and rubs thoroughly with her bare hand. The spot disappears. "Will you let me iron it?" Pat asks.

Elaine hesitantly unbuttons the shirt and slips it off.

Pat moves to the ironing board to press the blouse dry. Steam rises from under the iron. Goose bumps come up on Elaine's skin. She crosses her arms over her chest.

Pat holds the shirt open for Elaine, like a bullfighter's cape. Toro.

"Thanks," Elaine says, sliding her arm in.

There's something delicious about the shirt, crisp, bright white against her skin. The cotton is hot on the spot where the coffee spilled, the place where Pat worked it. Hot against cold. Elaine closes her eyes and lets the warmth soak in. "Thanks," she says again.

Pat is moving in a slow circle around Elaine, lifting Elaine's hair out from inside the neck of the blouse.

Something brushes against Elaine's neck. What? What was that? A prickly tingle. Elaine turns toward it, turning toward the trouble, wanting to see what's what. It's Pat. Pat kissing her. Pat kisses her again. Pat kisses her on the lips. "Ummmmm, ummm," Pat murmurs.

A whirl, a dizzying spin.

The purple press of Pat's lips is insistent and sure. Pat is kissing her, and Elaine isn't sure why. She pulls back and looks at Pat. Pat's eyes are closed, her face a dissolve coming at Elaine again. Elaine turns slightly to the side, avoiding her. The kiss lands on Elaine's cheek. Pat's eyes blink open-baffled. Something. Guilt. Confusion. Elaine can't think, can't see, can't breathe, but she doesn't want to give Pat the wrong idea, she doesn't want to say no, she doesn't want Pat to be hurt. Elaine kisses Pat.