A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Fuck Paul," Liz says, taking the Post-its, going through them as though they're a flip book, a slow-motion show of two people doing a dance. "Okay," she says. "We'll go to the paint store, we'll get chips. Definitely renovate-why just repair when you can improve? Contractor-call Ruth Esterhazy; they just did a job on their house. Yes, deck. Yes, French doors. I have a roofer, Ric. 'Ric's Roofs-We don't let it rain on you.' I'll give you his number. Measure. What are you supposed to measure?"

"I have no idea," Elaine says. "Measure up?"

"Come on, I'll drive."

"Should I ask Mrs. Hansen to join us?" Elaine whispers.

"Whatever."

"Mrs. Hansen," Elaine calls as she's getting her bag. "We're going to do a little shopping, would you like to come?"

"Oh, no," Mrs. Hansen says, stepping out from the kitchen. "You go. I'll just stay here. That painter is coming to look around. And maybe I'll do a little work in your garden, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. Should I leave you a key?"

"Oh, I don't need a key; the lock is still broken."

"Right," Elaine says. "Well, we'll see you in a little while."

As they're pulling out of the driveway, Elaine notices the cop car parked just across the street-the cop waves.

"Community service," Elaine says.

They shop. The get paint chips and a couple of quarts of colors to try out. They go to the mall in White Plains. They go in and out of the stores. Elaine starts to feel more normal, more like herself. In Nordstrom's, Liz buys a linen suit for her summer job: assistant to the assistant director at the Center for Women in the Humanities at NYU. "I thought it would give me broad expos- ure-no pun intended," Liz says. "Now I just need shoes."

Elaine motions toward the lingerie department. "I've got to pick up something," she says. "Why don't I meet you in twenty minutes?"

Elaine is looking for a nightgown for Paul. Something large, something long. Not a nightshirt, he made that clear. "Silky," he'd said. "With a little lace. I like lace, it tickles." She finds one she thinks will look good on him. "It's got to cover my ass," he'd said. "Nothing baby-doll-that makes me feel too exposed, like I'm going to get poked." She finds one for Paul and the same one for herself in a smaller size and then is looking at the bras and panties.

Panties. She never wears panties. She wears underpants-but that sounds so generic, almost medicinal, like a mustard plaster.

"Do you have these panties in black?" she asks the salesgirl.

"Are they low-cut, high-cut?" she asks when the girl brings them out.

The girl shrugs. "Depends on how you're cut."

Elaine slips into the dressing room and tries on a few things. She had sex with a woman-how could that have happened? It has the surrealistic quality of a dream. Why did she do it? Will she do it again? She doesn't think so, and yet she is shopping for lingerie-sexy things in black, things that will make her look good for Pat. Elaine studies herself in the mirror-her left breast is a third the size of the right, her pubic hair is thin. And her thighs, her thighs seem to be melting, pulling away from the bone and pouring down, dripping over her knees. She needs to get in shape, to lose a few pounds. She is looking in the mirror comparing herself to Pat. Horrified. She thought this kind of thing didn't happen between women-that's why lesbians look the way they do-they don't make comparisons.

The salesgirl stands outside the dressing room. "Can I get you anything? Do you need different sizes?"

"I'm fine," Elaine says, passing the undergarments out over the top along with her credit card. "Just ring me up."

"The grill tipped," Elaine says in the car on the way back to the house. "That's what started it."

"A Weber?"

"No, just a crappy thing we got at the grocery store last year."

"Unbelievable," Liz says. "That's what started the fire?" she asks, and Elaine wonders if Liz doesn't believe her.

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"It seems so strange," Liz says, pulling into the driveway. "What can I do? What would be helpful?"

Elaine has no answers.

"Are you all right?" Liz asks.

Elaine shakes her head no.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Liz asks. "I'm back. I can do whatever you need."

Elaine smiles. "Thanks," she says; her tone is somewhat lost, somewhat resigned. She doesn't want to go home. She is fine-or if not fine, at least better-when she is out of the house.

"What is it? You and Paul? The boys?"

Elaine can't answer. What if it's not one thing? she thinks. What if it's everything?

"I'm sorry," Liz says, sort of catching on. "I'm sorry, I always think of you as being so fantastic."

"You do?" Elaine gets out of the car. Her head is a sour soup, a confit of confusion.

IT IS A PERFECT JUNE DAY, the sky is a hearty blue, the trees are freshly green, the air is cool and sweeps over Elaine's skin, drawing her out of herself and into the day.

It is the kind of afternoon that people notice. They look up at the sky and say, "What a blue," and, "You ought to get out- side-it'd be a shame not to." "Enjoy!" they implore each other. It is the kind of a day that brings on a good mood; the air is pregnant with promise.

She is in a whirl, a dizzying spin.

It is Elaine, all Elaine. The darkness, the rot is inside her, like poison, consuming her-death eating flesh.

With a terrific echoey bang, Daniel pops up out of the Dumpster like a jack-in-the-box unsprung. "Where have you been?" he demands. "You're late. You're always home when we get here."

A startled shout escapes Elaine. "What are you doing? Are you stuck? Did you fall in? Is this some sort of a game?"

"I was looking for something," Daniel says as he starts to climb out.

"What would be in the Dumpster?" "Stuff," he says, crawling out over the top, lowering himself to a stepladder he's parked alongside.

"So where were you?" Daniel asks again. He rolls down the sleeves of a white dress shirt that Elaine has never seen before.

"I was with Liz, if you must know."

"Oh," he says, buttoning the cuffs. "I thought maybe you'd gone off somewhere."

"Like where?"

"Dunno, somewhere."

"Why would you think that?" she asks, sensing his suspicion, his constant disappointment in her.

He shrugs.

"Where's Sammy?"

"Inside."

"And Mrs. Hansen?"

"Right here, never fear," Mrs. Hansen says, coming around the corner of the house, rubbing her hands together. Her hands are a rich dark brown to the wrist; it looks as if she's wearing leather driving gloves. Her apron is muddy. "Don't say it, don't say it," she says, waving away Elaine's stare. "Use a trowel, that's what everyone says, get a good gardening outfit, but this is how I like it. I like getting down in the dirt, in deep with the worms, et cetera, et cetera," she says, her speech ever so slightly slurred. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" She holds her face up to the sky. "Glorious," she says.

The boys are home. Mrs. Hansen is home. The yard is hardening, pulling itself back together, forming a firm and crusty surface. The world has held its shape. Everything is as it was. Elaine is both comforted and disconcerted. She is glad things are the same, but it throws into relief how very strange she's feeling-there is an enormous distance, an unbridgeable electromagnetic force field between Elaine and everyone else.