A. Homes - Music for Torching

Paul bangs on his chest. "Healthy like a hog," he says.

"Knock wood," Elaine says. "We have nothing to tell."

"We're incredibly boring," Paul says. "That's the fact. We even bore ourselves."

"I hope so," the agent says. "I hope that's the whole story."

The boys come running through the yard, walkie-talkies squawking. The agent crouches down to Sammy's level. "Do you like your mommy's meat loaf?" he asks. Sammy makes a face, pretending to throw up, then he burps in the investigator's face.

"He hates meat loaf," Paul says.

"Let's talk a bit about the grill?" the guy says, standing up. "Do you cook out a lot?"

"More in July and August, but it's been so warm," Paul says. "We've already been to three or four barbecues this year."

"I couldn't cook," Elaine says. "I just couldn't cook."

The men exchange winks-as if to say, Mine gets that way too. Elaine sees it and hates both of them.

"So this is the grill that failed you," the agent says, crouching over the remains. He tucks his file into his armpit and struggles to reassemble the parts. He tries to put it back together, and it keeps coming apart. "How does it go? What's the drill? She marinates and you.?"

Who squirted the stuff that soaked the coals, who lit the match, who fanned the flames, who kicked the grill and caused it to fall? Who dared do this to the house that Jack built?

"What usually happens is that I get home and everyone's starving. I take off my jacket, set up the coals, get it started, and go in and change while they're warming up." Paul shrugs. "I feel like it's all my fault."

The guy holds up his hand. "Do you leave the grill unattended?"

"What can I say?" Paul says.

"There weren't enough hot dogs," Elaine says. "There were only three franks, and there are four of us. And Paul and Daniel sometimes eat two or three apiece." Elaine keeps thinking, It's a trap. Paul is acting looser and looser with the guy, like he can say anything, as if they're buddies, having bonded on the idea that their wives won't cook. And the agent is acting friendly, giving advice, waiting for Paul to confess. Waiting for Paul to lean in and, say, ask confidentially, Suppose a fellow "accidentally" burned his own house down?

Whatta ya mean by accidentally? the agent would say.

Well, you know, had a patch of temporary insanity and set the thing on fire-what would happen then?

Suppose a fella worked for an insurance company, the guy would say, and the fella who burned his house down asked him this question. Whatta ya suppose the fella from the insurance company should think?

Elaine can hear it in her head. She sees them losing the deck, losing the French doors, the house, the kids, the car, losing the bonus prize behind door number three and going directly to jail.

"Tell us about yourself," Elaine says, changing the subject. "Where do you live?"

"We're in a condominium in Fordham-indoor garage, roof deck, health club, party room whenever you want it. A house is too much responsibility. All day I see what goes wrong. I know what happens. It's better to have nothing; that way you have nothing to lose." While he talks, he draws diagrams of the scene.

Elaine looks at his pictures; he sketches like a child: a square box, a triangle for the roof. The family is represented by stick figures; the grill looks like an armless, three-legged man. Elaine thinks of the "Can Dinky Draw?" ads on the backs of comic books. Everything is flat-he has no perspective. He has no vision.

"There's also a hole in the roof. You can see it from the bedroom," Elaine says. "We took Polaroids."

The agent draws a circle in the roof; he draws an arrow marking it and writes, "hole/roof." "I guess it was just about now-this time of day," the guy says, looking up. "Just about dinnertime."

"Just about now," Paul says, echoing him.

A horn beeps.

The phone rings. Mrs. Hansen answers it. "Hello," Elaine hears Mrs. Hansen say. "I'm sorry, they're busy now. Can I take a message?"

Kick the can. Sammy is kicking the can of charcoal-starter fluid, around the yard; the hollow, metal ka-thunk echoes. Where did he get it? Elaine remembers seeing Paul and Henry in the yard yesterday, Henry picking up the can, shaking it, and putting it in the trash. She remembers Paul emptying the trash can into the Dumpster. How did it get out again? Is this the

"stuff" Daniel was looking for? Did he give it to Sammy on purpose? What is he doing? What kind of game is this?

"Wallace, Wallace," a boy calls. The neighbors' dog comes crashing through the yard, carrying something in his mouth that looks like underpants. On his wild ride, he brushes against the grill, which the agent has finally gotten to stand; it collapses. "Wallace, Wallace." A boy chases after the dog. "Jesus Christ, Wallace, get back here. You're driving me crazy, Wallace. Do you want a cookie, a major Milk-Bone? Wallace, come home, please."

The horn beeps again.

Daniel comes into the backyard. "Mr. Meaders is here."

"I was on my way home, and thought I'd stop by and pick up Daniel-if he's ready to go," Meaders says, appearing in the backyard. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of dropping him. I hear you folks have been having some difficulties."

"We had a fire," Paul says.

"Something in the wiring?"

"An accident," Elaine says. "The grill tipped."

"These things happen," Paul says.

"Wouldn't know," the man says. "I never grill. I don't like surprises."

"I wouldn't think so," Paul says.

"You all set?" he asks Daniel. "You have your books, your homework?"

Daniel nods.

"Tell your folks good night."

"Night," Daniel says.

"Sleep well," Elaine says. "See you tomorrow."

"I hate that guy," Paul says when they are gone. The sight of his eldest son trailing off after Meaders so willingly, as though Meaders is his trainer, his guide, infuriates Paul and is disheartening as hell. "He gives me a knot in my gut. There's something about him I don't trust. What does he do for a living?" "He's some kind of tax investigator."

"Oh," Paul says. "I knew it was something."

There is a moment's silence.

"It isn't so bad," the insurance guy says, signing his forms. "I've seen worse. You wouldn't believe the idiotic things people do when they're not thinking." He pauses. "The other day I caught my wife brushing her teeth and blow-drying her hair simultaneously. One hand is under the water and the other's got the blow- dryer going. I'm afraid to touch her. 'Hey, hey,' I yell, 'you're underwater.' And she looks at me like I'm the idiot."

"So where do we go from here?" Paul asks. "What now?"

"I don't think it'll be a problem," the agent says. "I have the report, I talked to your neighbors. Anything could have happened. That damned dog could have done it, who knows? Do you know? I don't know. Therefore, I think it'll be fine."

"Does that mean you're going to pay?"

"Basically," the agent says. "You're covered under the stupidity clause."