A. Homes - Music for Torching

Pat and George are nowhere to be seen.

"You're late," the little M says. "You missed dinner."

"We called," Elaine says.

"You're in trouble."

Paul and Elaine stand paralyzed in the front hall, the front door still open, the black night still available to them.

Pat appears, a laundry basket tucked into her hip. "I was just folding," she says. "Have you been here long?"

The sight of Pat sends a hot red rush through Elaine, pooling in her crotch. For a second Elaine thinks she has had an accident, she thinks she has wet her pants. She clenches her legs together. And prays.

"Are we intruding?" Paul asks.

"Oh, no, not at all. Not at all. Come in, come in."

The door slams shut.

"I wonder where George is?" Pat says. "Must be in the basement. Deaf and dumb when he's down there. How'd it go with the insurance guy?"

Elaine is speechless, stupefied, swooning, scared. She puts down her bags.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am," Paul says.

"Well, I hope you're still hungry," Pat says. "I bet you forgot what night it is. Remember the little quiz this morning-your favorite foods? Wednesday is grab bag-I kept it warm."

"I'm so sorry," Elaine blurts. Her discomfort is enormous. She imagines running for the bathroom, throwing up, fainting, or somehow impaling herself on Pat.

"We're idiots," Paul says. "Irresponsible, ungrateful idiots."

"Leave it," Pat says, taking them into the kitchen. "You're here now, that's what counts. And I bet you're starving. You didn't eat, did you?"

"Not a bite," Elaine says, hoping Pat doesn't smell the Chinese on them.

"Starving," Paul says, rubbing his gut. "Faint from hunger."

He smiles conspiratorially at Elaine. She can't look at him.

Pat has set two places at the kitchen table. Napkins artfully folded into flowers bloom in the water glasses.

"So incredibly thoughtful," Elaine says, overcome with guilt for not having called, for everything.

Pat leans over the table and lights the candles. "Sit," she says, pulling out a chair. Her hand brushes against Elaine's, and again there is an intense flash of heat.

Paul takes the seat.

"Sit," Pat says again, pulling out the other chair. Pat ties on an apron and begins bringing things out of the ovens, announcing the origin of each item as she puts it on the table. "Fried chicken-a cornflake/buttermilk dip; the recipe is from Margaret's Brownie leader. Brussels sprouts-that's George. Mashed pota- toes-that's one of yours," she says to Paul. "And asparagus-for you," she says to Elaine. "I did it with some Pecorino melted across the top, hope you like it like that-cheese on top. And, of course, a salad."

"My God," Paul says. "My God," he repeats. "This is impressive." "My God" is something Paul has never said before; it is the phrase his father used when he had no idea what to say.

Elaine is practically in tears. She slips a brussels sprout into her mouth. "Delicious," she says, and then remembers that "delicious" is what Pat called her this morning on the kitchen floor. Elaine blushes.

She has let herself take a lover. Her lover is serving her dinner, while her husband looks on. Her head is throbbing, buzzing from the MSG, her lip quivering. She remembers hearing that if you drink milk with Chinese food, that doesn't happen.

"Have you got any milk?" she asks.

"Of course," Pat says, bringing her a glass.

The light above the kitchen table is on, and the candles are burning, the effect a cross between a romantic dinner for two (or three) and an interrogation.

"What's your favorite food?" Paul asks Pat.

He is being a good guest. On a full stomach, he is eating dinner again. Elaine looks at Paul and feels herself genuinely warm toward him. Her husband and her lover.

"Oh, I like just about everything," Pat is saying.

"Your absolute most favorite food?" Paul says.

"I guess, my favorite food, is well.iceberg lettuce," Pat says. "It's nothing, but I love it. Give me an iceberg lettuce salad, with fresh tomatoes, onions, croutons, and I'm in heaven. There it is. Iceberg lettuce."

There is silence. There is nothing to say.

"My God," Paul says again.

"Delicious," Elaine repeats.

"Pat! Pat!" George's voice bellows from deep inside the house. It is stern and unpleasant.

"Excuse me," Pat says, taking off her apron, hanging it on a hook by the door. The kitchen door swings closed behind her.

Elaine is thinking of Pat, Pat on the kitchen floor, her robe opening, the morning light.

"Thank God we had Chinese," Paul says. "I was actually getting a little hungry." He plucks a couple of sprouts from Elaine's plate and then asks if he can suck on her chicken bones.

"Isn't it enough already?" She begins clearing the table, carrying dishes to the sink, moving as if dancing, her body searching for points of contact, for the press of Pat.

Paul sits at the table.

"You could help me," Elaine spits.

There are words in the background. George losing his temper. The little M's crying. Because it is so unexpected, so un- George-like, it is terrifying.

Elaine panics. She confesses, "It's all my fault. I didn't call. I got busy. I got caught up in things. I was with Liz, and then the children were home, and then the agent, and then you."

"Everything is not about us," Paul says. "People have their own problems."

And for the first time Elaine and Paul are glad they are not Pat and George, they are glad that the two howling little MM's aren't their children-it is all too hard, too much to live up to.

Pat pushes back through the kitchen door.

"Is everything all right?" Elaine asks.

"We all have our moments," Pat says, peeling aluminum foil off a baking pan and turning to Paul. "For dessert we have your favorite food-yellow cake with chocolate icing. Can I get you coffee or tea?"

"You really are something special," Paul tells Pat as she eases a huge piece of cake onto a plate.

Elaine can tell that Paul means it, and she's pleased.

"Cake?" Pat asks Elaine. Elaine shakes her head no.

Elaine is in the bathroom, chewing a short stack of Tums and brushing her teeth.

Pat slips in. "I had to wait until they went to bed."

"I feel terrible," Elaine says, lathering her face.

"Why?"

"Dinner. Everything." She looks up, making eye contact in the mirror. "Does George know?"

"Of course not, why would he?"

"The fight."

"The girls didn't get into Hanford; he's annoyed. He thinks they don't work hard enough-it's crazy."

Pat takes Elaine's damp face in both hands and kisses her. They fall back against the vanity. Out of the corner of her eye, Elaine watches herself in the mirror-she has never seen two women kiss before.