A. Homes - Music for Torching

Sammy waves good-bye.

"Takes me an hour to get up the driveway," McKendrick says to no one in particular. "An hour, and what does it matter? I've got all day. I'm not going anywhere."

Paul takes Sammy to the edge of the schoolyard, to the fence; children stream in from all sides, moving across the playground, up the steps, and into the school, as though the building itself has magnetic pull.

"Can I have a drink of coffee before I go?" Sammy asks.

Paul hands him the cup. "I didn't know you drank coffee."

Sammy takes a sip. "Gross," he says, and then he takes a bigger gulp. "Gross, gross."

"Go to school," Paul says, taking the cup away.

"Hey, Dad," Sammy calls. "What's pins in my ass?"

"I'll tell you later."

Paul is on the train. He is on his way. He is rummaging through his briefcase, pulling out pads and papers, making plans.

He is thinking about his lunch with the date-he will work hard all morning, he will take the meetings and the calls, he will play the part of the go-getter, displaying a level of energy and enthusiasm that can't ordinarily be sustained. He will make sure that everyone sees him, that they notice how hard he's work- ing-and then he will duck out for a long lunch. He will linger in the middle of the afternoon. He is thinking about his hand slipping under Mrs. Apple's shirt, thinking about how lovely it felt to be curled tight against Elaine, with Sammy lying on top like icing on a cake. Thinking.

He is swollen with a strange sense of virtue, still so glad, so deeply relieved about the insurance. He is pleased with his efficiency, his ability to juggle everything. He is determined to pay attention to all the little details, to keep his ducks in a line.

"Fine morning," his secretary says.

"Isn't it," Paul says.

"Can I get you some coffee?"

Paul swirls his sip cup around; what's left in it sloshes. "Dump it," he says, handing it to her. "And I'll have a fresh cup."

"Doughnut?"

He shakes his head. "Pass."

"You already had a couple of calls, two hang-ups and Mr. Warburton wants to see you at ten."

"All good things," he says. "Thanks."

He goes into his office, sticks his finger into his potted plant. It's a little dry. He waters it and makes a note to ask his secretary for plant food.

He makes more notes. He drinks his coffee. "All right," he repeats to himself. "All right," as in all is good, all is right.

He calls Mrs. Apple. "You were so great last night. I just wanted to thank you."

"Did Sammy get to sleep?"

"Like a log. I just dropped him at school. And how was the rest of your night?" he asks.

"Wet," she says.

"Oh," he says. "Ohhhh, you're dirty." Mrs. Apple doesn't usually talk dirty.

"Rotten," she says, laughing. "Rotten to the core."

"You looked great in your shirt," he says.

"It's not my shirt," she says. "It's Gerald's shirt."

There is a pause.

"What about you and Nate?" Paul asks. "Back to sleep okay?"

"Nate?" "Yeah, I saw him in the window as we were pulling out."

"That's odd, I checked him when I went up-he was fast asleep."

"If I give you one of my shirts, will you sleep in it?" Paul asks.

"Does the laundry write your name on the collar?" she asks.

"I'll buy a new one," he says.

"Wear it first. Give it to me dirty."

"See you Friday."

Pat and Elaine are sitting at the kitchen table, having coffee.

They have already gone at it fast and furiously in the laundry room, with Elaine on top of the washer, clinging to the control panel as the machine frantically vibrated beneath her, whipping through the spin cycle, and then with Pat bare-assed on the dryer, tumbling, hot. Elaine remembers looking up at a shelf filled with cleaning products-Downy, Fantastik, Bon Ami-each item suddenly charged with intention, desire-housewife homoerotica.

"Has this happened before?" Elaine asks as Pat refills her coffee cup.

"Occasionally."

"It would never have occurred to me," Elaine says. "When did you think of it?" Elaine asks, as though it is some trick of the body, of the soul, that Pat has invented, as though it is something like wiggling your ears, snapping your toes, or moving one eyebrow, a kind of physical party trick.

"I've always been attracted to women," Pat says.

"So why did you marry George?"

"I've made myself a wonderful life," Pat says. "Nothing matters to me more than being normal. That's what I wanted most, a good life."

Elaine is quiet. "You're good," she says. "I love the way it feels when you touch me. Your mouth is like velvet."

Pat blushes. "Thanks. It's important to me to be good at things."

"You are, very good," Elaine says.

"I have something for you," Pat says, handing Elaine a present.

"But I have nothing for you," Elaine says.

Pat shakes her head-not to worry.

Elaine tears at the package. The wrapping is off. "How to Fix Almost Anything -a book on home repair?"

"It's my favorite," Pat says. "It's got everything from dishwashers to garage-door openers. If you can fix things, you'll feel better."

"I'll give it a try," Elaine says. "By the way, what kind of lightbulbs do you use?" She is remembering the Nielsons' house at night, flooded with fluorescence.

"Mail order. I'll give you the number. They last forever."

Paul is gathering his notes for the meeting, his lists of projects and proposals. He has collected a great pile of papers, hoping to make a show of things. He's heading down the hall.

"Where are you going?" his secretary asks.

"Warburton's," he says.

"No," his secretary says, "he's coming to you."

"Shit," Paul says, hurrying back into his office, rushing to clean his desk, to put his various piles in proper order.

This is the new power play, the home visit, the boss comes to you. Paul hates it. He likes walking down the hall, pulling himself together just outside the corner office. This new twist has a false informality that's really a move to catch someone off guard. Paul rushes. He sweeps everything off his desk and into the trash can-he will empty it later. He stuffs picture frames into his pencil drawer, cracking the glass on Elaine. A desk should be as impersonal as possible, no papers, no mementos, no giveaways.

The secretary buzzes. "He's on his way," she says. "And he's got Wilson and Herskovitz with him."

"Come in, come in," Paul says, ushering them in, like a stop on the Good Housekeeping tour, a white-glove inspection.

Warburton takes the chair just in front of the desk, and the two juniors, Wilson and Herskovitz, perch on the edge of the love seat.

"How's the house?" Warburton asks. "I heard about the fire."

"We're covered," Paul says, sitting. "Under a…a clause." He tries to get comfortable in his chair. "In fact, we're planning to take advantage of the situation and put in a deck and some French doors, do it up a bit."