A. Homes - Music for Torching

Off the train. Paul lunges for the pay phone. He dials 0 and waits. "I need to reverse the charges," he tells the operator when she finally answers.

"I don't know what that means. Do you want to make a collect call?"

"Yes. Yes," he says.

"Moment, please." An automated voice comes on. "At the sound of the beep, please say your name."

"Paul," he says.

"Paul" echoes back in his ear

"Please hold."

There is a delay. Paul watches the taxis load up and speed off.

He hears the phone ringing, he hears the sound of his secretary's voice mail: "I'm not at my desk right now, but if you'd like to leave a message." The oblivious automated voice announces, "You have a collect call from…'Paul.'" Paul hears the sound of his own voice. "Say yes or press 'one' to accept the charges," the digital idiot drones.

He hangs up. He dials again, this time trying the extension of one of the men down the hall. Again voice mail. He tries another fellow, voice mail. He tries his secretary again. She must have taken advantage of his going home to go home herself; maybe that's why she told him not to come back. He dials fast and furiously, trying every extension he can think of until finally he calls Warburton's office; Warburton's secretary answers.

"Oh, thank God, a real person," he says. "It's Paul, Paul Weiss."

"Yes," she chimes, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm sick. I had to leave early. I've been trying to get my secretary on the phone." He babbles. On and on.

"Don't you worry," Warburton's secretary says, "I'll go right down there. I'll take care of it. Personally."

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"You get well soon," she says, hanging up.

Again, he is relieved.

The sky is dark. The station is entirely empty; no taxis have returned. An odd and urgent breeze blows. Paul walks. He walks as if ducking, dashing from safe spot to safe spot, playing hide- and-go-seek, not wanting to be caught out in the open when the storm hits. Whenever he moves, his clothing scrapes his bandage, the pain makes him unsteady, his stomach rolls, his vision thins. He wonders if the tattoo might spread, if too much activity might cause the simple line, the delicate arc of ivy, to mutate, to smear, expanding into an inky-faced monster.

The sky is blacker still. The leaves turn up, flickering nervously. There is the rumble of thunder. Everything is happening at a strange pace, there is the sense of impending disaster. Paul may not make it home. There's a little hut in the playground where you go to sign up for courts and basketball games. He sees it up ahead. He aims for it. He is off the sidewalk and onto the grass, running. More thunder.

There is a pay phone at the hut. Paul will call Elaine-it is safe to call Elaine now, he is on terra firma, he is in the neighborhood, he has calmed down, and besides, he has no choice. He will call Elaine, and Elaine will come and get him. Everything will be all right.

"You have a collect call from…'Paul.'"

"Paul?" she asks quizzically.

"Say yes," Paul says.

"Say yes or press the number 'one' to accept the charges," the now insanely familiar voice goes on.

"Yes," she says.

"Elaine? Elaine, I don't think I can make it home," Paul says breathlessly.

"Are you all right? You sound strange."

"I'm at the park. I had a bad day, kind of an accident." He stops. "Can you come and get me and take me home?"

"Come and get you? Take you home?"

"Yes. I just told you, I had a really bad day."

"Paul, where are you? What kind of an accident? What park are you in?"

He's watching some kids continuing to play tennis despite the oncoming storm. "This is so weird," he says. "I think I see Daniel. Does Daniel have a tennis racket?"

"Paul, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

"It's Daniel," Paul says. "I see Daniel. I'll call you back." He hangs up. Two boys are coming off the tennis courts, looking up at the sky. "Daniel?" Paul calls.

Thunder. Lightning.

The boys walk toward him, looking at him blankly. "Dad?" Daniel finally says.

Paul nods.

"What are you doing here? Are you following me?"

"I'm going home," Paul says.

"Is it the right time for you to be going home?"

"I can go home whenever I want; I'm an adult. Why are you here?" Paul asks. "That's the big question. Why aren't you in school?"

"School gets out at three-thirty," Daniel says.

"Hi, Mr. Weiss," the other boy says.

"Hi, Willy," Paul says.

"And what are you doing now?" Paul asks Daniel.

"Scout meeting," Daniel says.

"My father is troop leader," Willy says. "On Wednesdays he comes home early to lead us. Today we're making plaster casts."

Willy's awful father is the man Paul can't stand, the guy who picked Daniel up at the house, the deputy head of the New York tax department.

"Since when have you been a Boy Scout?" Paul asks Daniel. He has no memory of Daniel's being a Scout. "Don't you have to be a Cub Scout first?"

"Since I've been at Willy's house," Daniel says.

"So, all week?" Paul says.

"You can join at any time," Willy says.

Paul wants to say, Your mother and I don't believe in

Scouts, we think they're a right-wing cult. We don't believe in anything where you have to wear a uniform. This is what we marched for in the 1960s-the right not to have to do this. Paul wants to explain to Daniel that it's not cool to be a Scout, it's nerdy as hell. And Daniel is too weird and too mean to be a Scout. Scouts are good-natured, they are honest and trustworthy, they help little old ladies across the street, he wants to say; you're not like that.

"Did you tell your mother?" Paul asks.

"Yes," Daniel says. "After the meeting I'm supposed to go home, and then Jennifer is taking Sammy and I to the school fair."

"Me," he says. "Sammy and me."

"Yeah," Daniel says.

"My father was an Eagle Scout," Willy says.

"Oh, oh." Paul suddenly runs away, ducks behind the little tennis hut, and throws up again. He comes back. "I'm sick," he says. "I came home early because I'm sick."

"Am I supposed to do something?" Daniel asks.

"Like what?" Paul asks. He sits on the curb, head between his knees.

"My mom will be here in a minute," Willy says.

"I'll be fine," Paul says.

The wind is quickening.

"I hope we don't have a tornado," Willy says.

"There are very few tornadoes in Westchester County," Paul says.

"Where did you learn to play tennis?" he asks Daniel, making conversation to distract himself from the nausea, from the odd sensation that something wet, like blood, is trickling down his leg.

"You taught me, a long time ago, remember?"