A. Homes: Music for Torching

She begins to cry. "I'm bored," she says. "I'm so bored, it's not even funny." She digs her fingers into his back; her nails sink into his flesh and stay there.

"I'm unhappy," he says, still humping her. His few remaining strands of hair come unglued and fall forward, hanging in his face. He stops humping her for a moment, flips them back, then starts humping her again. "I'm unbelievably unhappy," he says loudly and begins to cry.

They stop fucking.

They don't finish, they simply stop.

"Remember when we smoked the crack?" he says. "Right here in this living room. You were the fountain, the fountain in front of the Plaza hotel? You were a Roman candle. What could we do now that would be like that?"

"Nothing," she says. "There's nothing we can do."

"Do you want a drink?" he asks her.

"No," she says. "Nothing."

"Have you had enough?" he asks, rolling off her.

They are both crying.

Sunday morning, Paul is in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror again. He looks at his hair. He takes Elaine's nail scissors and cuts it all off. Embarrassed, liberated, gleeful like a little kid, he runs his hand over his head. He is ruining something, actively destroying it. He hasn't felt this powerful in years.

All the neatly combed strands are gone. He squirts Barbasol over his head; he looks like a transvestite wearing a bathing cap. He scrapes the razor over his scalp, round and round he goes. Paul finishes, thinking he looks better, healthier, more accepting of what he's become.

"Damn it," Elaine shouts. "Damn it to hell." She has tripped on a loose board on the stairs, spilling clean clothing down the stairs.

Paul comes out of the bedroom. "What happened?" he asks. All of the clothing has been dyed pink on account of a red shirt that was mixed in with everything.

"Fucking floor," Elaine says, collecting the clothes, handing Paul his pink underwear. Then she notices his shaved head. "What the hell were you thinking?" she asks.

"I'm equal to it," he says. He looks at his underwear. "You're crazy," he says. "You can't even do the laundry."

"So fire me," Elaine says, going down the hall to wake Sammy and Daniel.

"I'm not wearing this underwear, and I'm not going to soc- cer-and you can't make me," Daniel says.

"Fine," she says. "Don't go to soccer, don't wear any underwear either. It's your life. I'm only your mother."

Paul leaves for the father/son soccer soiree with Sammy, promising to stop at the five-and-ten and buy new underwear on the way.

"But I like pink, pink is good, pink is pretty," Sammy insists.

"I don't care what you like," Paul says. "What you like doesn't matter here, it's what's good for you. Pink is not good for you."

"Don't worry," Elaine's mother says. She sits at the kitchen table, checking her reflection in a kitchen knife. "It happens." The mother tilts the knife back and forth, making strange, exaggerated expressions with her eyes and mouth. She puts the knife down. "It happened to your father and me. And we survived."

"What did you do?" Elaine asks.

"We went to Italy," the mother says. She finishes her coffee, draws a breath, and clasps her hands together. "Time for me to get myself together and go home."

"You're leaving already?"

"Your father is lost without me."

"But I thought we might be able to spend some time together," Elaine says.

"You'll be fine," the mother says.

Elaine starts to say something, but the mother holds up her hand like a stop sign, silencing her. "You'll be fine," she says again. "I'm telling you."

"But, Mama," Elaine says. "Mama."

"Elaine," the mother says, getting up from the kitchen table, "grow up."

The mother has come, the mother has gone; everything is the same as it was. She didn't make it all right again-she was no help at all.

The telephone rings. Elaine answers it; the caller hangs up.

Elaine goes from room to room, thinking she should clean, she should dust, she should vacuum. Elaine thinks she should

sit down, make some calls; she should get the dishwasher repaired, the disposal replaced, the leak under the sink fixed, oven tested, shower regrouted, floorboard fixed, house painted. She should go to the nursery and buy flowers for outside. She should clean out all the closets and give away what they don't need anymore.

Sunday-the day of rest-Elaine goes from room to room lying on every bed, sitting in every chair, room to room, thinking. Upstairs, downstairs. Faster, faster. She makes mental notes: what is missing, absent, or in need of attention.

She makes notes until she feels sick, then she goes downstairs, opens the refrigerator to get a drink. The bulb blows out while she is trying to decide what she wants. It is enough. More than enough. She goes outside and sits on the steps. She can't go back in the house. She can't go in the house again.

She sits on the steps. The air is thick. A neighbor, whose son died long ago, comes collecting for the Kidney Foundation. "It's too soon for this," he tells her, gesturing to the invisible air. "Hot, humid, and it's only the beginning of June."

Daniel comes out of the house; Elaine had forgotten he was home.

"I'm bored," he says. "And there's nothing to eat. All the caviar is gone."

"Go to your friend Willy's," she says. "You'll get there just in time for lunch."

"Fine," he says defiantly. "I will," and he heads off down the driveway.

Elaine sits on the steps all day. She sits until Daniel comes home.

"Go in and bring me a Coke, will you?" she asks Daniel, and he does, delivering the ice-cold can apparently without noticing that the refrigerator light is out.

He drags a beach chair out of the garage and sets it up for her. She lies down in the backyard.

Elaine hears the car door slam, as Paul and Sammy return. Paul goes into the house, makes himself a drink.

"You want one?" he yells out the kitchen window.

"Please," she says.

He comes out into the yard, drinks in hand. He takes off his shoes and socks. He wiggles his feet in the grass.

"I can't cook dinner," she says. "I just can't do it."

"We'll grill," he says. "We'll just slap everything on the grill."

She doesn't say more. It's Sunday night, a holiday weekend, the beginning of summer. They have their drinks and they have more drinks. The bleating bellow of mothers calling their children home echoes up and down the street. "Wendy, Jonathan, Danielle, Michael, dinner's ready." Elaine's stomach growls; she hasn't eaten since breakfast. Paul sets up the grill-a little too close to the house, Elaine thinks, but she doesn't say anything. He lights the coals.

"I don't think you realize what I'm saying," Elaine says. "I can't do it anymore."

"What do you want to do about it?" Paul asks.

"Where are the children?"

"In the front yard."

Elaine and Paul are silent, listening for Sammy and Daniel's game. The static of the children's walkie-talkies cuts through the air.

"What are you wearing?" Daniel squawks.

"Blue shorts," Sammy squawks back.

"And what color are your socks?"

"Mine are red," Sammy says, and then, as if they know the parents are listening, the children begin beeping each other with the Morse-code button, talking in an unintelligible language of longs and shorts, dots and dashes.

Paul picks up the can of charcoal-starter fluid and squirts it against the house. "Is this what you want?" he asks.

Elaine sucks in her breath; she can't tell if Paul is joking or not.

"Tell me," he says, emptying the can against the house, spraying a swath over the grass, a line that leads straight to the grill. "You have to tell me."

"I don't know," Elaine says.

The briquettes are almost ready; the coals are orange-edged, glowing. Elaine goes to Paul, puts her arm around Paul's waist. She balances herself, then raises her leg, her foot, her toe, and taps her toe against the leg of the grill.