A. Homes - Music for Torching

Sammy picks up two cookies. "This is the good man and this is the bad man," he says, knocking them against each other.

"And the only way to kill the bad man is to eat him." He takes a bite out of the wrong one.

Elaine presses her head against Sammy's chest. "Deep breath," she says, listening. "And another," she says. "Good. Very good."

"It's just like show-and-tell," Mrs. Hansen says. "Sammy made cookies, Paul and Jennifer painted a picture, Elaine bought a tool, and." She turns to Daniel. "And did you make a paperweight in arts and crafts?" She looks down at the white lump Daniel is holding.

He looks at her as if she's an idiot. "It's a mold," he says. "A plaster cast of my left hand."

"It's very handsome," Mrs. Hansen says.

"It isn't about looks, it's about proof. You can make a mold of tire tracks so you can find out what kind of a car got away. You can make a mold of anything."

"How exciting," Mrs. Hansen says.

Daniel shrugs. "It's just a piece of the puzzle."

Mrs. Hansen checks her watch. "Best to go," she says. "Time to feed my hubcap."

"Hubcap?" Paul asks.

"Mr. Hansen," she says.

"You should bring him over for dinner one night soon," Paul says.

"Not so soon," Mrs. Hansen says. "We chopped up your dining room table this afternoon. God, it was fun. Whack. Whack." She demonstrates the motion of the ax.

"I had the sense something was different," Paul says.

The president of the yellow suits steps into the kitchen. He pulls off his helmet and holds it tucked into his hip, like an actor coming out of character to take a bow. He stands in front of them, posed-I am not a smart person, but I play one on TV.

"We're just finishing up," he says. "Disconnecting the hoses, packing up our brushes and sweepers. You'll notice a difference right away, but I find that the full effect usually takes twenty-four hours."

"I can feel it right now," Paul says. "The air is definitely cleaner."

The president smiles, as though it's all so obvious. "I'd like to leave you with a stack of sponges," he says, handing Elaine a plastic-mesh sack filled with sponges in assorted sizes and colors, each with the company's logo printed on it. "Do you know that your kitchen sponge is the dirtiest thing in the house?"

"I had no idea," Elaine says.

"Change it, and change it frequently," the man says. Elaine nods.

The man extends both hands toward Paul, smiles, and presses something into each of Paul's palms. "Petrified horse dung. It absorbs the toxins, pulling them out from your heart through your hands." He makes a gesture that's like a salute. "Be well," he says, stepping out.

The yellow suits have left the house.

There has been a surrealistic edge to the afternoon, which begins to fade once Elaine and the children are home. Each of them is an element in the equation, each is like an anchor, a weight.

"How was school?" Paul asks.

"Okay," Sammy says. "We had rehearsal."

"Rehearsal for what?" Jennifer asks.

"Play," Sammy says. "I'm the head of a rhinoceros."

"Wow," Daniel says. "Last year you were the back of an elephant."

"When is it?" Jennifer asks.

"Tomorrow," Sammy says.

"Tomorrow, and you're just telling me now?" Elaine says.

"He's not even telling you," Daniel says. "He told Jennifer."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Elaine asks.

Sammy shrugs. "I didn't see you," he offers.

Jennifer checks her watch. "Okay, guys, fair time."

"We need money," Sammy says.

"We should be there by seven," Jennifer says.

"Give them some money," Elaine instructs Paul.

Paul moves to reach for his wallet. The motion irritates his wound. He is wearing sweatpants; he has no pockets, no cash. His wallet is upstairs, in his pants.

"Never mind, I've got it," Elaine says, digging into her purse, pulling a pair of twenties off her wad, her booty prize from the yard sale.

"Give Jennifer some, too," Paul says. "She's an excellent babysitter."

Elaine looks at him suspiciously and pulls off another twenty. "Make sure you eat enough dinner," Elaine says. "Have some protein."

"Have some fun," Paul says, and they are out the door.

Sammy's plate of cookies and Daniel's weird mold are left on the table.

"Does Sammy seem strange to you?" Elaine asks.

"It's stress. He's picking up on all the stress. Daniel is the one who scares me."

"Yeah, why?"

"Overnight he's a Scout and a goddamned junior detective. I don't trust him for a minute. I think he's a stool pigeon."

"Paul," Elaine says. "We're talking about Daniel."

"Just you wait and see," Paul says.

Elaine turns to go upstairs. "Are you dressing for dinner?"

"It hurts to wear pants," Paul says.

"Well, I'd offer to lend you a dress, but I'm afraid you'd take me up on it."

"You never can tell," Paul says, following her. "Do you think I can get away with wearing sweats?"

"Can't you just put on a suit and act normal, even if it hurts?"

"If it would make you happy, I'd be glad to hurt myself."

"I think you're confusing me with someone else," Elaine says, and quickly turns away.

"How would you describe your mood?" Paul calls after her. "Does 'bitchy' even begin to do it?"

Elaine ignores him and picks up the phone. "I'm calling Pat and George and telling them we'll meet them at Joan's."

"Do we really have to go? I feel lousy. I've been sick all afternoon." He feels small and weak and not at all sure he can maintain the usual facade. "'I am the egg man.the walrus,'" he sings to himself.

"It will be good for us to be with people," Elaine says, convincing herself. "It will remind us of who we are," she says.

"Who you want us to be," Paul says, going into the bathroom. "What was the name of the guy who shot John Lennon?"

"I don't know, why?"

"I'm trying to remember."

His suit pants are hanging from the shower rod-perfectly pressed. The tile is radiant, even the grout seems to be glowing. Paul can see his reflection in the chrome faucet handles. "How much does the cleaning guy get?"

"You don't want to know."

"I'm curious," Paul says, peeling down his bandage, squirting a little extra ointment over everything, figuring if nothing else to keep the area well lubricated. He can't look at the tattoo. The sight of what he's done to himself is terrifying, a mark of insanity, another in what's becoming a series: the fire, the date, his job.

"Did it hurt?" Elaine asks as she comes in to put on her makeup. "Did it hurt like hell?" Her eyes are rolled back into a strangely accusatory position as she puts on a face she clipped from a magazine-the page is propped against the sink, with step-by- step, paint-by-number instructions. "I'd assume that's a sensitive area," she says, piling it on.

Paul notices that the color of her eye shadow is Fiction, her lipstick is called Sheer Fraud.

"Did you even notice-or were you doing something else at the time?"

He doesn't respond. He waits. He buttons his shirt. He tucks everything in and zips his pants. "What happened to the dining room table, Elaine? Why'd you chop it to pieces?"

"The damage was irreparable," she says, finishing up, smacking her lips, dabbing her mouth with toilet paper.

"We're not millionaires, Elaine."

"Why does it always come down to money? That's how I can tell you're looking for a fight. You say something stupid about money."

Paul puts on his jacket. "Are you ready to go, or do you want to call and tell them that we're not coming because Thursday is our night to stay home and fight?"

"Get in the car," Elaine says.

"I know it's crazy to have a dinner party on a weeknight," Joan Talmadge says, opening the door, "but I thought it would be fun. Ted's leaving tomorrow for three weeks, and my book club is off tonight. I'm so glad you could come."