A. Homes - Music for Torching

Pat and Liz are talking softly. "Pregnant?" Liz says. "At forty- seven? Were they doing things?"

"They did nothing," Pat says.

"What a nightmare, preggers at forty-seven. I can't even imagine having sex," Joan says, licking her fingers. "Coffee?" she asks. "I've got a pot of decaf. Let's see a show of hands. One. Two. Three."

"Get home safe," they call to each other as they're pulling away.

"Drive careful," Joan and Ted say, waving from the door. "See you Saturday at the Montgomerys'."

In the car Paul and Elaine talk.

"Do Joan and Ted not have sex?" Paul asks.

"I don't know, why?"

"She said, 'I can't even imagine having sex.' Do other couples not have sex?"

"I don't know."

"Should we not be having sex?"

"I don't know."

"If nothing else, it seems like the one thing we do well-we fight and we fuck. That's how we know we're still married." Paul laughs.

Elaine says nothing.

"That was supposed to be a joke."

"What's the punch line?"

"You were in a perfectly good mood at the party; what happened?"

"I don't know," Elaine says.

They drive, following the red glow, the afterburn, of the Nielsons' taillights. The electricity is off everywhere-trees are down, flares are up.

"Wave," Paul says as they pass Elaine's cop, directing traffic.

"Do you think we have to check on our house?" Elaine asks.

"No," Paul says. "It couldn't get worse."

The night is ink. It is as though there's nothing out there-if they can't see it, it doesn't exist. They crawl toward the memory of home.

The Nielsons' house hovers, glowing dimly like a spaceship, burning out, low on fuel.

"Pat and George must have a backup generator or something," Paul says.

The two little M's greet them at the door.

"Were you scared when the lights went off?" Pat asks.

They shake their heads. "We played camp-out."

All around the perimeter of the room, battery-powered backup lights beam dutifully.

"You can never estimate how long the power will be out," George says, crawling around the room turning things off.

"How about lights-out for the campers? It's a school night, after all," Pat says, leading the little ones off to bed.

"Nightcap?" George asks Paul.

"Have you got any pain medication?" Paul asks.

"I think there's some Percocet left over from my deviated septum. You having a problem?"

"Percocet would do it," Paul says.

George goes off down the hall and returns with a pill and a flashlight.

"Sorry about all the noise last night," George says, dropping the pill in Paul's palm. "Sometimes it just gets to you. I want so much," George says, "that's what it is, high expectations."

Paul nods.

"Anyway," George says, "I went down into the basement, smoked a little grass, and felt much better. Every now and then I do it. Don't tell Pat; I wouldn't want her to know."

Paul shakes his head. "Don't worry," he says. "I'd never tell." Pot and pornography. No one would believe me anyway, he thinks.

"It's my way of letting a little air in," George says. "Next time join me, if you're inclined. You smoke?"

"Sure," Paul says. Of course he smokes. He does everything. He doesn't tell George about the time he and Elaine smoked crack, how she was the fountain in front of the Plaza hotel, a Roman candle with sparks and color and light pouring out of her. He doesn't tell George that it was one of their highest moments-no pun intended-a moment of communion and communication, and that now he worries he and Elaine have drifted, and he'd not sure that it's the usual ebb and flow.

"Where did Elaine go?" he asks George.

George shrugs. "She must have gone with Pat. What a lousy party, don't ya think?" George says, pouring himself a drink. "What a lousy idea, a dinner party on a work night. People can't drink enough to make it worthwhile." George has never sounded so bitter before.

"I thought it was just us," Paul says.

"It's everyone," George says. "And Christ, Ted's knee, it's depressing as hell. He's falling apart. Big strong guy, can't even pick himself up from the table."

"I wanted to stay home. But Elaine needs to see people. She feels strange if she's left alone for too long. Where'd you say she went?"

George shrugs. He tops off his glass. He hands Paul a flashlight. "Sleep tight," he says, heading down the hall into the dark.

Elaine is in the bedroom.

"Where'd you go?" Paul asks.

"Where'd I go?" Elaine repeats. "Where would I go?"

"Dunno."

The beam of her flashlight is directed down onto the page of a magazine.

"You have a flashlight, too," he says.

She ignores him.

The deep-pink walls of the little M's' room look even meatier than usual; they have the color of something oxygen-deprived, a failing organ. It makes Paul nervous. "We have to get out of here before the weekend," he says. He puts the Percocet on the night table and pulls off his shoes.

"What's that?" she asks.

"A treat."

"Mine or yours?" "Mine," he says.

"Are there more?"

"I got it from George. It's left over from his deviated septum." Paul reaches for the water glass.

"That's my water," Elaine says, taking it away.

"What's wrong with you?"

There is no answer.

He undresses. He peels down his bandage and takes a long look at himself with the flashlight, contemplating. Things are both better and worse in the half-light. There's something about the tattoo that he likes-it's a badge of a certain kind of sick courage.

"Do me the favor," Elaine says, watching him examine himself. "Keep yourself covered. The whole world doesn't have to see what you did, and I really don't want the boys to have to deal with it. It'll frighten Sammy, and God knows what it'll mean to Daniel."

"Why are you being so awful?" Paul asks, putting the bandage back in place, in effect tucking everything in for the night.

"Why?" Elaine throws back the covers, swinging her legs over the edge. She stands up and fixes her flashlight beam on his face. "Why?" she says, coming toward him, zeroing in.

He is naked in front of her. "This afternoon you were so wonderful," he says. "You took care of me, you didn't ask questions. You were incredible. I felt so safe. Filled with hope and love."

She looks at him, stunned, amazed. "What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

"Shhhh, someone will hear you," Paul says.

"Am I supposed to think that you were at the office, working away, and all of a sudden, out of the blue, you decided, 'I need a tattoo on my crotch,' the same way you might think a cup of coffee would be nice?" she whispers viciously. "Or would it be better if I assumed you were kidnapped by aliens on Fifty-seventh Street and that the poison ivy below your belt is their insignia, the logo from their spaceship?"

"I'm not saying." Paul says.

"You're not saying is right," Elaine says, wagging her light at him. "You think you can go off, do whatever with whomever, then come crawling home and I'll take care of you. You think I'm so wonderful, so marvelous and forgiving, that I'll make everything all better. Who do you think I am?" she says, loudly. "I'm not your mother."

"No," Paul says. "You're not. You're out of your mind. You're some suddenly perfect Miss Fix-it who wants to do something with her life. It's not too late to go to medical school," he says, in a mean, mocky voice.

"Who are you fucking?" Elaine asks.

"Who are you fucking?" Paul throws back. "You must be fucking somebody, otherwise you wouldn't be acting like this. Are you fucking Liz? Do you like it? What's it like?"

Elaine hits Paul.

Elaine has never hit anyone before in her life. She hits him again, hard.

He opens his mouth. "Bitch."

She hits him again. Again and again, there's something satisfying about the sting of her hand against his skin.