A. Homes - Music for Torching

He grabs her arms, her wrists.

A noise like a war cry comes out of her mouth.

He hopes no one hears her.

"Be quiet," he hisses.

"You be quiet."

He pushes her away.

She falls against the bed, bounces up, and rushes toward him. "Where'd you get the tattoo, Paul?"

"You're acting crazy," he says, brushing her off.

"I'm acting crazy?" she says. "I'm acting crazy?"

He picks up the Percocet and is out the bedroom door; she's after him. Their feet padding fast down the hall. She is on his back, slapping, scratching. He's turning and twisting, trying to shake her off. Sofa, chairs, side tables, lamps-it is a treacherous domestic obstacle course. Everything is in the way. They're dancing around the room, weaving, bobbing, ducking. His elbow meets her cheek. The corner of the coffee table stabs him in the leg-he cries out.

"Be quiet," she mocks.

She lunges. He trips over an ottoman and slams to the floor. There is a groan, the sound of air escaping him. She makes a fist. She punches him in the gut. He pulls her hair, as though by yanking it he will snap her out of it. She is upon him using both fists, like sticks, pummeling him relentlessly.

He is a naked man, and she is his wife in her beautiful new nightgown. She is beating him up in the dark, in the living room of a neighbor's house. He is trapped in the space between the sofa and the coffee table. They are not speaking. There is nothing to say. The only sound is the repetitive, thick thud of her hand against him and the accidental expression of his surprise-grunts and groans. And then it is done. He is curled into a tight ball. Not moving. Not fighting. She takes a pillow from the sofa and pounds him with it. She is crying now. Everything is futile; there is nothing, nothing but sadness and frustration. She puts the pillow down.

He moves to get up.

"Watch your head," she says.

He goes ahead of her, down the hall back into their room. He breaks the Percocet in half; she hands him the water glass. He swallows his half of the pill and has a sip of water, and then she does the same.

They sleep.

THE WORK BEGINS.

The storm has roughed up every house up and down the block-branches and leaves are everywhere, beheaded geraniums dot the flagstone path, and the potted plants look as though they've been spun around in the night.

Mrs. Hansen is in Elaine's front yard, straightening up. She is hauling branches, one in each hand. Bright green leaves frame her face; her khakis act like camouflage. She is the woman who turns into a tree.

"Hello, hello," she calls from behind the leaves. "Hello, hello," like a little girl playing peek-a-boo.

"Mrs. Hansen, is that you?"

Mrs. Hansen throws off the branches, hurling them into a pile-she's stronger than you'd think. "Wild night, wasn't it?"

"Out of control," Elaine says.

"God's night off," Mrs. Hansen says. "A house on Oak was struck by lightning, and over on Maple there's a tree down on a Mercedes. I'm not sorry for that son of a bitch; I hate German cars," she says. "At three A.M., I was making cold hot toddies trying to calm myself. The whole thing scared the hell out of me."

"Cold hot toddy?"

"Like a hot toddy, only the electricity was off so I drank it cold. The mister and I were up all night wondering what would happen next." She glances around the yard. "Thought I'd tidy up over here. The last thing you need is more mess. Your phone's been ringing like crazy-every ten minutes since seven-thirty. Expecting a call?"

Elaine shakes her head no.

"I would have put on a pot of coffee, I would have gotten the phone, but."

Elaine looks across the street. The Hansens' yard is neat as a pin, the grass so well groomed that it appears combed. The stone front of the house, a perfect facade. "Your yard is amazing," Elaine says, realizing that she has no idea what the house is like inside-she pictures Ethan Allen.

"I was up early," Mrs. Hansen says. "Radio said there might have been a tornado, but it's unconfirmed."

"You really are something," Elaine says, noticing that Mrs. Hansen's tousled reddish-brown hair is dyed, aware that she's made up a little story for herself about Mrs. Hansen that may, or more likely may not, be true.

"I used to be a goer, go, go, go," Mrs. Hansen says. "But then, out of the blue, I decided I didn't want it anymore. I didn't want a schedule or a plan. I wanted out. So I stayed in. More or less for a year. I didn't leave the house. Gave everyone quite a scare, but I knew I was fine-it was what I needed to do.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Twenty-seven years last April."

"Are you happy?" Elaine asks, and immediately worries that she's gone too far.

"You're not thinking of moving, are you? Not after all this, not after we've become friends."

"I'm not going anywhere," Elaine says.

"Don't scare me. Last thing I need is another scare."

Inside the house, the phone is ringing.

"Phone," Mrs. Hansen says.

"I'll get it," Elaine says.

"Why are you ignoring me?" Liz asks. "Did I do something to offend you?"

"I don't know what to say," Elaine says. It sounds like an excuse, but she means it. "I just don't know what to say."

"Well, you're going to have to say something. I can't stand this, it's ridiculous."

"It's not you, it's me," Elaine says.

"I know it's you," Liz says. "You'll tell me all about it. I'll pick you up at noon. We'll have a lump of cottage cheese; I'm on a new diet."

"That's an old diet," Elaine says, hanging up. She looks out the kitchen window and into the Dumpster-it's filling up. There's the axed dining room table, a half dozen assorted shoes Elaine threw in yesterday, and the remains of the grill, which someone tossed in on top.

The phone rings again.

"Elaine, I'm buying you an answering machine," her mother says.

"Have you been calling all morning? Mrs. Hansen said someone's been calling."

"No," her mother says. "But last night I needed you and I couldn't get you."

"We were out." Elaine wanders into the dining room, stretching the phone cord. She stands where the dining room table used to be, wondering what should fill the spot, what comes next.

"Exactly," her mother says. "In a storm, no less. I've got to run, but I'll come by later. I'll bring a new machine."

Elaine hangs up. And again the phone rings. "Hello," she says, exasperated.

"Just checking in," a woman's voice says.

"Who is this?" Elaine asks.

"Who would you like me to be?"

"I think you have the wrong number," Elaine says, hanging up.

She takes a deep breath. The house doesn't smell. It has no smell at all. It is neither here nor there, dead nor living, it is nonexistent, without connotations. Neutral. They did an excellent job.

The phone rings.

"What?" Elaine says instead of hello.

"Hello, it's Rich Perloff, your architect. I've been calling all morning. First it rings and rings and no one answers, and then it's busy. Haven't you got an answering machine or at least Call Waiting?"

"Who is this?" Elaine asks.

"Rich Perloff. Are you home? Can I come over now?" he asks. "If you want me to do this, I have to do it now," he says.

"Fine," she says. "Come. I'm here."

Elaine hangs up. She digs through the cupboard for the Yellow Pages. It's time for her to do something for herself. Elaine is looking for information-schools, vocational programs, ways out of her rut. She lets her fingers do the walking. She dials.

"Westchester Technical Institute."

"I'm looking for some information." Elaine says.

"One moment, I'll connect you."

"Bud Johnson," a man says, picking up.

"I'm looking for information-" Elaine says.

He cuts her off. "Is the student having problems in school, flunking out, has he been expelled or arrested?"