A. Homes - Music for Torching

"It's for me. I'm calling for myself."

"How old are you?"

"Forty-three," Elaine says.

"Oh, I don't think so," Bud Johnson says.

"Yes, I am."

"No, I mean, our program wouldn't be right for you. It's for 'stupid' boys," he says to her. "What's your name?"

"Elaine."

"Elaine, do you know what you're looking for?"

"No," she says. "This is the first call I've made."

"Tell me about yourself."

"I'm married, I have two children, and I'm going insane." "And I guess you've already tried to drown yourself in aerobics classes?"

Elaine doesn't answer.

"That was supposed to be a joke."

"I've never taken an aerobics class in my life."

"Okay. So what kind of educational background do you have?" "NYU a long time ago."

"Have you worked?"

"Not since college."

"Umm-hummm."

She doesn't know who she's talking to, she doesn't know what she's looking for; this feels a little like a waste of time and a little like she's called a suicide hotline-she can't hang up.

"And what do you think you'd be good at now?" His voice is calm, soothing.

"I don't know," Elaine says.

"What have you tried?"

"The other day my friend gave me a fix-it book. So far I've

repaired the disposal and the toilet, and I must admit I got quite a kick out of it."

She wonders what he looks like. She pictures dark curly hair.

"In your wildest dreams what do you see yourself doing two years from now?"

Inexplicably, Elaine blushes. "Oh," she says. "Oh, I couldn't answer that."

"Well," he says cautiously, "I'd be glad to talk with you about your situation, and maybe we can think of something."

"I'm scared," she whispers. "I'm so scared."

"Would you like to make a time to meet later today?"

"I have to go to my son's school play at two o'clock. He's the head rhinoceros."

"Let's meet at four. I think I can get out of here by then. Odyssey Diner on Central Avenue?"

"How will I recognize you?"

"I'll be carrying a manila folder." A bell rings in the background. "I have to go," he says. "Hang in there."

The architect pulls into the driveway, just missing Mrs. Hansen, who jumps into the bushes, making a narrow escape.

"Run me down, why don't you. What's the big hurry? Fire's out," Mrs. Hansen says, climbing out of the shrubbery.

"Are you the mother-in-law?" the architect asks, ringing the bell. "Are we adding on a room for you-so the hen can come back to roost?"

Mrs. Hansen gestures across the street to her house. "I'm the lady next door," she says proudly.

"You don't have much left in the way of a roof," the architect says.

"I'm aware of that," Mrs. Hansen says. "That one's been on there seventeen years." "All good things come to an end," the architect says.

"Thanks for being available on such short notice," Elaine says, letting him into the house.

"Did you have the walls washed in here?" the architect asks.

"Yesterday," she says.

"I can smell it," the architect says.

"There is no smell."

"Exactly," he says. "What are you covering up?"

"We had a fire." Elaine leads him to the hole in the wall. The plastic got blown around in the storm, the entire setup is looking a little soggy, the surrounding plaster is starting to show a stain, and there's a kind of weird swelling, a bulge in the wall that wasn't there the day before. "We're thinking we'd like to take advantage of the situation-adding a deck and French doors."

"Face-lift," the architect says.

Elaine ignores him and goes on. "The deck man was here yesterday. I picked this one." She shows the architect a picture and a scrap of paper with the dimensions.

The architect shakes his head. "Too square. You need something narrower, something that has a shape, some style."

And before Elaine can say anything, he reaches out, yanks the plastic off the hole, and starts poking at the edges.

"Who started the fire?"

"Grill fell over."

"I never heard that one before."

Elaine doesn't blink.

"Have you got a ladder?"

"In the garage."

The architect hauls Paul's big ladder out and sets it up in the backyard-not far from the hole. "Go on," he says, and Elaine starts to climb. He follows her up. "I want to hear your

fantasy-you in your backyard, how do you see yourself? Tell me your fantasy, and then we'll talk reality."

Three steps from the top he calls out, "Stop. Turn." And she does. "What do you see?"

"Sky, trees, houses." She looks more closely. "The Mercedes on Maple being towed away."

She can see the intersection of four backyards-wood, wire, and split-rail fencing all coming together in a point. A swing set, an above ground pool, a Japanese garden.

"This is your view," the architect pronounces from just beneath her. He gesticulates, the ladder rocks. "I was supposed to start a big job this morning. At midnight last night, they called to cancel-they're getting divorced instead." He starts down the ladder, it sways. "Something else you might want to think of, while you've got me, is putting in a safe room, I've been doing a lot of them."

"Safe room?" Elaine asks. She's thinking padded walls, no sharp corners, a housewife goes insane.

"The couple I was going to do the house for was getting a safe suite: underground phone line, water supply, oxygen. I could do a single room, say, master bath for under five grand. I've got a great bulletproof door with interior dead bolts. These days you never can tell when you're going to need to just get away, buy yourself a few minutes of calm. You can't count on the police to be there when you need them."

He pulls a straightedge out of his pocket, sits down at the kitchen table, and draws on a sheet of Sammy's construction paper. He swears while he works. "Shit. Fuck. Eraser," he calls out. "Have you got an eraser?"

He measures. He plots. It takes him less than twenty minutes. "These are your French doors," he says, showing her the plan. "And that's your deck."

"Am I allowed to make suggestions?"

"Is there something wrong with what I drew?"

Elaine looks at the picture. "All the doors open onto the deck?"

"Yes," the guy says.

"Well then, I guess it's fine," Elaine says.

"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet. Don't tell me you're saying no. Don't tell me anything I don't want to hear." He starts to have a temper tantrum. He gets up from the table, flapping his arms. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this?" He goes into the dining room. He stares at the hole. He takes a few deep breaths. "Sorry," he says. "I'm sorry if I'm coming across as kind of tense. I didn't meditate this morning. I always meditate in the morning. It focuses me. And I'm so upset about the couple that canceled. It's bad for all of us, when a couple gives up. It means we all failed."

"How much is this going to cost?" Elaine says, feeling obligated to ask. "Shouldn't I call my husband?"

Paul is at the office. He has gone to the toy store and bought himself some children's watercolors and paper. The box says nontoxic, and he thinks that's a good thing. He is painting a plan, conjuring the color of success for a margarine company-lite- butter yellow.

He is behind his desk; his pants are undone. His wounds hurt, but he's cooking, feeling oddly all right. It's a long shot, but that's what's called for now-something different.

The date has called, several times, using several different names. He's not taking calls. He's busy, the work has begun. He's thinking things through, replaying last night: He sees himself talking to George, getting the pain pill, going into the room, Elaine on the bed reading. He remembers undressing; the image of his tattoo appears as a close-up, in full color, the shine of the antibiotic ointment under the thin beam of the flashlight. And then there is Elaine coming toward him, Paul throwing