A. Homes - Music for Torching

her off, Elaine bouncing on the bed, Paul out the door, down the hall, chased. Paul and Elaine spinning around the living room, like a twisted game of tag, tackle the marriage and bring it down.

Elaine hitting him.

Paul pulling her hair.

Elaine pummeling him.

And at some point it stops. It doesn't end, it just stops.

He thinks of what Jennifer told him yesterday after- noon-"Facts are irrelevant."

Paul dips a watercolor brush into the purple paint. "There's power in assumption," he tells himself, remembering her words. "Assume your right," Paul says aloud, moving from the purple into the pink.

"I should call my husband," Elaine says, picking up the phone.

His secretary puts the call right through.

"The architect is here," Elaine announces. "He had a cancellation. He can start now, they can bring a wrecking ball this afternoon. But I wanted to check with you."

"I was just thinking of you," Paul says, dipping his brush in water, rinsing it. "I'm sitting at my desk painting."

"I'm standing in the kitchen talking," she says.

"Are you having a good day? Feeling better?"

"Yes," she says, and she can't say any more.

"Is he right there, next to you?"

"Yes," she says again.

"This is the guy who did the Esterhazys', and they're happy?"

"Yes," Elaine says again.

The architect is huffing and puffing, pacing the kitchen.

The house is starting to have a smell; it's picking up the scent of the architect, anxiety and Irish Spring.

"Has he given us an estimate? Do we have to look for a contractor?"

"No. He has someone."

"Do you want to let him have the job?"

The architect takes the phone from Elaine. "Look," he says, "it's a small thing, it's not like you're building a house. You're just letting a little light in; don't make it more than what it is." He pauses. "I don't care what you do, but what I told your wife is that I was supposed to start something today and they canceled, they're splitting up instead of building a house-so here I am. You can do the same thing, you can procrastinate, or you can do the job. If you can say yes, you can have it right now. It's a onetime deal. This isn't something to dick around with. You see a good thing coming, embrace it," the architect says. "Don't waste my time. Everyone is always wasting my time."

"Be quiet for a minute and let me think," Paul shouts.

The architect hands the phone back to Elaine.

"What a fucking asshole," Paul says.

Elaine doesn't say anything.

"Do you think we should do it? Could you get him to write something down, some sort of an estimate, tell him we need it for the insurance?"

The guy takes the phone from Elaine again. "Are you saying yes or no?"

"Don't take a tone with me," Paul says. "I'm saying go ahead, fine, get your hammer in hand. I'm going to need something in writing by the time I get home."

"Short fuse," the architect says, hanging up. "Can I use your phone?" Elaine nods. He dials. "Joey, let's go. Here's the address-it's a deck and doors. I'm leaving a sketch on the kitchen table. You need the mini-ball; there's a stone wall that's gotta come out. I'll be in my office in an hour, I'll call you from there." The architect hangs up. "Did I tell you? The contractor is my brother-in-law, married my baby sister, it's kind of an all-in- the-family business. Safe rooms to swimming pools, soup to nuts."

"No, you didn't mention it," Elaine says, feeling slightly screwed.

Mrs. Hansen comes in, mixes herself a drink-white wine and cranberry juice in a big tumbler-and goes back out again. Elaine checks the clock. Eleven-thirty.

"Listen," Elaine tells the architect, "my son has asthma. I worry a lot about dust. Can you do me a favor and keep it clean?"

"I had asthma," the architect says. "I spent my childhood choking to death. I can keep it clean. We'll seal the whole thing off. You won't even know it's happening. Can I use your phone again?"

She nods.

"Joey, remember that roll of plastic left over from the gym job? Throw it in the truck. We have to keep the house clean; their kid can't breathe."

"Thanks," Elaine says.

"Don't mention it."

The phone rings. The architect answers it. "For you." He hands the receiver to Elaine.

"I hope it wasn't crazy to have a party on a weeknight," Joan Talmadge says.

"It was lovely," Elaine says. "It's always good to get out of the house."

There is noise in the background. "I'm in my office," Joan says. "It's completely crazy. The market's been up and down all day." She draws a breath. "Are you living at home yet?"

"Soon," Elaine says.

"Well, as soon as you're back, we'll have a welcome-home party."

"That'll be nice," Elaine says.

"Ted thinks you're wonderful," Joan says. "After everyone left, we were talking, and of all of the other wives he likes you best."

"Well, thanks. I like Ted, too."

"Are you really thinking of going to medical school? Don't you have to be twenty-two or something?"

"Have you heard from Catherine?" Elaine says, changing the subject.

"Oh," she whispers, "it's bad, really bad, worse than you can imagine. In fact, I've never heard of anything like it. He did something so horrible, unthinkable. He went insane. He bit a teacher's fingers off, the index and-what's the longer one? — the fuck-you finger. He bit them off and ate them. The hand got infected, and then something weird happened, a poisoned blood clot or something, and the teacher died. He killed someone. Seventeen years old and already a murderer, can you imagine?"

"It doesn't sound like he meant to kill anyone."

"He ate human flesh. Imagine how Catherine and Hammy must feel," Joan says, carrying on the conversation with herself. "All morning I've been trying to, and I just can't. He was a wonderful little boy. Always making things with his hands-an artist. Gifted."

"They'll be here within an hour," the architect says, waving good-bye. "Do you want me to talk to your insurance agent? I'm very good with those kind of people," he says, talking while Joan is still talking. Elaine is trying to listen to two things at once.

"No," she says. She doesn't want him to talk to anyone.

"Yes," Joan says. "It's unbelievable and it's true."

"I'm sorry," Elaine says. "The architect was here, and he's on his way out."

"I have to keep repeating the story in order to make it real," Joan says. "I'm at the office, I have to go. I want to call Pat, I'll talk to you later."

Liz arrives, pulling in just as the architect is pulling out.

He beeps. He shouts. "Hey, you're blocking me. You're holding me up."

"Ready?" Liz asks Elaine, ignoring the architect.

"Yeah, let me just tell Mrs. Hansen." Elaine waves at Mrs. Hansen, who's across the yard. Mrs. Hansen waves back.

"How old is she?" Liz asks.

"I have no idea, I'm figuring early seventies."

In the middle of the yard Mrs. Hansen has built an odd altar to the destructive forces of nature, a kind of ersatz tepee, a peculiar pile of branches, leaves, and twigs.

"I'm going out for lunch," Elaine yells. "And then I have an appointment at four-will you be around when the boys come home?"

"Of course," Mrs. Hansen says. "I was thinking I'd teach them how to send smoke signals." She nods at the pile. "I never told you, but long, long ago, I was a den mother."

"All right," Liz says once they're in the car. "What's the problem? Who's doing what to who?"

"I'm stuck," Elaine says. "I'm incredibly, horribly stuck. It's like I'm in a coma and can't wake up. Like I'm under the surface."

"That's why you're not talking to me? Elaine, women have been stuck for years. They write books about it-think of Tillie Olsen's Silences , think of Charlotte Perkins Gilman."

"I'm not talking about books. I'm talking about myself!" Elaine screams. "I am The Yellow Wallpaper."