A. Homes - Music for Torching

Elaine is at the library. She has made a decision; she hides in the stacks and calls Pat from the cell phone. "Sorry to be so erratic," she says, and then has a flash of thinking like Paul-thinking she's said erotic instead of erratic. "Sorry," she says. "But we can't come tonight. We have to stay home." She shifts her position, and the phone makes a static sound like a wave crashing.

"Why?" Pat asks.

"There are things to be done. We have to pay attention to the house." She breathes. "It's our home, we have to go back."

"Well, you're welcome to stay with us for as long as it takes. Months even. Mi casa es su casa," Pat says.

Elaine doesn't want to seem hostile, ungracious, or impolite. But she can't go back-it's not just one thing, it's not just the perfection thing, perfect house, perfect family or that Pat

fucked her, perfectly fucked her, not just a kiss, not just fingers, not just a tongue. It's not just that, it's all of it.

"I made dinner," Pat says.

"You always do."

"I made grouper, and the children made a movie; they're screening it for us tonight. Come back. I want you back."

"I can't," Elaine says.

A man pokes his head around the stack and gives Elaine a strange look. "Do you know where Ellery Queen is?"

She shakes her head. "I have no idea."

Pat goes on. "I'll keep the room ready, in case it doesn't work out."

"Thanks," Elaine says. "Thanks so much, for everything. You've been incredible."

She pushes "End." She goes to the reference desk. "Where would I find books on careers?"

"What kind of careers?"

"I don't know," Elaine says.

"Well, I'm not sure I can help you if you don't know what you want."

Elaine feels as if she's going to scream; it rises, a tornado in her belly. Her mouth opens, it should blow like vomit. Nothing happens. She coughs. She summons what she can, a short burst, vowelly, cattish.

The librarian punches something into her computer. "I've got something on witchcraft," she says, jotting down a call number and handing the paper to Elaine.

Elaine goes home. She sits at the kitchen table with Mrs. Hansen, having a glass of wine. Out the kitchen window she can see the wrecking ball dangling-the dull purple and gray light of early evening throws the steely black ball and chain into relief. It hangs twenty feet off the ground.

"Your mother was here," Mrs. Hansen says. "She waited for about an hour. I got the impression that she didn't particularly like me. Finally, I told her to go home. I hope I didn't do the wrong thing-she is your mother, after all. I told her you'd call as soon as you came in."

"I don't know what I would do without you," Elaine says.

"She brought you an answering machine," Mrs. H. says, patting the box on the kitchen table. "The architect was here, too. He left you an envelope. And Pat called and asked that you reconsider. You're to call her-either way."

Mrs. Hansen takes a sip of her wine.

"How is it?" Elaine asks.

"Very dry," Mrs. Hansen says.

Elaine picks up the phone and calls her mother.

"Who was that woman, that Nazi drunk? Your cleaning lady? How can you afford to have someone every day? Is she a live-in? She tried to get me to go along with her. I wouldn't have any of it. And then she asked me to leave. She put me in such an awkward position, I didn't have any choice but to go. You would never ask me to leave, would you? I'm your mother. Does she know what that means?"

"Thank you for the answering machine," Elaine says.

"Oh, you're welcome. I'm glad you got it. I was hesitant to leave it with her. I thought she might take it for her own."

"I got it," Elaine says.

"And you know how to hook it up?"

"I do."

Paul comes in. He makes himself a drink.

"She's talking to her mother," Mrs. Hansen whispers loudly.

"Mother, I have to go, Paul just came in. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Mrs. Hansen finishes her wine and stands up. "Hello and goodbye," she says. "I bid you adieu." "You don't have to rush off," Paul says.

"Oh, but I do," Mrs. Hansen says. "I've got to feed the hubcap, and I'm sure you two unrulyweds could use a few minutes alone. Don't forget-call Pat," Mrs. H. says on her way out.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hansen," Elaine says. "For everything."

"Don't thank me," Mrs. Hansen says. "Thank God."

Paul adds a little more to his drink. He and Elaine look at each other tentatively.

"Hi," she says.

"Don't forget to call Pat," he says.

"Why?"

"Because Mrs. Hansen said so."

"I called this afternoon and told her we weren't coming back, and she still wants us-it's like she's chasing us. I can't go there," Elaine says.

"If we don't go to Pat and George's, what are we going to do for dinner?"

"She made grouper."

"I hate grouper," Paul says.

"And the girls made a movie-what do you think that means, they made a movie?"

He shrugs. "What are we going to do?"

"Fend for ourselves."

"The Dumpster is full of rocks," Paul says, looking out the window, surveying the situation.

Elaine nods.

They take a tour of the house. The dining room has been sealed off floor to ceiling with multiple layers of plastic wrap and duct tape. Outside, around the back of the house, there are deep tracks, like dinosaur prints, where the wrecking ball came through. The back wall of the house is gone-metal support columns have been put in place.

"The architect mentioned that taking advantage of natural disasters was one of his specialties," Elaine says.

"It's going to be good," Paul says. "French doors, a deck-we can barbecue." He catches himself. The word "barbecue" is complicated. Paul goes back into the house. He makes himself another drink.

"Here's the estimate," Elaine says, handing Paul the architect's envelope.

He opens it. "Do we really need French doors?"

She looks over his shoulder; eighteen thousand and some-Elaine has no idea if that's high or low. "You smell," she says, sniffing him.

"Like what?" he asks, nervously.

"Deodorant soap."

"I washed my face in the men's room at work. That's probably what was in the dispenser."

"Hard on sensitive skin," she says.

Paul notices that the hole in the ceiling has been left off the estimate. "You'll have to tell him," he says.

They sit in the kitchen with one light on. Drinking. It is not dark, not day, not night-twilight.

"Just think, last Friday we had people in for dinner, I made lamb, you ate four slices."

"And look at us today," he says. "The dining room table is in pieces at the bottom of the Dumpster."

"Are you starving?" she asks.

"Not yet," he says.

"We don't have any food. There's nothing for me to prepare."

He remembers the Peppermint Patty that he bought for Mrs. Apple at the blind man's stand in Grand Central-it was meant to be a door prize for his tardiness. He forgot to give it to her, and now he hands it over to Elaine. "Get the sensation," he says.

She bites into it.

"I made you a picture," he says, giving her a watercolor of the house, a split view, one scene with the whole family standing in a line out front; the second is the house from the back with the French doors and deck-all fixed.

"Nice," Elaine says. The painting looks like folk art, flattened, unrealistic. She tacks it on the fridge with a magnet.

It is getting darker.

"Are you in the mood to go out?" she asks. "We could go to the supermarket."

"Sure." He is glad to get out of the house. The house was built before either of them was born, and the fact is, they tried to level it, to burn it. He's a little uncomfortable now, home alone-unsupervised. "Let's go."

"I'll drive," she says.

They are on Central Avenue. Elaine passes the Odyssey Diner and says nothing. Who is she: Paul's wife, the boys' mother, Pat's lover? Who is she for herself? What would she like to be doing in a year? Can she talk to Paul about it-can they have a real conversation?