A. Homes - Music for Torching

Paul sits up. "Are we safe? Do they know we're in here?"

"What do you want to do, wave a white flag out the window?" Elaine says, turning onto her back.

Paul goes to the window and waves frantically at the men in the backyard. "Were you expecting them this morning?"

"I wasn't expecting anything," Elaine says.

One of the guys waves back. "They see us," Paul says. "They know we're in here. We're okay."

Again the ball slams into the house. Elaine wonders what would happen if it came crashing through the bedroom wall. She pictures the swinging ball, like a black bomb, coming toward her; she imagines jumping on it, riding away, like Tarzan or Jane, legs wrapped around the hard metal, fingers clutching the chain-white knuckles. She gets out of bed.

"You're in a weird mood," Paul says.

"What?"

"You're standing in a puddle of pickle juice."

She looks down. There are jars surrounding her-artichoke hearts, olives, debris from dinner-an odd altar to appetizing. She's knocked over the bread-and-butter pickles, green juice has splashed her toes.

The wrecking ball slams the house again, percussion, punctuation, punch line. The capers dance in their jar.

"Get me a towel," she says to Paul.

Nude. Bent over, gathering wrappers and jars, sorting trash from leftovers, her thin belly and breasts hang, everything is a little loose on the bone. She catches Paul looking at her, taking inventory. "Can I help you?" she asks.

He hands her the towel.

She wipes the floor, puts on her robe, and goes downstairs.

Paul is in the bathroom, staring at himself. Things are beginning to grow back. His body is covered in rough fuzz, itchy bristle. Pimples. He applies hydrocortisone and decides that he will leave himself alone, no more experimental grooming. So what if his head looks like he's wearing a broken halo, a ring of chestnut stubble, a crown of thorns? What's the big deal if his chest hair turns into silver-wired topiary, if he becomes dotted with liver spots and his leggy down disappears, revealing shining varicosities? He checks the tattoo-still spooked every time he sees it. It's crusty now, the hair is growing back-sharp pubes, like bristles, poke out of his skin. Soon the inky line of ivy will be buried, it will be hidden in a forest, it will be something you always know is out there, lurking.

He is thinking about Henry, and the date. He is thinking about McKendrick and how he's got to drop off the tapes. He is thinking about work, about the corner office, new carpet, a new chair. He is thinking about aging, about failure and reinvention. He needs to get back into the game, to be on top, to win.

Paul looks in the mirror. He cannot leave himself alone; he cannot surrender to nature. Everything that you can't see, everything undercover, he will skip, but his head, his exposed dome, he will continue to groom-a shaved skull is a kind of power play, mental nakedness, brain display. He sprays his head with shaving cream and scrapes it clean.

Elaine comes in, she pees, she flushes.

These are the moments Paul likes, moments of intimacy, of familiarity. At Pat and George's they took turns; somehow they weren't comfortable going into the bathroom together. "You were really good last night when I wet the bed," Paul says to Elaine.

"There are six men out back," Elaine says. "The yard is full of rocks. Let's not forget to tell them about the hole," Elaine says.

"I wonder how long it will take?"

"They seem to be moving quickly," she says, walking out.

Elaine's mother is downstairs, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Morning," Elaine says, finding her there.

"The lock on the front door is broken," her mother says.

Elaine shrugs. She's not surprised at how other people are able to float in and out as if they have special powers-can walk through walls and travel great distances at a blink, etc., whereas Elaine is always earthbound, stuck.

"You should get the lock fixed," her mother says. "You don't want just anyone to be able to waltz right in."

"It's on the list," Elaine says.

"Would you like some coffee?" her mother asks.

"I made it an hour ago," Elaine says.

"I'm sure you did," her mother says. "It's not really strong enough for me. Can I pour you a cup?" "I'll get it myself."

Her mother wanders into the dining room and stands near the plastic wall. It's as if a curtain has been pulled around the scene of the accident, a blanket over a corpse, in an effort to be discreet, to spare everyone the upset, the embarrassment.

On the other side of the plastic, there are men working-muted voices, hammers.

"Is this a good idea?" her mother asks.

"What?"

"Adding on to the house?"

"We're not really adding on," Elaine says. "We're repairing. We had a fire."

"Should I be thinking about renovating my house? Is this something I should be doing?"

"It has nothing to do with you," Elaine says.

"Your father talks about fixing up the house so we'll get more money out of it. We're not going anywhere, how are we going to get money out of it? Besides, what do we need a bathroom downstairs for? If someone has to go, go upstairs in private. I don't have to be informed every time someone goes."

"It has nothing to do with you," Elaine repeats.

Her mother points at a pillow on the living room sofa. "Where'd that come from?"

"I don't remember," Elaine says.

"Yes you do."

"No I don't."

"Bloomingdale's," her mother says.

"Pier One," Elaine says.

"I knew you'd remember," her mother says. "I could use a couple of pillows like that. Do you think they still have them?"

Elaine shrugs.

There is a sound outside, an incredible clatter, like a thousand things falling at once.

"What's that?" her mother asks.

Elaine looks out the window. "Lumber. The wood has arrived."

A man presses against the plastic wall; his nose makes a dent. "Excuse me," he says, his breath making a wet mark. "Excuse me." He tries to get Elaine's attention.

Elaine turns toward the plastic. "Yes," she says.

"Sorry to bother you." His voice is gurgly, as if he's speaking underwater. "Have you got some ice? I hit my hand."

"Oh, sure. Of course," Elaine says, "we have plenty of ice." She goes into the kitchen, fills a plastic bag, wraps it in a kitchen towel, and goes back into the living room. She is standing on one side of the plastic, the man is on the other. She tries to lift it from the bottom to pass the ice under-but it's tacked down. He's pulling from the top to no avail.

"Stand back," he says, penetrating the plastic with a sharp blade. His hand juts into the living room, the fingers purple and swelling.

"I think you might have broken something," Elaine says, handing him the ice pack.

"I wouldn't put it past me," the man says.