A. Homes - Music for Torching

"You're sending your mother away. I knew you would. I always knew that eventually you would send me away."

"Not away. Home. You want something from me. You're the mother, and you act like the child. I want something from you: I want to be the child."

"You want to be the child." Her mother snorts. "You're forty-three years old with a husband and two children of your own; you're not a child."

"Fine, if you're not going to take care of me, then go away." Elaine isn't sure what she's saying-it half makes sense and half makes no sense, but she's saying it. She feels the need to say something.

"Do you want some coffee?" her mother asks. "Should I make a fresh pot?"

"Yes," Elaine says. "Yes, I want coffee."

"See you," Paul says. "Anything you need, anything I should do while I'm out?"

"Just bring Sammy home," she says, opening the door, letting Paul out, checking the broken lock.

There is silence.

Elaine sits at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee.

A horn beeps. The guy upstairs working on the hole calls down, "There's a car out there, waiting for someone." Elaine goes out. A station wagon is idling at the curb. "Is Daniel here?" the driver asks.

Elaine shakes her head. "Not here," she says. The station wagon is driven by a complete stranger, it's filled with kids she's never seen before. "What is this?" Elaine asks.

"Scout trip. Any idea where he is?"

She shakes her head, none.

"Don't worry," the driver says cheerfully. "We'll find him."

"All right, I'm going," her mother says, picking up her suitcase as soon as Elaine comes back into the house.

"Okay, talk to you later," Elaine says.

"You do whatever you want," her mother says.

"I'll talk to you later, Mother," Elaine says.

"Whatever," her mother says.

"I'm too tired," Elaine says.

"Think of other people, Elaine," her mother says, walking out.

The workman comes downstairs. "It's patched for now," he says. "We'll get in there and really do the work on Monday-it'll hold over the weekend."

The house is empty. The wrecking ball is leaving. It is being taken away, guided back down the driveway.

The morning is gone-burned off, like fog.

Elaine opens the refrigerator, pulls out bits and pieces of things, condiments and crackers. She pours herself a glass of wine; she thinks of Mrs. Hansen, who didn't come today. She hopes everything is all right; she wonders if she should worry. Elaine sits at the kitchen table, daydreaming. She pictures herself as a different person in a different life. She sees herself in places she can't even point to on a map, high in the thin air of the Himalayas, wandering the hills of Tuscany, traveling under a new name, making no reference to her life before.

Every day Elaine thinks of disappearing. She will leave and take nothing with her-"You have yourself" is what people say, and that's what stops her. She fears she is nothing. Nonexistent.

The cop is in the kitchen. He arrived unannounced. He stands in front of where she's sitting at the kitchen table, a white foam cervical collar around his neck.

"You're home," he says.

"Last night," she says, coming out of her daydream/travelogue.

"How was it?"

"Fine."

"Did you sleep well, or were you up reading all night?"

Elaine is puzzled.

"You need me," he says, moving in.

"What happened to your neck?" Elaine changes the subject. She gestures toward the foam cuff, thinking of an ox in a yoke.

"Fender bender," he says. He comes closer. His knees press against her leg. "I can tell you want me; I've known all along."

She stands up, banging against the table-things rattle.

"Remember when we first met? I saw you the next morning, crawling naked across the floor, I saw you stand up with dirt on your belly. You put on a coat, and then you answered the door. I've been watching you ever since."

"Watching me?"

"Keeping an eye out. I've noticed a few things, like with your recycling, you don't separate colored glass from clear, your plastic from your paper-I could give you a citation for that." He squeezes her breast. "Go upstairs," he says.

"They'll be home soon."

"Hurry," he says.

His uniform is sculpted to his body, his body is all muscle; every time he moves, another bulge pops out. The sight of his erection pressing against his tan trousers is what gets her. It rises like a pornographic emergency, engorged, trapped.

He undresses her. He doesn't ask. He is persistent and rough.

"How old are you?" she asks.

"Twenty-six."

He takes off his gun belt and lays it down on the dresser. His body is smooth, muscular, and hairless. She is confused, conflating Paul's hair, Pat's breasts, the cream of skin.

"Should I handcuff you?" he asks.

"Do you think it's necessary?"

"Will you resist?"

"No," she says.

His nipples are tiny and hard, like pink match heads. "Bite them," he says, and she does.

He pulls a handful of condoms out of his pocket. "Pick a color, any color."

"Red," she says, and watches him roll it on.

He is huge, his penis is hot and pink and raw like a doggy dick.

He fucks her, harder than Pat, harder than Paul. He is cold and a little cruel. She thinks of Pat, soft, enveloping. She thinks of Paul, the deep familiarity, assorted stubble, flabby ass, a roll around the middle.

"Fuck me," the cop says. He is stronger than she is and a little scary. "Fuck me," he says, pushing off the headboard and slamming into her. "I want you to fuck me."

They are on the bed, they are in Elaine's own home. "I'm fucking you," she says, holding his shoulders. "I'm fucking you."

Elaine sees Pat standing silently in the doorway-she's not sure if what she's seeing is real.

"Fuck me," the cop says. "I want you to fuck me."

Pat goes to the dresser, pulls the gun out of the holster, squats in her version of a police pose, and aims at the cop. "Freeze."

He rears up, thrusting deep inside Elaine.

"You get off her. You leave her alone," Pat says.

The cop looks at Elaine.

She has closed her eyes, her face is contorted, waiting for the shot.

He pulls out. Elaine's eyes pop open. She sees his stiff penis, the bright red condom, shiny with her juices.

"Are you all right?" Pat asks. "Should I call the police? Should I shoot him?"

Elaine shakes her head.

"I am the police," the cop says.

"Did you let him in? How did he get in?"

"Who the hell are you?" the cop asks.

Pat waves the gun at the cop. "I'm asking the questions now," she says. "I'm giving the orders."