A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Open it," Sammy cries.

"Why?"

"Open it," he says, panicked.

She opens the door. "Let's go find Daddy," she says, changing the subject.

"Don't close the door," Sammy says.

"Okay, but when it gets dark out, we have to close it, all right?"

Sammy nods.

Paul. He hears them coming. He gets up off Daniel's bed and meets them in the upstairs hall. "The wrecking ball is gone," he says.

"It was a rental," she says.

"The backyard is dirt," he says.

"They're digging for the deck." Elaine takes a deep breath; the house still has the non-scent of the cleaning company.

Sammy's toe taps the baseboard in a repetitious rhythm, banging out coded communication.

"Where have you been?" Elaine asks.

"In Daniel's room," Paul says.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking."

He leans against the wall. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he took a look at the molding around Daniel's door and that she did a really good job putting it back together-he doesn't tell Elaine that he's impressed with her craftsmanship.

"The walls look lighter," he says, referring to the layers of grime peeled away by the deep cleaning.

Elaine nods.

Paul and Elaine are in a peculiar place where they really can't do much for each other; they are going forward, lost in them- selves-each awkward in a different way, each with reasons.

Paul looks up at the ceiling. He doesn't tell Elaine that he's been in Daniel's room crying; he doesn't tell Elaine that he wishes it were his room, that he wishes he were twelve again and could have another crack at everything. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he's worried about work-he doesn't even understand what work is anymore-he's worried about money, he's screwing Mrs. Apple and doesn't have a clue what it's all about, and that there's this thing with the date that scared the hell out of him. He doesn't tell Elaine that he can't believe that last night they knocked down the door and raided their son's room, and he can't understand how Daniel turned into someone he can't talk to and how Sammy is so sweet and so adorable and Paul is horrified because he can't even take care of him. And Paul knows Elaine is suffering, and he doesn't know what to do for her. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he doesn't feel like an adult, that he has no idea what it means to be a man, that in fact he's a total jerk. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he doesn't know what to do-so he sat in Daniel's room crying and then he pulled out the fat-girl porno magazines and jerked off.

"Did you have an okay day?" Elaine asks. "Was the game good?"

Paul bows his head, he glances at Sammy. Paul doesn't tell

Elaine that when he got to the soccer field, the game was already going and that he didn't recognize Sammy right away-Mrs. A. had to point him out, and Paul joked that it was because Sammy was wearing different-color socks than usual. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he stood next to Mrs. A. with a hard-on during the whole game and that they whispered tempting and tortuous things back and forth, verbally screwing each other for an hour and a half until the woman next to them walked away snorting in disgust and they realized that maybe they weren't whispering. Paul doesn't tell Elaine how uncoordinated Sammy was, how he missed the easiest shot, how all his teammates jumped on him-literally-and how Sammy had an asthma attack and no one could find the puffer. And so Sammy sat on the sidelines wheezing for the last quarter and then Paul drove him around in the car with the air-conditioning on for another hour, waiting for things to settle, afraid to bring him home like that. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he took Sammy with him to McKendrick's house to drop off some tapes he picked up for him at the sleaze store near the office, and when the old guy opened the door he'd said, "They're watching me. Be careful."

"Who's watching you?" Paul had asked, thinking the old guy was losing it.

"Feds."

"Why would the feds be watching you?"

"Because I'm special," McKendrick hissed. "Come in, come in," the old guy said.

Paul handed him the tapes. "Just a little something I picked up for you."

"Goodie," the old guy said, then he goosed Sammy's ass. And while Sammy didn't seem to mind, it drove Paul crazy. Don't touch my kid, he wanted to say, don't lay your filthy hands on him. "Time to go," Paul said, tugging Sammy's sleeve, pulling him out of the room.

"They're across the street," McKendrick said. "Wave on your way out."

"What's he talking about?" Sammy asked as they were leaving.

"Old people get a little weird," Paul said as they walked down the flagstone path. Across the street Paul saw a plain parked car with dark windows. He had the strangest sensation that someone was taking their picture-he could almost hear the whir of the auto-wind.

Paul doesn't bother to tell Elaine that when they finally pulled up to the house, Sammy wouldn't get out of the car and Paul wasn't sure what to do, whether to force him or lay a trail of Cheerios and hope that he'd eat his way inside. Paul waited for a few minutes and then just left Sammy sitting there with the car door open. Paul doesn't say that when he went into the house and Elaine wasn't there, he was worried that she'd left for good. He doesn't say that he doesn't know what they would do without her.

Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he's aware that almost anyone else would think it's a perfectly lovely Saturday but that he's scared, absolutely petrified, and he doesn't know why. Instead he says, "Phone rang a little while ago and I didn't get it."

"I'm sure the machine picked up," Elaine says.

Sammy steps into his room and checks everything out: toys, books, bed.

"Are you all right?" Paul asks Elaine. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that about half an hour ago he looked out the bathroom window and saw her walking back and forth in front of the house, muttering to herself, her hair hanging in front of her face, like a lunatic.

"I'm worn out," she says.

"Rest," he says.

"The hole is temporarily fixed," she tells Paul. "The sheets are in the wash."

Elaine follows Sammy into his room. "Everything up to snuff?"

"Open the window," Sammy says, and she does. She lies down on Sammy's narrow bed, her head against the comforter, buried in blue sky, clouds. "Tell me everything," she says, and Sammy starts to spin a story about a giraffe, a monkey, and a little boy. Elaine falls asleep. She drools.

Sammy lies on a small rug near the open window curled into a C. He naps-dreaming lightly.

It is Saturday night.

Elaine wakes up and goes looking for Paul-he's downstairs folding laundry. "Sheets are dry," he says. "I pushed the bed back to its original position. Hopefully, there won't be any more leaks."

"Hopefully," Elaine says. "What are we supposed to be doing tonight?"

"Dinner at the Montgomerys'," Paul says, "but Joan called to say they canceled, they're in bad shape, a complication with the crazy kid. She seemed annoyed-what will we do, Saturday night and all of us on our own? Should we do something without them? Can we get a reservation anywhere?" Paul does a good imitation of social desperation, the panic of people left without plans. How dare the Montgomerys.