A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Call me," Tom says.

"I will," Paul says, hanging up.

Elaine opens the door, lets Sammy in, flips up the lid of the toilet, and together she and Paul stand watching the little boy about to pee.

Sammy glares at them. "Don't look," he says, and they turn away.

When he is done, they open the door to let him out. Sammy peers into the dark motel room, asking, "Where do I go? Which bed is mine?"

"We have to go home," Paul says again an hour later when they're still sitting naked and speechless in the bathroom and the glow of the fluorescence is casting a moldy shadow over them. "There's nothing else to do."

They dress in the dark. The swish-swishing of fabric, the furtive rustle that should be so sexy, is only sad.

"Time to go," Paul says, waking the children. "Time to go."

"Am I dreaming?" Daniel asks.

No one answers.

"Can they trace the motel?" Elaine asks as they're driving away.

"I paid cash and registered under a false name."

"How did you think of that?"

He doesn't bother to add that he didn't mean to register

with an alias, but rather did it reflexively. There's a large outdoor fruit market down the street. He thinks of this whole strip as Produce Way. He is the man with the big fruit basket, and his ladyfriends are Mrs. Apple, Ms. Pear, and Mrs. Plum. He looks at Elaine, Mrs. Lemon.

"What about the key?" Elaine asks.

"We'll drop it," he says. And when they pass a mailbox, he stops, and Elaine tosses the key in, trusting the tag that reads RETURN POSTAGE GUARANTEED. The key lands with a loud, metallic plunk, and it's as though she's paid the toll-been given the green light, go.

Paul drives fast, rushing to return to the scene as though there is some prospect or possibility that he can undo what they have done. He drives fearing the worst-not only have they set the house on fire, they have set the world on fire. He looks at the sky expecting to see it filled with the flames of subdivision. Turning a corner, swerving to avoid a cat, he is sure that every house will be burning, every tree consumed, the neighbors will be streaming out into the melting, molten streets, their arms thrown into the air beseeching the houses to smite themselves, to simply put themselves out. He drives toward his imagined inferno, asking himself, Why? Why? What is wrong with us? Why are we so unhappy? Why?

"Slow down," Elaine says, "slow down."

He ignores her. Tires squealing, he makes the turn that puts them on their final approach. The streets are empty, the sidewalks bare, the night itself calm and clear. On the surface everything is as it was, as it should be. Paul pulls into their driveway. The sound of gravel under the tires is thoroughly familiar-echoing safety and soundness. The headlights come to rest on the house, standing still against the night.

Paul pulls up the emergency brake and turns off the engine.

In the backseat, the two boys stir.

"We're home," Paul says.

Elaine had half hoped there would be nothing; a pile of coal, a load of smoldering cinder, the stem of the chimney. But instead, it is all there, no different, only dark, very dark. She stares at the house. "Now what?"

Paul gets out. The house is wrapped in yellow ribbon that reads CRIME SCENE, POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS. He tries to remember what yellow ribbon means-it is a song, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon," and it is something else, something about hostages or prisoners of war. He ducks under the tape and reaches for the doorknob, hesitantly, as though it might be hot, as though he might burn himself. It is neither here nor there, neither hot nor cold. He turns the knob and pushes against the door. Nothing happens.

Elaine cracks her window open. The air smells like an old campsite, damp cinders, musty smoke. "Maybe it's locked," she says.

He goes into his pocket for the key.

"Is it safe?"

"It's our house," he says.

"We tried to burn it down."

It is night and silent, and they don't have to speak very loudly in order to be heard-they call back and forth to each other in stage whispers to keep from disturbing the peace, to keep from waking the children.

"Should I call the police?" Paul asks.

"What did Tom say?"

"Call the police," Paul says.

"I'll wait here," Elaine says.

Paul takes off on foot, jogging in the direction of a pay phone.

Elaine sits in the car, thinking she is back to scratch, zero, square one. She's back to where she started, only now it is worse.

Now she will have to take care of the house, tend it like a sick person. She imagines running away; where would she go? Into the woods to live like a wildwoman on berries and nuts? Into the city to sleep on a steam grate? She thinks of running. She undoes her seat belt. She is reaching to unlock the door when she sees Paul coming back. She sees Paul coming and pictures herself taking off down the street-the streetlights like search-lights, constantly catching her. She sees Paul chasing her, not knowing why she is running, why he is chasing, except that it is his instinct to catch her, to drag her back.

A police car pulls up behind the car, blocking it-Elaine isn't going anywhere.

The cop aims his flashlight at Paul, cutting across the lawn. She wishes the cop would yell "Freeze!" and like in the game of Statues Paul would have to stop. But Paul would think it was a joke, he would keep coming. The cop would yell again, then pull his gun and take a couple of shots at Paul, and Elaine's problems would be over-or if not over, at least different.

She sits in the car tempted to scream: Rape! Fire! Murder!

She rolls down her window.

"May I see your license, sir?" the cop says, moving to meet Paul halfway across the lawn.

"I'm the one who called. Paul." he says, breathless from his brief exertion. "From the corner, from the pay phone, by the school." He points back behind him as though that says something.

"May I see you license, sir?"

Paul pulls out his wallet and hands over his license. The cop turns his flashlight on it.

"Is this your car, sir?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And your wife and children?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And is there anybody else living with you at this address?"

"No. Why?"

"Just filling out the paperwork."

"What happened?" Paul asks, a sharp edge in his voice. "We came home and the house was like this. What happened here? That's what I have to find out."

Elaine is impressed; Paul is playing upset very well. Then it occurs to her that he might not be playing, his distress may be entirely real, his questions genuine.

"I need to understand what went wrong," he demands. "Is that asking too much?"

"Where were you this evening?" the cop asks. "What time did you leave the house? Did you stop anywhere along the way? What time did you return? Were you and your wife and children all together? Was your house on fire when you left it?"

"Is this routine?"

"I can see that you're upset, sir, but I have to fill out the report."

"Everything I dreamed of, up in smoke." Paul's voice cracks. And while Elaine's sympathy was with him a minute ago, now she thinks he's making a spectacle of himself. She remains unmoved in the front seat.

The cop comes to her window. "Pardon me, ma'am," he says. "I just wanted to say hello. I believe we met one night a few years ago."

Elaine remembers.

"How have you been?" he asks.

"Fine," she says. "Just fine. And you?"

"I'm real sorry about the house," he says. "Thankfully, the damage is largely cosmetic."

"Really," Paul says, edging in. "So you think it's superficial?"

The cop shrugs. "I'm a cop, not a contractor. But I could walk you around it." He waves his flashlight.

"Good," Paul says. "That would be good. Are you coming?" he asks Elaine.

Elaine glances at the boys, sleeping in the backseat.