A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Did Daniel come back?" she asks.

"Not yet." Paul sits at the kitchen table. He has made himself a drink. He sips. "And Jennifer will be here in half an hour," Paul adds. He pulls a Baggie out of his pocket, takes out his rolling paper, and turns out a neat and narrow joint.

"Not in the house," Elaine says.

"Come on," Paul says, "it's Saturday night." He opens the door to the basement and coaxes her halfway down. "Do it with me," he says, flicking his lighter, taking a deep drag. The stairwell glows. Paul hands the joint to Elaine. "We have to get Daniel back," Elaine says, blowing smoke.

Paul nods and takes a hit.

"I fixed the lock on the front door," Elaine says. "Now no one can arrive unannounced."

For Elaine, pot is like a prism, a kaleidoscope turning things; objects and emotions fragment, stretch, and slow, everything looks a little different-mentally muted, visually more intense.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Paul asks.

"I wish we could just be normal. One normal happy family," Elaine says, drawing a deep hit.

"And if not that?"

"Could we do nothing? Why do we always have to do something, why does something always have to be happening?"

"What about Daniel, should we call those people"-their name intentionally escapes him-"and have them send him back?" Paul asks.

"We have to go and get him," Elaine says. "We have to bring him home."

"Mom," Sammy calls. "Mom?" There's a pause. "Dad," Sammy calls. "Dad?"

They each take a last hit, and Paul pinches the joint, putting it out. "Ollie, ollie, oxen free."

"You're awake," Elaine says, coming up the stairs.

"The front door is closed," Sammy says.

"It's okay," Paul says.

"Where were you?" Sammy asks.

"Downstairs," Paul says.

"Did you have a good nap?" Elaine asks.

"You snore," Sammy says.

"Would you like some cran?" Elaine asks, pouring juice.

The phone rings.

"It's Joan," Paul says before anyone answers.

Elaine picks up. "Hello?"

"Henry and his date are going to scale the rock-climbing wall at his gym, and then they're going to the movies in Yonkers. They're planning to eat popcorn for dinner," Joan reports, as though popcorn for dinner is shockingly decadent, unforgivable.

"And what are you going to do?" Elaine asks.

"I'm not sure at all. Ted keeps telling me to calm down. But I don't think I've spent a Saturday night at home since I was fifteen."

"Look at it this way." Elaine hears Ted in the background. "At some point in your life, you're going to be spending Saturday nights at home again. Why not just relax and see what the evening brings-you never know."

"I can't stand it," she says, bickering. "I'm not ready to stay home. What are you and Paul thinking?"

"We're just going to keep at it, we have so much work to do on the house," Elaine says, relieved to have a good excuse.

"Well, let's talk tomorrow and compare notes," Joan says.

Someone pounds on the front door.

Paul lets Jennifer in.

"Door's locked," Jennifer says.

"Elaine fixed it," Paul says.

"Handy." Jennifer sniffs around. "It smells good in here. Did you spray something? Burn a reversing candle?"

"Tell him that," Paul says, pointing at Sammy, who's walking around holding a wet washcloth over his nose and mouth.

"We had it washed, scrubbed floor to ceiling," Elaine says.

"Scrubbing bubbles," Paul says, thinking of the thick white foam.

"What's your mom doing tonight?" Elaine asks.

"Homework," Jennifer says. "Secretly she's thrilled dinner got canceled, she's 'sick to shit' of obligations. What's the plan around here?" Jennifer asks.

"We're going to get Daniel," Elaine announces. "We'll be right back. Are you guys okay for now? You're not starving, are you?" Elaine asks. "Can you wait?"

"We're fine," Jennifer says, looking at Sammy.

"Not hungry," he says, his voice muffled through the washcloth.

"Actually, I'm hungry," Paul says, grabbing a stack of Oreos.

"Give me one," Elaine says as they're backing out of the driveway. The munchies have descended.

A buzz. A little high, vibrating. As Paul drives, Elaine pulls the Oreo apart, licking the middle, scraping it with her teeth, eating the cookie.

Their teeth are quickly coated, caked with black cookie crumbs like tobacco stains that stick like mud on the gums. If they smiled, they'd look like Halloween hoboes.

"Are you stoned?" Elaine asks.

"It was just one joint."

They pull into the Meaderses' driveway, and what seemed like a good idea, a show of parental prerogative, now seems asinine.

Elaine sits in the car, paranoid-wishing she hadn't smoked, thinking they smell like pot and scotch, thinking she looks strange.

"Are you getting out?" Paul asks.

Together they walk up to the house. Paul rings the doorbell. He giggles. "Don't you wish we could run?" Paul says. "Make it like a prank? I want him to open the door, stick his mealy head out, and then I'd like to pelt him with tomatoes or roll the yard in toilet paper or something."

Elaine hates Paul, he's an embarrassment, a liability. "Behave," she says.

Mr. Meaders opens the front door.

"Hi, how are you?" Paul says, his words coming out in a jovial burst of laughter. "Sorry to arrive unannounced."

"We've come for Daniel," Elaine says. "We'd like to take him home."

"Is he expecting you?" Mr. Meaders asks.

"We thought it would be best if we didn't make a big deal out of it," Elaine says.

Paul and Elaine step into the house; it's like stepping back in time. The colors are browns and golds, deep greens and blues, the colors of 1957, of Ozzie and Harriet. Mr. Meaders is wearing a cardigan, and Mrs. Meaders comes out of the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist. She puts a basket of rolls on the table.

"Oh, bad timing," Elaine whispers to Paul. "They're about to eat."

"The boys are upstairs in Willy's room," Mr. Meaders says.

Elaine leads Paul and Mr. Meaders on a march up the stairs. Going up, her legs are rubbery, as if she's stretching with every step.

Mr. Meaders knocks on the bedroom door. "Daniel, your parents are here."

Elaine sticks her nose in, pressing her face close to the door. "Time to go home," she says cheerfully.

There is no response.

"I don't think he's inclined," Meaders says.

They stand in the hallway. Meaders checks his watch. "Seven twenty-two," he says. "Supper's at seven-thirty."

"Could we have a moment?" Paul asks, and Meaders backs off, descending the staircase, hands thrown up in the air as if he's being held at gunpoint.