A. Homes - Music for Torching

They dig in. Sammy pulls the cheese off his pizza. The opening sequence unfolds. A lost soldier with machine guns slung over both shoulders barrels through the forest.

"Nate's dad has lots of guns," Sammy says. "Bigger guns than that, guns he got in Vietnam."

Sammy pronounces "Vietnam" with what Paul thinks of as the redneck, Republican, or Nixonian intonation-"nam," like "ma'am."

"Interesting," Paul says, curious to hear more about Gerald, the mystery man, the silent type, former Green Beret.

"What's Vietnam?" Sammy asks, again pronouncing it wrong. The hair on the back of Paul's neck rises.

"Vietnam," he says, correcting him. "It's a country in Southeast Asia."

"Mr. Meaders used to live in Washington. He was going to be in the IRA, but then something happened," Daniel says. "He's a total math whiz, he even won a math prize."

"It's IRS, not IRA," Paul says, struggling to straighten things out, to unseat these men from the thrones his sons have set them on. "And Meaders is a weaselly numbers cruncher."

"I could live with the Meaderses," Daniel says blithely.

"For how long?" Paul asks.

"As long as I want," Daniel says.

"It's costing us more than twenty thousand dollars to fix up the house," Paul says. "That's a pretty penny."

Elaine looks at him; talk about pathetic. What do the boys care about what it costs to fix the house? They're kids, what do they know from twenty thousand dollars?

"Nate does push-ups. He tried doing them on me," Sammy says. "It was a special kind; you lie on top of the other boy and you do push-ups. I couldn't breathe. He punched me."

On-screen, helicopters search for the missing soldier, one of the choppers blows up, another crashes into the side of a hill, blood splashes across the windshield.

"Mr. Meaders whacks off twice a day, to keep himself fit," Daniel says. "That's what his father taught him. Frequency solves urgency."

"My mother has a vibrating bed," Jennifer says. "One of those Craft-Magic things they advertise on TV. It's deeply adjustable-head, feet, up, down, higher, lower. She calls it her luxury. She says, 'I'm going to go up and lie on my luxury.'"

Elaine is hearing things she doesn't want to know. "Everyone's got something," she says, shaking her head, emptying her ears.

Daniel takes another piece of pizza.

"How many is that for you?" Elaine asks.

"Only my fourth," he says.

Paul belches. "Leave room for ice cream," he says, kicking off his shoes.

Elaine gets up to clear the plates. She trips over a tennis shoe. Pizza crust falls to the floor.

"Shhhhh," Paul hisses.

"Sorry," she says, apologizing reflexively.

She looks at Paul, Daniel, Sammy, and Jennifer, woven onto a pile on the sofa, spilling over onto the floor. Paul stretches out to fill Elaine's spot. It's as though it's fine, as though it's well and good to burn down the house, fix it, and move back in, as though nothing has happened, as though nothing has changed.

Something has to change. Someone has to notice.

Elaine carries dishes into the kitchen.

She doesn't go downstairs, unscrew the fuse box, plunge them into darkness, and then turn around and march back into the living room and say, Okay, cavemen, it's my turn now, listen up-I want to be cooked for and cleaned up after. I want to be accommodated and paid attention to, instead of always worrying about how I'm failing you. I want to think about what I'm not getting here. Let's take a moment.

She thinks of Paul, of Pat, Bud Johnson, the cop. Everyone is fucking her, everyone is getting what they want except Elaine-Elaine wants relief, and Elaine wants attention. She wants someone to respond to her, not because they get something out of it, not because it fills some pathetic need of their own, not because they want something back, but just because..

She thinks of Mrs. Hansen, who she hasn't seen or heard a peep out of all day; she wonders if it's too late too call.

"You're such a good cookie," Mrs. Hansen says. "I'm just having a bad day. Tomorrow I'll be fine. I'm glad you called, glad someone noticed." There's a pause. "What are you doing home? It's Saturday night."

"The Montgomerys canceled at the last minute."

"Oh, baby, I bet that got everyone in a twist."

"Yep," Elaine says.

"Something with the boy."

"A complication," Elaine says.

"What about your two? Where are they?" Mrs. Hansen asks.

"We're all here," Elaine says. "Everyone's home. They're on the sofa watching TV."

"Good," Mrs. Hansen says. "That's the way it should be. See you tomorrow. Good night."

Paul's roach, the end of his joint, is on the counter, next to the car keys, pushed back-out of sight. Elaine peels open the gluey paper and eats the pot. She chews it; it's a little burned, a little like lawn, like twigs. She eats it-it's evidence she feels compelled to get rid of. She has some nervous compulsion to keep the house clean, to put something in her mouth. There is a distant memory of hash brownies, escape. The pot sticks in her throat. She eats some ice cream to wash it down. She pours herself a glass of wine. She is still thinking of the cop, of Pat. She should call Pat, but what would she say? What did you and George do when the Montgomerys canceled? Idle conversation, cheap chatter. She finishes her snack, pours herself a glass of wine, picks up a disposable camera, and wanders around the house, taking pictures. She goes into the living room and watches them staring at the TV. Images, colors, flicker across their faces. She aims. She snaps. Flash. Flash.

"What are you doing?" Paul says. "We're watching a movie."

"Documenting," she says.

"Very funny," he says.

The movie ends, no one wins, everything goes up in smoke.

"I'll drive Jennifer home," Paul says, putting his shoes back on.

"I'm so glad you were here. We don't see enough of you," Elaine tells Jennifer as she's opening her wallet, taking out a twenty.

"Hush money?" Paul asks.

"Baby-sitting," Elaine says.

"You didn't go out," Jennifer says, refusing the money.

"You baby-sat the whole family," Elaine says.

"I ate pizza and watched a movie. I put no one to bed, I didn't call poison control, the pediatrician's pager, or the parents at a dinner party-forget it."

"It's Saturday night," Elaine says. "I'm sure you had a hundred better things to do." "It was a night off for me," Jennifer says, following Paul out of the house. "Deeply relaxing."

"Back in a flash," Paul says, picking up the car keys.

Elaine is afraid to be home alone even though the boys are there-she imagines the cop is still out there, still hard. The condom is in her pocket-she doesn't know what to do with it, save it like a caul, a scrap, the skin of her infidelity, or take it out and toss it in the Dumpster.

Elaine tries to sit somewhere in the living room where he wouldn't be able to see her. She sits in the corner holding the portable phone. If he comes back, who will she call?