A. Homes - Music for Torching

Paul stares.

"It's going to be wonderful," Catherine says, coming around the corner of the house. "French doors and a deck, who could ask for more?"

"Lots of people," Ted says.

They are suspended in a strangely golden hour, that odd expanse of time at the beginning of the summer when afternoons are elongated, holding off the dimming of the day.

Sammy and the Montgomery daughter playing with walkie- talkies. Elaine overhears Sammy ask, "What are you wearing?"

"A tiara," the girl says.

"And what's under it?" Sammy asks, not knowing what a tiara

is.

"Hair," the girl says.

Daniel and Willy have George's little M by her wrists and ankles. They swing her through the air-she squeals. One of her shoes falls off.

"Are you hurting her?" Paul asks.

"Willy, it's time to put her down and say good-bye. Time for you to go home," Elaine says.

Ted gets into his car and toots the horn to get everyone's attention. The friends gather round. Joan and Ted are grinning, so proud of themselves, clever-good at the game.

"We have a little something for you," Joan says to Elaine and Paul. "From all of us."

Ted pops the trunk.

"The piece de resistance," Joan says.

"Could someone give me a hand?" Ted asks.

George steps in, and he and Ted pull a big black orb from the trunk.

Elaine sees something black and round and thinks of the wrecking ball, the hard knocking against the house.

"A Weber kettle," George announces, in case anyone doesn't know.

"Top of the line," Ted says. "We wanted you to have the real thing."

"Let's get some legs on it," Ted says, reaching into the trunk for the missing parts.

"Welcome home." "To new beginnings," Catherine puts in, and they tap their glasses together; the tinkling clink of good glass for a moment sounds like the music of a wind chime.

"It could have happened to any one of us," Ted says. "And that's the truth."

Elaine and Paul look at each other for clues. Elaine finally sputters, "We're overwhelmed. Thank you, thank you so much."

The men set up the grill, filling the kettle with coals. Henry hands Paul a can of lighter fluid with a red ribbon on it. "Fire it up," he says.

Paul remembers squirting the fluid against the house, streaks of it splashing the back wall and evaporating. He remembers the excitement, the anxiety. He remembers coming home, after the fire, late at night in the dark, finding the house still standing. "My aim isn't always true," Paul says.

"It all depends on how full your container is and how hard you squeeze," George says.

"Go on," Ted says. "Hop on the horse."

And with the other men standing by, Paul squirts the stuff on the briquettes.

Henry strikes a match, a quick, fiery burst. He throws it in, and a flash of flame rises from the kettle.

"Bravo!" Joan says.

Showing off, Ted squirts a little more stuff onto the fire, and the flames shoot higher.

"Don't get reckless," Joan says. "That's how accidents happen. That's how this whole thing started."

The men hover around the grill, waiting for the coals to turn. The women press hamburger meat into patties.

George goes into the house to make more martinis; Elaine follows him in. She's come for something, she had a reason, she just can't remember what. It's dark. She turns on a few lights.

"Is Pat all right?" she asks.

"Fine," George says, stirring the pitcher. He pours himself a drink. He downs it and pours another. "She's fine." He adds a splash of vermouth to the pitcher. "That's the benefit of being the bartender," he says. "You get to sample the elixir. Where did Elvis die? All day I've been wondering, did he die on the throne?"

"Is this a joke?" Elaine asks.

"No," George says. "I'm just trying to remember if he died on the toilet."

Mrs. Hansen raps on the window. "Music," she shouts. "We need some music if we're going to dance." She's wearing a dandelion chain like a crown on her head-the Montgomery daughter made it for her.

George glances around the room for the stereo, for something to turn on.

"All that's here is TV," Elaine says.

They pull the TV stand close to the window, put it to a music station, and turn up the volume.

Outside, images flicker across the bushes.

"It's like we're in a movie," someone says.

"Martinis, get your martinis here," George calls as they return to the crowd. He taps his glass against the pitcher, ringing it like the ice-cream man.

The man from Pelham lights the bamboo torches, and the scene starts to look like a jungle party, a tribal gathering. The yard throbs with the smell of citronella, the scent of meat cooking taints the air. Cars drive by, slowing as they pass.

"This is perfect," Jennifer's friend tells Paul. "You're inverting the phenomenon of the backyard, playing the interiority of the back against the exteriority of the front-substituting private space for public, not worrying who might see, what they'll think. It's a radical gesture."

"Whatever you do, don't marry him," Mrs. Hansen whispers to Jennifer. "He'll reduce you to rubble."

"What happens next?" Elaine asks Catherine.

"You don't want to know," Catherine says.

Elaine squeezes Catherine's arm-giving her the go-ahead to continue. Liz and Joan stand by ready, waiting to hear.

"The only way they'll treat him is if they treat the whole family. We'd have to move up there and go into residential family therapy."

"You'd move?" Joan asks, missing the point.

"And if you don't agree?" Elaine asks.

"The state may try and charge him as an adult."

"They couldn't really do that, could they?" Joan says. "It seems kind of extreme, doesn't it?"

"He ate somebody's fingers," someone says.

"There but for the grace of God go I," George says, flipping hamburgers. The men have been listening in.

Hammy's lip trembles.

The light fades, big birds gather on the electric lines. They call to each other.

"Listen to the birds," Elaine says. And they all do.

"It's a wonderful life," Mrs. Hansen says.

"Who's to judge?" Mrs. Hansen's hubcap says, raising his glass. "We all have so many damned opinions, so much we think we know. We don't know anything."

They are all so glad to be back together again. They feel the warmth, the heat, the flicker of the flames. None are what they seem, none are what you think, none are what you'd want them to be. They all are both more and less-deeply human.

"I'm so happy to be here," Catherine says; then she begins to cry and runs into the house.

"It's been a week," Paul whispers to Elaine, who hasn't for a minute forgotten. "Almost this time of night. I squirted the stuff and lit the flame, I fanned the fire and you kicked the grill," Paul says.

"We started the fire that burst the bubble that burned the house and so on and so forth," Elaine finishes the tune for him.

"Do they know what happened?" Paul asks.

"I don't think so," Elaine murmurs.

"Are you embarrassed about the grill?"

"A little. Aren't you?"

"Dinner is served," George says, taking the burgers off the fire.

The children come out from around back covered in dirt. They've invented a game called Making Clouds that involves spinning in circles and kicking up loose soil-they're filthy.