A. Homes - Music for Torching

"What were you thinking?" the parents ask, smacking at their children, beating the dirt off their clothing. The children, dizzy with delight, woozy from spinning, laugh hysterically and fall down on the grass.

Catherine is back. She's washed her face, powdered her nose, and taken some sort of little pill that the doctor ordered.

"Whatever does the trick," Mrs. Hansen says, laying a line of mustard down her dog.

"Delicious," Joan pronounces, and they all agree. "I'm so glad I had the idea."

It is dark now. The light of the fire, the glow of the torches, plays off their faces, staining them an orangey yellow. The adults have Mrs. Hansen's famous fruit in vodka, and the children make themselves silly and sick on s'mores-sandwiches of chocolate, toasted marshmallows, and graham crackers. "Excrete," Daniel says, mushing everything together, repeating his theme for the day. White sticky stuff oozes over his fingers.

"How many have you had?" Elaine asks, wondering how he'll sleep.

"Didn't count," he says.

"Were the burgers cooked enough?" Liz asks. "I ate mine, but I thought it was raw in the middle."

"Would anyone like an after-dinner drink?" Paul asks. "What goes good with hamburger?"

"Brandy," George says.

They sit on the grass, drinking, having a look at the stars. "Isn't it nice to sit outside?" Ted says. "We're never just outside for no reason."

"Especially in the dark," Joan says. "I hate being in the dark."

There is the wash of headlights across the party, a car pulls into the driveway, the door slams.

"That's Pat," George says.

Crossing the grass, she calls ahead, "I'm off schedule."

"We're finished," Elaine calls back.

"You missed dinner," Joan says.

"Would you like a drink?" George asks his wife. "I just made a fresh pitcher."

Elaine goes into the kitchen to get Pat a glass; Pat follows her. The cabinet is empty, the glasses are all dirty, the only thing on the shelf is a Curious George mug. "I have very little to offer you," Elaine says.

"I'm sorry I left so abruptly yesterday." Pat presses against her. "I'm a little in love with you."

Elaine washes a dirty glass. "Wine? Martini? Seltzer?"

"What are we going to do?" Pat asks.

Elaine slides away from her. "Paul and I are fixing the house, we're making everything good again. There's nothing else to do," Elaine says, handing Pat the empty glass.

In the yard, there is the sound of crickets and the whoosh of someone's sprinkler kicking on. "He's going to have the best grass," Paul says.

"There's something cursed about that house. No one stays," Liz says. "It's always turning over."

"Who lives there now?" Joan asks.

"Someone with a baby," Elaine says, sitting down again. "That's all we know. We see them wheeling him around sometimes."

"There's the Big Dipper," George says, pointing up. And they watch the sky. It is bigger than they are, and it is calming, and they are quiet.

"There goes the space shuttle," Daniel says as a plane passes.

"Really?" Sammy asks.

"Not really," Liz says. "It's a plane out of La Guardia, a night flight to Europe filled with bankers, movie stars, and runaways."

They all take a few deep breaths. They drain their glasses, stretch out their arms and legs, and say, "This is so relaxing, I am so relaxed. For the first time in a long time I feel as though I don't have a care in the world."

Mrs. Hansen's hubcap pulls out a pack of sparklers and gives one to each person.

"To summer," they say, lighting up, tapping the sparklers against each other, toasting. The sparks are bright white, phosphorescent, clean and clear. They are a sweet explosion firing the night, evaporating in the air. "To all things bright and beautiful."

"Touche," Ted says, sword fighting with Paul.

And then they have had enough.

"Big day tomorrow," George says, bringing things to a close. "Back to work, back to school. I almost forgot-your things are in my car." He goes down to the car and returns with a box of clothes. "Back to you," he says.

Under the torchlight Elaine can see that they are perfectly pressed. "Thank you," she says to Pat. "For everything, always."

"Damn knees," Ted says, trying to get up off the grass.

"Call you tomorrow," Liz says, walking off with Jennifer and Robert.

In the end, the goal is to be left with something: a spouse, children, even parents if you can manage it. The goal is not to be left alone, not to be left old, poor, and on the street. Everyone thinks it could happen to them, everyone worries that they might drift so far from reality as not to be welcomed back-think of bag ladies, men living on steam grates, the Montgomery boy. Everyone secretly knows that it's something that could happen at any moment-an error or an accident.

Paul and Elaine are left alone with the grill.

"What now?" Elaine asks.

Paul looks at Elaine.

"Any ideas?"

They could do it again. It would be harder to explain a second time around. They would have to do a better job, they would have to make it spectacular and inescapable, they would have to be committed.

"Put the lid on it," Paul says. "It'll burn itself out."

"And the torches?"

"They'll be out by morning," Paul says.

The boys appear out of the darkness, and all four of them-Paul, Elaine, Sammy, and Daniel-go on a hunt, scouring the field of debris, gathering glasses and plates, knives and forks, ketchup, mustard. They carry things into the house, they go from the dark into the light. Everything is fiercely illuminated-they struggle to adjust.

Sammy covers his eyes.

"The mayonnaise is still out there somewhere," Paul says, sending Daniel on a reconnaissance mission, back into the night.

"It turned out okay, didn't it?" Elaine says to Paul as she's loading the dishwasher. "We have such nice friends. I don't think they want to hurt us," Elaine says-and it comes out sounding strange.

"Why hurt us?" Paul wonders.

"Because that's what people do, they constantly try to knock each other down and mow each other over." She adds the soap.

Daniel returns with the jar of mayonnaise, blades of grass

stuck to the rim. "The top is missing in action," he reports, his mouth rimmed with marshmallow glue and graham-cracker crumbs.

"Thanks," Paul says, slipping the mayo into the refrigerator topless.

"Nine o'clock, baths and bed," Elaine announces to the boys. She's determined to have tomorrow go right. She's taken a lesson from Pat: plan ahead. "Tick-tock, I bought you each an alarm clock." She gives them to the children like gifts. "All set, ready to ring. Breakfast in the kitchen at seven, attendance will be taken."

Later, as she's tucking Sammy in, his skin still warm from the tub, his hair still damp, his smell still the milky sweet of a child, she lets her head dip into his neck, she breathes deeply. "Good night," she whispers in his ear. "Sleep tight, pray that nothing knocks or bites."

ELAINE IS MAKING PANCAKES.

Paul comes into the kitchen showered, shaved, ready to work. "No fat," he says.

"No lumps," she says, stirring the batter.

There is a hiss as she sprays the frying pan. "No stick," she says. Elaine pours batter into the pan. It spreads into small circles.

"Don't burn the blueberries," he says.

"Why would I?"

She has set the table. She has poured glasses of orange juice and milk. She has made a pot of coffee using the grind that her mother left her. She is determined to make things good again.

"Coffee?" She has an apron around her waist, her hair in a bun. She is their Aunt Jemima, their Mrs. Butterworth-she is cooking.

Elaine has had a revelation: She doesn't have to wait for something to happen; she can make something happen. She has some control. If she doesn't like the way things are, she can change them. That's why she's making breakfast. Pop-Tarts are no longer an option. She's hoping that the boys haven't yet unlearned what they learned last week. She's hoping that she can take advantage of the habits of other people's houses. She's playing a home version of the When in Rome Game. She has taken a lesson from Pat: act normal.