A. Homes - Music for Torching

"How many guns? What kind?" the cop is asking.

"Half dozen, assorted?" Susan looks at Paul. She is his Mrs. Apple. He is her Friday Fun.

"What other kinds of explosive devices does your husband collect: rifles, shotguns, grenades? Any ammunition of other types? Land mines? What does your son know about weaponry?"

"Where is your husband?" another cop asks.

"At a convention in Minneapolis. I don't have the number. He's supposed to be calling tonight."

"Does your son know how to fire a gun?"

She nods. "Yes."

Elaine is imploding, erupting internally. He knows how to fire a gun. Who are these people? What is happening here?

"What was he wearing this morning?" the cop continues. "Was he carrying bags with him? Do you know what the content of his bags would be? There are reports of bulges or lumps on his body or under his clothing. We're just trying to figure out what he's got with him in there."

Paul is struggling to say something. Elaine watches him. She remembers last week rushing from lunch with Liz to Pat's, rushing to get to the school play by two o'clock, sitting on the gray metal folding chair. She remembers watching the back of Susan's head. She remembers Nate as a hunter in the play-Sammy was a rhino, and Nate shot him.

"Could we send someone over to your house to take a look around?" the cop asks.

"Of course." Susan drops the keys into the cop's open hand. "There's a gun case in the family room, and then there's something in the dresser upstairs, on the right, under the socks."

"Do I need a search warrant?" the cop asks.

"She gave you the keys to the house," the top cop says.

"Sammy was a rhino, and Nate shot him," Elaine says. She feels herself start to cry. A small sound leaks out; she presses her fingers to her mouth and pushes it back in.

Paul doesn't know what to say. "We'll get it straightened out as quick as we can, and then we'll go home."

Elaine shakes her head. She doesn't believe anything Paul says.

The three parents are inside the tape, in the zone. Paul is in the middle, pulled in both directions. They are all there, in the same place at the same time.

Elaine stands with her fingers pressed to her mouth, afraid it's all going to fall out, endlessly spew. All she can do is press it back, push it down, swallow it.

It is clear.

Everything is out from under.

She knows.

Elaine wants to walk, to run. If it weren't for Sammy, she would turn and go, she would be already gone. "What have you done?" Elaine asks. "Have you done something awful? Is that what this is about? Is that her?"

Paul stares at the classroom window.

"I am very uncomfortable," Elaine says, mechanically. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here anymore."

The TV crew is interviewing the cafeteria lady. "Sammy likes my baking, my snickerdoodles. We're one of the few elementary schools that still cooks our own food. All the others are heat and eat. I've been here since 1972.."

The Bomb Squad arrives in a station wagon. Two plain-clothes cops and two German shepherds get out. The dogs are panting, they are excited. Their penises are pink and pointy. The cops take black boxes out of the back; they pull on special uniforms. The dogs sniff everything.

"I feel sick," Elaine says.

On the hood of a car the principal sketches a map of the school. On a piece of lined notebook paper, she draws a detailed layout of the classroom.

Nate's mother steps forward, striding across the parking lot and onto the grass. She stands outside the classroom window. "Nate, can you hear me? It's Mommy. This isn't a game, guns are not toys. Come on out, and I'll take you to FAO Schwarz. I'll buy you anything you want. Sammy is your friend. I'm sure you don't mean to upset him." She pauses. "It's three-thirty, Nate. Time to go home. You know what's for dinner? Fish sticks. And tartar sauce. You know how much you like tartar sauce." She yells at the building. Her voice echoes off the brick, slapping back at her. "Five minutes, Nate, I'll wait five minutes."

Elaine has started to move away. Without knowing, she has taken several steps back; she is drifting close to the edge, the yellow tape.

At the front of the crowd, Elaine sees Joan with Catherine Montgomery-their expressions frighten Elaine.

Daniel arrives with Willy. He ducks under the tape. "Mom?"

Elaine pulls him to her. Daniel's arms stay flat at his sides; it's the middle of the afternoon, they're in public, strangers are watching. Elaine squeezes him tight. "I hope I'm not a horrible mother," she says. "I may act distracted, but I do care-I care enormously. I care about the two of you so much that it's almost unbearable-do you know that?"

"I heard Nate's got a gun," Daniel says. "I heard he made a bomb."

"No one knows," Elaine says.

An ambulance pulls up and parks across the street. At a certain point it becomes hard to pretend that nothing is going on.

"Did you see all the people, Joan and Catherine? And Mrs. Hansen should be home from the dentist soon," she tells him.

The school bell rings, pealing, screaming, slamming off the walls of the empty building like an alarm. It scares the hell out of everyone.

"School's out," Daniel says.

"Excuse me," Paul says to the top cop. "Excuse me, I'm wondering if you could get this whole show to back up a bit. This is one of those games that kids play, and it's gotten a little out of hand. He's probably too embarrassed to come out. He's probably nervous as hell. You're making it hard to walk away. Could you ask them, could you ask everyone to take it back?"

Paul runs pathetically from person to person, begging them all to do something, urging them, imploring them.

"Patience is the key," the cop says. "There's nothing to be gained from rushing people to places they don't want to go."

"I just want it fixed," Elaine says.

The newscaster goes out live. "A disturbed little boy, a desperate cry for attention. A mother stands outside a school, pleading with her child. A hostage crisis."

"Can you shut up? Just shut up? You're making it worse. This is a private moment, and you're turning it into snack food," Paul shouts at the reporter.

"Understandably very agitated, the father of the boy that's being held hostage." The reporter speaks in a hushed whisper. "Two nine-year-olds in an afternoon showdown."

The heat continues to build. A thick breeze blows back the leaves, sweeping Elaine's hair off her face.

Jennifer has slipped in and is standing next to Daniel. Mrs. Hansen arrives with a wad of cotton still stuck in her cheek. "I came as soon as I heard."

Inside the classroom there is a dull thud, like the bang of a bass drum, a flash that catches the eyes outside. The cops duck behind parked cars, they draw their weapons, they aim and brace, ready to fire.

Inside the room there is a spray of sparks, a fountain of light, cascading colors.

"Fireworks," Elaine says, looking through the binoculars. "Fireworks," she says, remembering the time when the boys were with Paul's mother in Florida and Elaine and Paul stayed home and smoked crack. Elaine had the sensation of being a fountain, the fountain in front of the Plaza hotel. She was a Roman candle, a ball of light, a fantastic flame.

"Hold your fire," the top cop calls.

There are more small explosions-firecrackers snapping, a

couple of loud cherry-bomb bangs. And then there is a flood of yellow smoke. A sulfurous eruption, a urine-yellow cloud billowing, swelling, rising. Nate has opened the windows and tossed out smoke bombs. A diversionary tactic. When the smoke clears, the venetian blinds have been dropped and drawn.

The breeze shakes the blinds, they rattle-slithering snake.

For the moment, Elaine is only a witness. "There's smoke," she says. "Smoke isn't good."