A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Is that a telephone in your pocket, or are you just glad to hear from me?" she asks.

"Can we call you back in a few minutes?" Paul asks.

"Don't call us, we'll call you," the date says, hanging up.

Paul hands the phone back to Henry.

"Keep it for a few days," Henry says. "Until your service is restored."

"Thanks," Paul says, slipping the phone in his pocket. "It may come in handy."

"It was a mistake," Paul says, passing Elaine in the upstairs hallway-it's the first moment they've had alone all day.

"Was it?" Elaine asks.

Paul has no answer. "I'm going to get the policy," he says. "The adjuster should be here any minute."

"If we lie, we could get caught, we could go to jail," Elaine says, tormenting him.

"We deserve to go to jail."

"And who'll take care of the kids? Who'll pay the bills? Someone has to earn a living around here, and it's not going to come from making license plates."

"We have to pay for our mistakes."

"I'll send you an itemized statement," Elaine says.

She goes back into the bedroom, rummages through Paul's drawers, his closet, and picks out a few suits, things she never wants to see him in again. She takes them down and lays them out on the front lawn.

"Times like these really pull you together," one of the neighbors says. "I'd like to buy your melon baller," he adds. "Will a dollar do it?"

Paul pulls Elaine aside. "The investigator's over there," he says, nodding in the direction of the State Farm man.

"Have you spoken with him?" Elaine asks.

"I told him we went out for dinner. I told him I set up the grill and then you went into the kitchen and there were only three hot dogs-three hot dogs, for four people. And we decided to go out."

"Yes, but how did the fire start? Isn't that what they're asking?"

"The boys must have been doing something, playing with matches," Paul says.

At first, Elaine is horrified that he would blame it on the children, but then it's a relief-at least he's not blaming her. "Playing, trying to get dinner ready?" she says.

"Yes, they were very hungry," he says.

"Starving," Elaine says. "And how did the grill tip over?"

"Wind," Paul says, shrugging, holding his hands up as if to say, go figure.

And for the moment they are together again, bound by their secret.

"Do you think everyone knows that we did it?" Elaine asks Paul.

"They're more interested in themselves than us."

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to come back."

"What did you think we'd do?"

"I didn't think."

"Well, what did you imagine?"

"I thought it would make us change," she says, "but we're the same. The same as we were yesterday."

"Worse."

"It has to get better," she says, and begins to cry.

"You can't control everything," Paul says.

Pat and George Nielson appear. "We've got to go," George says. "We have a little event to attend-a lunch for The Sons of the Fallen."

"Don't forget you're staying with us for the duration. If you get there and we're out."

"Key's under the mat," George says, finishing her sentence.

Suddenly, there's screaming, a high-pitched howl. It's Mrs. Hansen. In their exuberant efforts to tie up the house, to choke it with cassette tape, Sammy and Daniel have roped in Mrs. Hansen. She'd gone in to get something, and now she can't get out.

"Call the police," she's yelling. "Call the police. Do something. Somebody do something."

Paul goes in through the basement, gets his hedge clippers, and quickly cuts her out. The boys are nowhere to be seen.

"Oh," she says. "I thought I was going to die. I have that, you know, death in small places, claustrophobia. I think I need a drink. What time is it? Is it too early to have a drink?"

"What would you like?" Elaine asks. "What would do the trick?"

"Oh, a splash of gin and maybe a whisper of vermouth-that's all I need, just a whisper."

Elaine makes Mrs. Hansen her drink and brings it out to her. Mrs. Hansen sits under the maple tree, her legs stuck straight out in front of her, and sips quickly. "Thank you," she says. "That's better now. That's much better. It's a beautiful day, isn't it? A good day for a sale." She digs into her pocket, pulls out a pile of cash, and presses it into Elaine's hands. "Buy yourself a secret something," she says. "You earned it." When her first drink is gone, Elaine makes her a second one and then a third, and by then the crowd is thinning and business is slacking off. The sky is getting dark, and it looks like rain.

Paul temporarily patches the hole in the living room wall with pieces of plastic. A police car comes by and closes down the sale, threatening to ticket Elaine for littering or loitering, she's not sure which. Elaine stuffs the leftovers into Hefty bags that she leaves at the end of the driveway. The wind billows, and the sky gets darker still.

Mrs. Hansen takes her empty coffeepot and toddles home. "I would have been over earlier, but last night." she tells Elaine.

Elaine nods. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you for everything. The sale was a great idea, an inspiration."

"Thanks for the drink," Mrs. Hansen says.

And it begins to rain.

They are alone in their house: Paul, Elaine, Daniel, and Sammy. The children rummage through the kitchen like mice. They're crabby, coming down from their caffeine high. "We're hungry," they whine. Everything is damp and smells like smoke. Elaine is emptying the shelves, throwing boxes and cans away.

"You don't have to get rid of everything, do you?" Paul asks.

"Expired in 1994," Elaine says, hurling a can of beans into the trash.

Outside, a horn honks.

Daniel goes out. "It's Willy Meaders's mother," he says, coming back. "She invited me to their house, she said I can sleep over. Can I go? Can I?"

"Why not?" Elaine says.

Paul, Elaine, and Sammy are left in the kitchen. The wallpaper is suddenly peeling, the tiles have started coming up. As the hours pass, the damage gets worse, as though the house, having held itself together for so long, is finally relaxing from the spasm of the fire, letting go, giving up.

Where will it stop? Elaine wonders.

In the background, there is a strange drip-dripping sound.

"Is the adjuster coming back?" she asks.

"They said that in a few days it'll stabilize, it'll start to dry out. They'll check back," Paul says.

"A house is not a home," Elaine says.

Paul looks at Sammy. "How come no one's rescued you yet?"

"Dunno," Sammy says.

"Don't worry," Paul says, "someone will come." And like some slick bit of comic timing or psychic summoning, as he's saying it, the doorbell rings and it's Sammy's friend Nate and his mother.

"I'm sorry," Nate's mother says, so earnestly that Elaine is confused. "It's so awful," the woman goes on. "You must be devastated."

Paul comes up from behind.

"It's Nate's mom," Elaine says, introducing the woman, trying not to let on that she can't remember the woman's name.

Paul shakes the woman's hand. "Hello." She is his Mrs. Apple, his biweekly afternoon entertainment. They met at one of Sammy's soccer games; Elaine was down with the flu, and Nate's father was at a meeting in Minneapolis. Together they took the children to the McDonald's drive-thru and then sat in the parking lot, talking between their rolled-down windows for an hour and a half, before making a date for the following Saturday. That was ten months ago, and as far as Paul can tell, Elaine doesn't have a clue.

"I have no idea what you're planning," the woman says to Elaine, "but if there's anything I can do." She pauses.

Nate, dressed head to toe in camouflage gear, has pressed himself flat against the peeling wallpaper.

"Don't think I can't see you, Mr. Invisible," Paul says. "I've got my eye on you."