A. Homes: Safety of Objects: Stories

Paul doesn’t really mean they should go to a movie; he means they should make a time to be together, in some way or another. Usually they have to get a sitter for this.

“Pick you up around four,” he says.

“Does that mean you’re taking the car? I have things to do.”

“We can go together,” he says.

In his fantasy about suburban life the whole family is always in the car together, going places, singing songs, eating McDonald’s. He loves it when they pull up in front of a store and he goes in while she waits in the car for as long as it takes.

“Forget it,” she says.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Paul comes into the bedroom where Elaine is resting.

“I brought you something,” he says, handing her a porno tape he rented in town.

“For me?” she says.

She can’t imagine that he brought this for her. If he was going to bring her a present she’d like flowers, a scarf, even a record. Porno is not a gift.

He puts the tape in the VCR. They are so used to each other that it doesn’t take long, and after a short nap they decide to actually go to the movies.

The marquee isn’t lit and Elaine has to put on Paul’s glasses in order to see what’s playing. He says something about smoking a joint in the theater, but she reminds him that they both have professional reputations.

“You never know where your clients might be,” she says. “Besides,” she whispers in his ear, “this isn’t Manhattan.”

She puts her hand on his crotch and squeezes. She knows he likes it when she does things like that in public places.

In the darkness of the theater they fall in love. They fall in love not so much with each other, that’s history, but in love with the idea of being in love, of liking someone that much. She puts her head on his shoulder and he doesn’t say anything about it hurting his tennis arm.

After the movie, they walk down the main street. Paul walks with his hands in his pockets and Elaine keeps her arms wrapped tightly around her chest like she’s protecting herself from something. It’s as if in the dark theater they swore they’d be in love for the entire week, but outside in the fresh air, neither is sure it’s viable.

Elaine and Paul cut across the street and go into the only restaurant in town where they can both eat without getting sick. Paul orders a bottle of wine. He orders fettuccine alfredo without checking with Elaine. She doesn’t say anything about his cholesterol. It’s part of their love agreement. They are for the moment Siamese twins separated. They are off-duty parole officers. They are free. Their sons are in Florida being overfed by his mother.

* * *

In the car on the way home they smoke two joints. She tells Paul to drive by the sound before going back to the house. He parks at the edge of the water, turns off the engine, and they sit looking out, across to whatever it is that’s out there, maybe Connecticut.

“Did you think we’d ever be here, like this?” Elaine asks.

“Here like what?”

“Here, in a house, with a station wagon?”

A light flashes across their car, and instead of going on it freezes on Elaine and Paul. There is a knock on Paul’s window and the flashlight shines in.

“Roll down your window, sir?” the police officer says. “Can I help you? Are you looking for something?”

“Just taking in the view,” Paul says.

Elaine thinks they’re being busted, the cop smells the dope. She can’t believe she’s in the car and this is happening, now, to her. She hardly ever gets stoned.

Even though it’s early October, Paul is beginning to sweat. Elaine thinks he’ll turn them in. He’s reminding her of Dagwood Bumstead.

“We just moved here six months ago,” Elaine says.

It’s always her job to take care of things. To deal. If they are arrested, they will have to move, immediately, before the boys come home. There will be a picture of her on the front page of the local paper. NEWCOMER UP IN SMOKE.

“Do you have any identification? May I see your license, sir?”

The cop looks like he’s twelve years old. If he ever shaves it’s not because he has to, but because it makes him feel older.

“Is this your current address?”

“No, we live here at three-four-three-three Maplerock Terrace,” Elaine says.

She smiles at the cop. He doesn’t ask for her license. She’s the wife.

The cop’s whole head is inside the car, but he doesn’t seem to smell anything. Elaine decides that either he’s retarded or has a serious sinus problem.

“You’re new here,” he says.

“That’s right. I’m even a member of the newcomers club, meets once a month,” Elaine says, determined to keep them out of jail.

“Well,” the cop says. “Why don’t you go on home now.”

“We were just taking in the view,” Paul says, nodding toward the sound.

“We don’t do that here, sir,” the cop says. “Have a good evening, sir,” the cop says.

He turns off his flashlight and walks back to the squad car.

Paul doesn’t start the car right away. He doesn’t seem able to. He’s covered with a slimy film of sweat. His skin is glow-in-the-dark white.

“Are you in pain?” Elaine asks.

She turns on the map light so she can get a better look at him.

“Are you having a heart attack?”

She wishes she hadn’t let him order the fettuccine.

“Should I take you to the hospital?”

“Drive home?” he says.

She opens her door and goes around to the other side. The cop is parked down the block, lights off, watching them.

Paul crosses over inside the car. His legs get stuck on the gear shift and it is a few minutes before Elaine can get in. She stands in the street, waiting. She thinks about what would happen in an emergency, if Paul really had to stand up to something, a burglar maybe.

* * *

During the night Paul’s stomach starts in and toxic clouds billow silently from his sleeping body. Elaine goes into Sammy’s room and buries herself among the stuffed animals, using the big bear for a pillow and a husband.

At around seven Paul wakes Elaine by trying to fit himself next to her in the twin bed.

“You smelled terrible,” she says.

“Why did you let me have the fettuccine?”

She doesn’t say anything. It’s too complicated. She let him eat it because she doesn’t like him and doesn’t care what he does and wishes he would die soon. She let him eat it because she loves him and can’t deny him his pleasures and is determined not to act like his mother.

He starts to make love to her.

“Not here,” she says, thinking it’s an incredibly perverted thing to do in their child’s bed.

He stops and curls next to her. She rolls in toward the wall, pulling the Mickey Mouse blanket up over her head. Without the children, with nothing absolutely required of her, she is exhausted. She is more tired than she ever remembers being.

She dreams that her children have been attacked by a shark. She hears her mother-in-law telling her the story, long-distance.

“They’re fine, that’s the most important thing. In the history of Miami Beach, it never happened before. Sammy was lying at the edge of the water, not really even in the water, and a shark, a very small shark, washed up on top of him. And Daniel, what a big boy, what a man, reached down and pulled the shark off Sammy, but then the shark got Daniel by the arm. It wasn’t a big shark. It must have been dying because why else was it on the beach? Daniel just shook it off. No skin broken. It’s here now, in the bathtub. The boys want to have it stuffed. I said it’s up to you. You’re the mother.”

* * *

At noon Elaine gets out of bed and pulls on the same clothing she wore yesterday. She doesn’t bother to brush her teeth. She isn’t going to run into anyone she has to talk to. Elaine takes the car to the grocery store. She sits in the parking lot staring at the store. She hates it but figures that since she’s already there, she’ll be a good sport, she’ll run in.