Music For Torching

MUSIC FOR TORCHING A. M. HOMES In Memory CONTENTS ONE IT IS AFTER MIDNIGHT on one of those Friday nights… 1 TWO IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Paul wakes up. “We… 22 THREE PAUL AND ELAINE ARE ALONE. The children have been farmed… 45 FOUR PAUL IS UP EARLY. He is out of his nightgown,… 96 FIVE IT IS A PERFECT JUNE DAY, the sky is a… 123 SIX PAUL IS PLEASED WITH HIMSELF. He is up and out. 154 SEVEN THE WORK BEGINS. 201 EIGHT PAUL IS LATE. He scurries. He gets off the train… 228 NINE THE WRECKING BALL WAKE-UP. A hard knock shakes the house. 253 TEN SUNDAY MORNING. Two dogs knock over a trash can, dragging… 288 ELEVEN ELAINE IS MAKING PANCAKES. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR PRAISE OTHER BOOKS BY A. M. HOMES COVER COPYRIGHT ABOUT THE PUBLISHER 314 ONE on one of those Friday nights when the guests have all gone home and the host and hostess are left in their drunkenness to try and put things right again. “Too much fat,” Paul says, carrying in dishes from the dining room. “The potatoes were swimming in butter, the salad was drenched in dressing.” Elaine stands at the sink, in an apron, in Playtex gloves, trying to protect herself. She doesn’t see it yet, but despite her prophylactic efforts, her clothing is stained. Later, she will wonder if the spot can be gotten out, if her clothing can be made clean. She will regret having bought the outfit, having cooked the dinner, having made the enormous effort to make everything good again. Paul goes into the dining room, this time returning with the wineglasses, the bottle tucked under his arm. Elaine scrapes plates into the trash can. Paul puts the glasses down, brings the bottle to his lips, and finishes it, swishing the last sip round and round before bending over her shoulder and spitting it into the sink, splashing her. IT IS AFTER MIDNIGHT 1 MUSIC FOR TORCHING “Watch it,” she says. “Gristle,” he says. “You’re doing it on purpose. Poisoning me. I could taste the fat—going right to the artery.” Again, she doesn’t say anything. “I should be eating legumes.” “I can’t make legumes for eight.” She loads the dishwasher. “What about her?” she asks. “Who?” “The girlfriend, the date.” The woman Henry—who recently left Lucy, whom they all liked a lot—carried around all night like a trophy. “Nice,” he says, not telling his wife that when he asked the date what she did—as in what her occupation was—she said, What would you like me to do? And when he asked, Where do you live? she said, Where would you like me to live? He doesn’t tell his wife that before she left she said, Give me your phone number, and he willingly jotted it down for her. Paul doesn’t tell Elaine that the date promised to call him tomorrow. He goes back into the living room for the dessert plates. “How old do you think she is?” Elaine calls out. Paul returns, his hands filled with wadded-up napkins. He shakes crumbs into the sink. “How old would you like her to be?” “Sixty