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."
ELEVEN
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.
"Are they up?"
"I hear water running," Paul says.
Sweat breaks out above Elaine's lip. She feels thin, wobbly, dehydrated.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
She was sick in the night. For two hours, she sat in the bathroom, wondering which end would erupt first, hoping not both at the same time. Paul was good; he held her forehead, he brought her a cold washcloth and a drink of water. "What do you need?" he asked. "What can I do?"
"I felt poisoned," Elaine tells him this morning. "I think it was the hamburger."
"Who brought the hamburger?"
"Joan," she says. Elaine can't decide whether or not to mention it to Joan when she calls to thank her for the grill. Would it be impolite to ask, Was anyone in your house sick last night?
"Don't tell her," Paul says, reading Elaine's mind. "You're the only one who got sick; the rest of us are fine. I doubt she was trying to kill you."
Elaine shakes her head. The idea that Joan was trying to kill her had never occurred to her.
Paul comes to the stove, he stands over her, watching her cook. "Don't let the fruit get gooey."
She slaps the spatula into his hand and walks away. "Flip 'em when the bubbles pop," she says, trying to maintain the momentum, the good cheer of a Monday morning. She sits at the kitchen table and puts her head between her legs.
She sees Sammy's shoes first-red sneakers. "Good morning," she says. "Did you sleep well?" "The alarm scared me," Sammy whines. "Why can't you wake me up?"
"It's your job to wake yourself up, you're a big boy now," Elaine says, talking into her knees.
"Two pancakes or three?" Paul asks him.
"Three," Sammy says.
"Why are you bent over?" Daniel quizzes as he walks in-black Nikes in the lead.
"Just taking a moment," Elaine says, lifting her head.
Paul is at the stove. He has tucked a dish towel under his chin in an effort to keep himself clean. He is serving the children first and then himself. "Can I get you anything?" he asks Elaine. "A pancake? Some toast?"
"You're burning the pan," Elaine says, seeing smoke rise from the stove. "Turn the fire down."
"Is there any caviar?" Daniel asks. "Caviar is good on pancakes, right? Isn't that how it's served, on little pancakes?"
"Blinis," Paul says. "The little pancakes are called blinis."
"It's not a breakfast food," Elaine says. "You should never ask for caviar-it's rude. Always wait until it's offered, and then just take a little bit. It's not something to be piggish about. It's a delicacy."
"I thought fish was good for you-brain food. Willy's sister eats a can of tuna every morning, and she gets straight A's." Daniel rolls up a pancake like a tortilla and stuffs it into his mouth.
"Use a fork," Elaine says.
"Pass the syrup," Paul says. They eat as though they have always eaten breakfast at the table together, as though it's nothing out of the ordinary. There is no rebellion, no threat of a coup or a sick-out; no one is demanding Pop-Tarts in bed.
"It's so bright in here I almost need sunglasses," Daniel says.
"It's shiny," Sammy says, sweeping a pancake through a slick of syrup.
"It's a bright and shiny day," Elaine says. "A perfect day, inside and out."
The workers arrive. They strap on their tool belts at the curb and let their hammers dangle. They come carrying cups of coffee and bags from Dunkin' Donuts. Elaine hears them outside talking about lumber, talking about what they did on Saturday night-bowling, movies, dinner at a sister's house, kids. She likes the sound of their voices, she likes listening in.
"Are we going to live here forever?" Sammy asks.
No one knows what to say-what's forever?
"We're not planning on going anywhere," Elaine says.
"Why?" Paul asks.
"Nate's moving."
"Really?" Paul says. Where is Mrs. Apple going? Will he go with her? And why is he the last to find out? "Where?" Paul asks.
"Somewhere," Sammy says.
"Exactly where is somewhere?" Paul leans in; he wants to shake Sammy until the words fall out of his mouth, exact quotes. "How do you know that Nate is moving?" he asks. His intensity is a giveaway.
Sammy shrugs. "I made it up," he confesses.
"You made it up? Why? Why would you do that?"