Sammy shrugs again. Dipping his finger in syrup, he licks it.
Elaine watches this display, she watches Paul. "Too bad," she says.
The phone rings. Elaine picks up.
"Good morning, Elaine, it's Bud Johnson calling from wood- shop. I just wanted to see how you're doing." "Can I call you back in about twenty minutes?" Elaine asks.
She is annoyed. She's annoyed with Paul and Sammy and whatever this weird game is about Nate's family. She's annoyed with Bud-where was he on Saturday when she needed him? To hell with all of you is what she feels like saying.
"Who was that?" Paul quizzes.
"What do you care who?"
"Why don't you want to tell me? Why don't you just say who it was-is it a secret?"
"No, Paul, it's not a secret. Do you have a secret?" She waits. "Am I allowed a life of my own? You certainly have one. I don't quiz you about who you talk to at the office, do I? Consider this house my office," she says.
"So that was a work-related call?"
Elaine nods.
"Contractor?"
"Yes," she says.
"I don't think so," he says. "The contractor is right outside. I saw him go by a minute ago."
Elaine doesn't respond.
"Architect?"
Sammy spills his milk; a white flood spreads across the table, soaking the place mats, running over the edge onto the floor. "Sorry," he says.
Paul and Elaine have done it again. They have done exactly what they don't want to do, reverted to their standard behavior-acting like jerks. The kid had to spill his milk to create a distraction.
"Don't worry," Elaine tells Sammy. "It's not your fault. It was a bad glass."
"Bad glass," Paul says, mocking her.
"Is everyone finished?" Elaine asks. "Are we all done?"
"Just tell me who that was," Paul says.
"No," she says, clearing the table.
"I can't believe you're being like this-it's so unlike you."
"Thank God I'm being unlike myself," she says. "There's hope yet." She turns her back to him and does the dishes.
"Okay, I'm an ass," Paul says on his way out. "That's the truth. The pancakes were great, Elaine. Really good." He pulls the dish towel out from under his chin. "Come on, guys," he says to the boys. "I'll drop you on my way. Do you have your stuff?" The boys cram things into their knapsacks. "Wasn't that a good breakfast? Didn't Mommy do a good job?"
"Fuck off," Elaine hisses.
Sammy burps.
Kissing the children good-bye, sending them out into the world with a peck and a pat, Elaine is learning how it's done. "Goodbye," she says, "good-bye, good-bye," closing the door behind them, quickly.
"Feel better," Paul says through the glass. "I'll call you later."
Elaine is fighting a foul mood. Despite her morning flurry of activity, her insight, her determination to stay upbeat and positive, the smallest things bring her down. As soon as they are gone, she steps outside. She has taught herself a new trick: Whenever she starts to sink, to get caught in a whirl, she must do something different, anything, it doesn't matter what, as long as it's active. She steps out of the house; the world opens in front of her. She stands on the kitchen steps, breathing deeply. Elaine wants so badly for everything to be good that she doesn't care how awful she really feels.
The workman with the crushed fingers waves when he sees her. His fingers, taped together with white adhesive, cut through the air, like a flag of surrender. "You were right," he says. "They were broken. Shows you what a hammer can do when you really swing it."
Inside, the phone rings.
"Your mother told me to call," her father says.
"Is Mom all right?" Her father rarely calls unless there's a problem.
"She told me to tell you for myself how nice it was to see you and what beautiful boys you have."
"Where is she?" Elaine can't help but think something must be wrong.
"Gallivanting," her father says.
"Tell her to call me when she comes in," Elaine says.
"I don't have to tell her, she'll do it automatically. Your mother is entirely predictable and I never can tell what she's going to do next, that's what keeps her beautiful. She's always a surprise."
"Okay, Dad," Elaine says, having heard enough. "I'll talk to you later."
While she's got the phone in her hand, she calls Joan to thank her. For what-food poisoning? "It was so nice of you," Elaine says. "Such a warmhearted gesture."
"It was a good idea, I'm glad I thought of it," Joan says.
Elaine's Call Waiting beeps. "That's my other line-gotta go."
It's Bud Johnson again. "I had a break between classes. I thought I'd try once more. Is this a good time?"
"It's fine," Elaine says.
"I went over your tests." He speaks with the seriousness of a specialist.
She holds her breath waiting for the diagnosis, waiting to hear that she has cancer or some other kind of career-counseling failure.
"Well," he says, hedging, "I think the results explain why you're so unhappy in the house all day, all alone."
"Yes," Elaine says, still waiting.
"You're a people person," he says.
She's still waiting, thinking there's more.
"People make you happy. You feel better when you're with people. Yes?" Bud says.
"Yes," Elaine repeats, giving Bud Johnson's word enormous weight. "That makes sense." She doesn't like to be left alone. When Paul and the boys leave in the morning, she feels as though she's under house arrest, they are free to go and she has detention. "I like people."
"I thought so," he says proudly. "Should we meet again?" he asks. "Should we put our heads together and talk about where to go from here?"
"Sure," she says. "Why not?" She won't say no to anything.
"How about Wednesday afternoon?"
Elaine hangs up. She has to step outside again. Once more, she is in a whirl, a dangerous spin. With the regularity of a cuckoo clock, she steps out onto the kitchen steps. Every hour there is more light, things glow as though the intensity of the day is being turned up; the grass is fluorescent green, what's left of the geraniums are a vibrant red, and the forsythia along the driveway is spilling Technicolor yellow across the gravel. Elaine thinks she smells honeysuckle. She remembers, as a child, plucking the flowers and sucking syrup.
It is getting hot out. Hot and humid. The men in the backyard are hammering, hard and fast, working to get as much done as they can before it gets too hot, before something happens. There is the threat of a storm later. She knows. She read it in the paper.
Elaine wanders from the driveway to the curb. She looks down the sidewalk-the concrete footpath cuts through the landscape, stretching out in front of her for miles.
"Don't go anywhere," Mrs. Hansen calls from across the street. "I'm on my way over."
Self-improvement. A renovation of the soul. Paul is on his way to work. He wants to be a better person. He wants not to run, not to cave in under pressure, not to sweat the small stuff; he wants to live without fear, not in a constant state of inexplicable panic. Perspective and priority, efficiency and competency. He is always tripping over his own feet. He is his own worst enemy. He wants to do better.
And he wants not to hate Elaine.
Why is he such an asshole? What does he get out of it? Is there pleasure in pulling the rug out from under? Does it make him look bigger, better? What does it mean to cripple yourself, your wife, and your children with bitterness, with spite, with envy, with the overwhelming energy of your anxiety? Does he want them to fail? Will that make him feel good? Will it make him feel safer if they never pass him, if they're never more than he is? Isn't the goal to raise children that have more and do more than you? Why not inspire them, elevate them, encourage them? It has to be easier.
Sammy spilled his milk-it was Paul's fault. Paul was causing trouble. Everything is Paul's fault. He takes a breath. He coaxes and coaches himself. It's fine, he tells himself, it's better than you think. The house is getting fixed, the weekend was nice, the family is back together. And despite how strange things have been, Elaine appears to feel somewhat warmly toward him. She appears to have hope. They are gathering a second wind, a new lease on life.