"I'll have one," Jennifer says. Sammy's cookies are strange- looking, tortured figures, maniacs with bulging cinnamon-dot eyes, crazy sugar-sprinkle hair, and cracked MM mouths.
Jennifer chews off the head of one. "Not bad," she says, her silver stud coated in cookie crumbs.
Mrs. Hansen glances around the room. "Everything looks brighter," she says. "Did you paint the cabinets, or am I getting a migraine?"
"The walls were washed," Paul says.
Elaine comes in, carrying a bag from the hardware store.
"Where were you?" Paul asks.
"I went for a tool so I can fix the drippy pipe."
Outside, they hear Daniel shouting at one of the yellow men, "Hey! Hey, you, who are you? What are you doing here? This is my house."
Elaine hurries out. "Daniel," she says. "Daniel, stop. These are the men from the cleaning company."
"They look like they're from outer space," Daniel says, coming into the house. "What happened to Odetta?"
"She only comes every other Friday, and she doesn't do heavy work."
"And what's that noise?" Daniel asks.
"The air pump. They're changing the air in the house, making everything good again."
Elaine looks around the kitchen, she notices that the patch of crud on the hood above the stove, the spot she's forever trying to Brillo away, is gone. She steps closer. It shines. She checks the toaster oven; it's sparkling and crumb-free, even the little knobs on all the cabinets and drawers have been polished. There are no fingerprints on anything. She breathes deeply. The air is easy.
Sammy picks up two cookies. "This is the good man and this is the bad man," he says, knocking them against each other.
"And the only way to kill the bad man is to eat him." He takes a bite out of the wrong one.
Elaine presses her head against Sammy's chest. "Deep breath," she says, listening. "And another," she says. "Good. Very good."
"It's just like show-and-tell," Mrs. Hansen says. "Sammy made cookies, Paul and Jennifer painted a picture, Elaine bought a tool, and." She turns to Daniel. "And did you make a paperweight in arts and crafts?" She looks down at the white lump Daniel is holding.
He looks at her as if she's an idiot. "It's a mold," he says. "A plaster cast of my left hand."
"It's very handsome," Mrs. Hansen says.
"It isn't about looks, it's about proof. You can make a mold of tire tracks so you can find out what kind of a car got away. You can make a mold of anything."
"How exciting," Mrs. Hansen says.
Daniel shrugs. "It's just a piece of the puzzle."
Mrs. Hansen checks her watch. "Best to go," she says. "Time to feed my hubcap."
"Hubcap?" Paul asks.
"Mr. Hansen," she says.
"You should bring him over for dinner one night soon," Paul says.
"Not so soon," Mrs. Hansen says. "We chopped up your dining room table this afternoon. God, it was fun. Whack. Whack." She demonstrates the motion of the ax.
"I had the sense something was different," Paul says.
The president of the yellow suits steps into the kitchen. He pulls off his helmet and holds it tucked into his hip, like an actor coming out of character to take a bow. He stands in front of them, posed-I am not a smart person, but I play one on TV.
"We're just finishing up," he says. "Disconnecting the hoses, packing up our brushes and sweepers. You'll notice a difference right away, but I find that the full effect usually takes twenty-four hours."
"I can feel it right now," Paul says. "The air is definitely cleaner."
The president smiles, as though it's all so obvious. "I'd like to leave you with a stack of sponges," he says, handing Elaine a plastic-mesh sack filled with sponges in assorted sizes and colors, each with the company's logo printed on it. "Do you know that your kitchen sponge is the dirtiest thing in the house?"
"I had no idea," Elaine says.
"Change it, and change it frequently," the man says. Elaine nods.
The man extends both hands toward Paul, smiles, and presses something into each of Paul's palms. "Petrified horse dung. It absorbs the toxins, pulling them out from your heart through your hands." He makes a gesture that's like a salute. "Be well," he says, stepping out.
The yellow suits have left the house.
There has been a surrealistic edge to the afternoon, which begins to fade once Elaine and the children are home. Each of them is an element in the equation, each is like an anchor, a weight.
"How was school?" Paul asks.
"Okay," Sammy says. "We had rehearsal."
"Rehearsal for what?" Jennifer asks.
"Play," Sammy says. "I'm the head of a rhinoceros."
"Wow," Daniel says. "Last year you were the back of an elephant."
"When is it?" Jennifer asks.
"Tomorrow," Sammy says.
"Tomorrow, and you're just telling me now?" Elaine says.
"He's not even telling you," Daniel says. "He told Jennifer."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Elaine asks.
Sammy shrugs. "I didn't see you," he offers.
Jennifer checks her watch. "Okay, guys, fair time."
"We need money," Sammy says.
"We should be there by seven," Jennifer says.
"Give them some money," Elaine instructs Paul.
Paul moves to reach for his wallet. The motion irritates his wound. He is wearing sweatpants; he has no pockets, no cash. His wallet is upstairs, in his pants.
"Never mind, I've got it," Elaine says, digging into her purse, pulling a pair of twenties off her wad, her booty prize from the yard sale.
"Give Jennifer some, too," Paul says. "She's an excellent babysitter."
Elaine looks at him suspiciously and pulls off another twenty. "Make sure you eat enough dinner," Elaine says. "Have some protein."
"Have some fun," Paul says, and they are out the door.
Sammy's plate of cookies and Daniel's weird mold are left on the table.
"Does Sammy seem strange to you?" Elaine asks.
"It's stress. He's picking up on all the stress. Daniel is the one who scares me."
"Yeah, why?"
"Overnight he's a Scout and a goddamned junior detective. I don't trust him for a minute. I think he's a stool pigeon."
"Paul," Elaine says. "We're talking about Daniel."
"Just you wait and see," Paul says.
Elaine turns to go upstairs. "Are you dressing for dinner?"
"It hurts to wear pants," Paul says.
"Well, I'd offer to lend you a dress, but I'm afraid you'd take me up on it."
"You never can tell," Paul says, following her. "Do you think I can get away with wearing sweats?"
"Can't you just put on a suit and act normal, even if it hurts?"
"If it would make you happy, I'd be glad to hurt myself."
"I think you're confusing me with someone else," Elaine says, and quickly turns away.
"How would you describe your mood?" Paul calls after her. "Does 'bitchy' even begin to do it?"
Elaine ignores him and picks up the phone. "I'm calling Pat and George and telling them we'll meet them at Joan's."
"Do we really have to go? I feel lousy. I've been sick all afternoon." He feels small and weak and not at all sure he can maintain the usual facade. "'I am the egg man.the walrus,'" he sings to himself.
"It will be good for us to be with people," Elaine says, convincing herself. "It will remind us of who we are," she says.
"Who you want us to be," Paul says, going into the bathroom. "What was the name of the guy who shot John Lennon?"
"I don't know, why?"
"I'm trying to remember."
His suit pants are hanging from the shower rod-perfectly pressed. The tile is radiant, even the grout seems to be glowing. Paul can see his reflection in the chrome faucet handles. "How much does the cleaning guy get?"
"You don't want to know."
"I'm curious," Paul says, peeling down his bandage, squirting a little extra ointment over everything, figuring if nothing else to keep the area well lubricated. He can't look at the tattoo. The sight of what he's done to himself is terrifying, a mark of insanity, another in what's becoming a series: the fire, the date, his job.