"What about the Fourth? Does everyone have plans for fireworks?" Liz asks.
"We're already planning Christmas vacation," Joan says.
"Do we have plans?" Paul asks Elaine.
She shakes her head.
"Not to worry," Pat says. "You'll do whatever we do."
"We are so boring. I don't even tell the travel agent where we want to go anymore," Joan says. "I tell her, 'You pick it. Pick a place I would never dream of, and book us in for two weeks.'"
Outside, thunder rolls. Wild branches scratch against the house.
Joan rings her spoon against her glass. "It's a real treat to see everyone tonight. I've been instructed to tell you how very sorry Catherine and Hammy are not to be joining us, but they're looking forward to seeing everyone Saturday night."
Ted, Liz, and Pat applaud.
When dinner is done, Ted tries to get up and help Joan clear but has trouble with his legs; he stands and falls, stands and falls, and finally sits back down.
"Stay," Joan says, patting his shoulder. "Sit and stay."
An enormous crash of thunder and lightning shakes the house. "Now, that had to have hit something," George says, racing to the window.
Again, there is thunder, and the power goes off.
Taking the electrical interruption as her signal, the date reaches into Paul's lap and grabs him. He whimpers.
"What?" someone says. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Paul stammers. "I just-the chair-my toe."
The lights come back on.
"I've got cheesecake for the brave among you, angel food cake for anyone afraid of fat, and a bowl of berries for the faint of heart. What'll it be?" Joan asks. "Menage a trois? A little bit of everything?"
Pat and Liz are talking softly. "Pregnant?" Liz says. "At forty- seven? Were they doing things?"
"They did nothing," Pat says.
"What a nightmare, preggers at forty-seven. I can't even imagine having sex," Joan says, licking her fingers. "Coffee?" she asks. "I've got a pot of decaf. Let's see a show of hands. One. Two. Three."
"Get home safe," they call to each other as they're pulling away.
"Drive careful," Joan and Ted say, waving from the door. "See you Saturday at the Montgomerys'."
In the car Paul and Elaine talk.
"Do Joan and Ted not have sex?" Paul asks.
"I don't know, why?"
"She said, 'I can't even imagine having sex.' Do other couples not have sex?"
"I don't know."
"Should we not be having sex?"
"I don't know."
"If nothing else, it seems like the one thing we do well-we fight and we fuck. That's how we know we're still married." Paul laughs.
Elaine says nothing.
"That was supposed to be a joke."
"What's the punch line?"
"You were in a perfectly good mood at the party; what happened?"
"I don't know," Elaine says.
They drive, following the red glow, the afterburn, of the Nielsons' taillights. The electricity is off everywhere-trees are down, flares are up.
"Wave," Paul says as they pass Elaine's cop, directing traffic.
"Do you think we have to check on our house?" Elaine asks.
"No," Paul says. "It couldn't get worse."
The night is ink. It is as though there's nothing out there-if they can't see it, it doesn't exist. They crawl toward the memory of home.
The Nielsons' house hovers, glowing dimly like a spaceship, burning out, low on fuel.
"Pat and George must have a backup generator or something," Paul says.
The two little M's greet them at the door.
"Were you scared when the lights went off?" Pat asks.
They shake their heads. "We played camp-out."
All around the perimeter of the room, battery-powered backup lights beam dutifully.
"You can never estimate how long the power will be out," George says, crawling around the room turning things off.
"How about lights-out for the campers? It's a school night, after all," Pat says, leading the little ones off to bed.
"Nightcap?" George asks Paul.
"Have you got any pain medication?" Paul asks.
"I think there's some Percocet left over from my deviated septum. You having a problem?"
"Percocet would do it," Paul says.
George goes off down the hall and returns with a pill and a flashlight.
"Sorry about all the noise last night," George says, dropping the pill in Paul's palm. "Sometimes it just gets to you. I want so much," George says, "that's what it is, high expectations."
Paul nods.
"Anyway," George says, "I went down into the basement, smoked a little grass, and felt much better. Every now and then I do it. Don't tell Pat; I wouldn't want her to know."
Paul shakes his head. "Don't worry," he says. "I'd never tell." Pot and pornography. No one would believe me anyway, he thinks.
"It's my way of letting a little air in," George says. "Next time join me, if you're inclined. You smoke?"
"Sure," Paul says. Of course he smokes. He does everything. He doesn't tell George about the time he and Elaine smoked crack, how she was the fountain in front of the Plaza hotel, a Roman candle with sparks and color and light pouring out of her. He doesn't tell George that it was one of their highest moments-no pun intended-a moment of communion and communication, and that now he worries he and Elaine have drifted, and he'd not sure that it's the usual ebb and flow.
"Where did Elaine go?" he asks George.
George shrugs. "She must have gone with Pat. What a lousy party, don't ya think?" George says, pouring himself a drink. "What a lousy idea, a dinner party on a work night. People can't drink enough to make it worthwhile." George has never sounded so bitter before.
"I thought it was just us," Paul says.
"It's everyone," George says. "And Christ, Ted's knee, it's depressing as hell. He's falling apart. Big strong guy, can't even pick himself up from the table."
"I wanted to stay home. But Elaine needs to see people. She feels strange if she's left alone for too long. Where'd you say she went?"
George shrugs. He tops off his glass. He hands Paul a flashlight. "Sleep tight," he says, heading down the hall into the dark.
Elaine is in the bedroom.
"Where'd you go?" Paul asks.
"Where'd I go?" Elaine repeats. "Where would I go?"
"Dunno."
The beam of her flashlight is directed down onto the page of a magazine.
"You have a flashlight, too," he says.
She ignores him.
The deep-pink walls of the little M's' room look even meatier than usual; they have the color of something oxygen-deprived, a failing organ. It makes Paul nervous. "We have to get out of here before the weekend," he says. He puts the Percocet on the night table and pulls off his shoes.
"What's that?" she asks.
"A treat."
"Mine or yours?" "Mine," he says.
"Are there more?"
"I got it from George. It's left over from his deviated septum." Paul reaches for the water glass.
"That's my water," Elaine says, taking it away.
"What's wrong with you?"
There is no answer.
He undresses. He peels down his bandage and takes a long look at himself with the flashlight, contemplating. Things are both better and worse in the half-light. There's something about the tattoo that he likes-it's a badge of a certain kind of sick courage.
"Do me the favor," Elaine says, watching him examine himself. "Keep yourself covered. The whole world doesn't have to see what you did, and I really don't want the boys to have to deal with it. It'll frighten Sammy, and God knows what it'll mean to Daniel."
"Why are you being so awful?" Paul asks, putting the bandage back in place, in effect tucking everything in for the night.
"Why?" Elaine throws back the covers, swinging her legs over the edge. She stands up and fixes her flashlight beam on his face. "Why?" she says, coming toward him, zeroing in.