He is naked in front of her. "This afternoon you were so wonderful," he says. "You took care of me, you didn't ask questions. You were incredible. I felt so safe. Filled with hope and love."
She looks at him, stunned, amazed. "What kind of idiot do you think I am?"
"Shhhh, someone will hear you," Paul says.
"Am I supposed to think that you were at the office, working away, and all of a sudden, out of the blue, you decided, 'I need a tattoo on my crotch,' the same way you might think a cup of coffee would be nice?" she whispers viciously. "Or would it be better if I assumed you were kidnapped by aliens on Fifty-seventh Street and that the poison ivy below your belt is their insignia, the logo from their spaceship?"
"I'm not saying." Paul says.
"You're not saying is right," Elaine says, wagging her light at him. "You think you can go off, do whatever with whomever, then come crawling home and I'll take care of you. You think I'm so wonderful, so marvelous and forgiving, that I'll make everything all better. Who do you think I am?" she says, loudly. "I'm not your mother."
"No," Paul says. "You're not. You're out of your mind. You're some suddenly perfect Miss Fix-it who wants to do something with her life. It's not too late to go to medical school," he says, in a mean, mocky voice.
"Who are you fucking?" Elaine asks.
"Who are you fucking?" Paul throws back. "You must be fucking somebody, otherwise you wouldn't be acting like this. Are you fucking Liz? Do you like it? What's it like?"
Elaine hits Paul.
Elaine has never hit anyone before in her life. She hits him again, hard.
He opens his mouth. "Bitch."
She hits him again. Again and again, there's something satisfying about the sting of her hand against his skin.
He grabs her arms, her wrists.
A noise like a war cry comes out of her mouth.
He hopes no one hears her.
"Be quiet," he hisses.
"You be quiet."
He pushes her away.
She falls against the bed, bounces up, and rushes toward him. "Where'd you get the tattoo, Paul?"
"You're acting crazy," he says, brushing her off.
"I'm acting crazy?" she says. "I'm acting crazy?"
He picks up the Percocet and is out the bedroom door; she's after him. Their feet padding fast down the hall. She is on his back, slapping, scratching. He's turning and twisting, trying to shake her off. Sofa, chairs, side tables, lamps-it is a treacherous domestic obstacle course. Everything is in the way. They're dancing around the room, weaving, bobbing, ducking. His elbow meets her cheek. The corner of the coffee table stabs him in the leg-he cries out.
"Be quiet," she mocks.
She lunges. He trips over an ottoman and slams to the floor. There is a groan, the sound of air escaping him. She makes a fist. She punches him in the gut. He pulls her hair, as though by yanking it he will snap her out of it. She is upon him using both fists, like sticks, pummeling him relentlessly.
He is a naked man, and she is his wife in her beautiful new nightgown. She is beating him up in the dark, in the living room of a neighbor's house. He is trapped in the space between the sofa and the coffee table. They are not speaking. There is nothing to say. The only sound is the repetitive, thick thud of her hand against him and the accidental expression of his surprise-grunts and groans. And then it is done. He is curled into a tight ball. Not moving. Not fighting. She takes a pillow from the sofa and pounds him with it. She is crying now. Everything is futile; there is nothing, nothing but sadness and frustration. She puts the pillow down.
He moves to get up.
"Watch your head," she says.
He goes ahead of her, down the hall back into their room. He breaks the Percocet in half; she hands him the water glass. He swallows his half of the pill and has a sip of water, and then she does the same.
They sleep.
SEVEN
THE WORK BEGINS.
The storm has roughed up every house up and down the block-branches and leaves are everywhere, beheaded geraniums dot the flagstone path, and the potted plants look as though they've been spun around in the night.
Mrs. Hansen is in Elaine's front yard, straightening up. She is hauling branches, one in each hand. Bright green leaves frame her face; her khakis act like camouflage. She is the woman who turns into a tree.
"Hello, hello," she calls from behind the leaves. "Hello, hello," like a little girl playing peek-a-boo.
"Mrs. Hansen, is that you?"
Mrs. Hansen throws off the branches, hurling them into a pile-she's stronger than you'd think. "Wild night, wasn't it?"
"Out of control," Elaine says.
"God's night off," Mrs. Hansen says. "A house on Oak was struck by lightning, and over on Maple there's a tree down on a Mercedes. I'm not sorry for that son of a bitch; I hate German cars," she says. "At three A.M., I was making cold hot toddies trying to calm myself. The whole thing scared the hell out of me."
"Cold hot toddy?"
"Like a hot toddy, only the electricity was off so I drank it cold. The mister and I were up all night wondering what would happen next." She glances around the yard. "Thought I'd tidy up over here. The last thing you need is more mess. Your phone's been ringing like crazy-every ten minutes since seven-thirty. Expecting a call?"
Elaine shakes her head no.
"I would have put on a pot of coffee, I would have gotten the phone, but."
Elaine looks across the street. The Hansens' yard is neat as a pin, the grass so well groomed that it appears combed. The stone front of the house, a perfect facade. "Your yard is amazing," Elaine says, realizing that she has no idea what the house is like inside-she pictures Ethan Allen.
"I was up early," Mrs. Hansen says. "Radio said there might have been a tornado, but it's unconfirmed."
"You really are something," Elaine says, noticing that Mrs. Hansen's tousled reddish-brown hair is dyed, aware that she's made up a little story for herself about Mrs. Hansen that may, or more likely may not, be true.
"I used to be a goer, go, go, go," Mrs. Hansen says. "But then, out of the blue, I decided I didn't want it anymore. I didn't want a schedule or a plan. I wanted out. So I stayed in. More or less for a year. I didn't leave the house. Gave everyone quite a scare, but I knew I was fine-it was what I needed to do.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Twenty-seven years last April."
"Are you happy?" Elaine asks, and immediately worries that she's gone too far.
"You're not thinking of moving, are you? Not after all this, not after we've become friends."
"I'm not going anywhere," Elaine says.
"Don't scare me. Last thing I need is another scare."
Inside the house, the phone is ringing.
"Phone," Mrs. Hansen says.
"I'll get it," Elaine says.
"Why are you ignoring me?" Liz asks. "Did I do something to offend you?"
"I don't know what to say," Elaine says. It sounds like an excuse, but she means it. "I just don't know what to say."
"Well, you're going to have to say something. I can't stand this, it's ridiculous."
"It's not you, it's me," Elaine says.
"I know it's you," Liz says. "You'll tell me all about it. I'll pick you up at noon. We'll have a lump of cottage cheese; I'm on a new diet."
"That's an old diet," Elaine says, hanging up. She looks out the kitchen window and into the Dumpster-it's filling up. There's the axed dining room table, a half dozen assorted shoes Elaine threw in yesterday, and the remains of the grill, which someone tossed in on top.
The phone rings again.
"Elaine, I'm buying you an answering machine," her mother says.
"Have you been calling all morning? Mrs. Hansen said someone's been calling."
"No," her mother says. "But last night I needed you and I couldn't get you."