"The house isn't ready," Elaine says.
"It's ready enough for you," her mother says.
"Mother, please."
"Your father isn't being nice. Why should I stay where I'm not wanted?"
"It's your house, you don't have to be wanted. And Daddy does want you, but you're driving him crazy."
"I'm driving him crazy. I'm driving him. What about what he's doing to me?"
"What do you want from him?"
"Some attention. I want someone to pay some attention."
"Maybe you have to pay attention to him first. If you pay attention to him, he'll pay attention to you-that's the way it goes."
"That's manipulative. I am not a manipulative woman."
Elaine rolls her eyes.
"I'm not. Are you telling your own mother that she can't stay in your house?" "Mother."
Paul leaves the room.
"Where are you going?" Elaine shouts after him.
"Getting ready for Sammy's soccer," Paul says.
"I thought you were just picking up."
"I thought I should go and watch-isn't that what parents do?"
"You don't usually watch."
Paul doesn't respond.
"Did you call Nate's mother and ask her about packing Sammy's stuff? Did you tell her that he's coming home?"
Paul doesn't tell her that he called from upstairs, that he arranged for Sammy's return, arranged for an extra date next Wednesday afternoon, and got a great high-concept blow job over the phone-"I want you to feel my mouth sucking your prick, your balls rubbing my face, my finger on the edge of your asshole." The finger on the asshole was the unexpected bit that did it; he shot off instantly, splashing the wall of the walk-in closet where he was hiding with the cordless phone.
"It's taken care of," Paul says.
"Does she get to stay here?" her mother asks.
"Who?" Elaine asks, distracted, thinking about Nate's mother, her good hair, her big boobs.
"Her," Elaine's mother repeats.
"No," Elaine says, realizing that her mother is talking about Mrs. Hansen. "Mother, just stop it. Go home, go back to Daddy."
"You're sending your mother away. I knew you would. I always knew that eventually you would send me away."
"Not away. Home. You want something from me. You're the mother, and you act like the child. I want something from you: I want to be the child."
"You want to be the child." Her mother snorts. "You're forty-three years old with a husband and two children of your own; you're not a child."
"Fine, if you're not going to take care of me, then go away." Elaine isn't sure what she's saying-it half makes sense and half makes no sense, but she's saying it. She feels the need to say something.
"Do you want some coffee?" her mother asks. "Should I make a fresh pot?"
"Yes," Elaine says. "Yes, I want coffee."
"See you," Paul says. "Anything you need, anything I should do while I'm out?"
"Just bring Sammy home," she says, opening the door, letting Paul out, checking the broken lock.
There is silence.
Elaine sits at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee.
A horn beeps. The guy upstairs working on the hole calls down, "There's a car out there, waiting for someone." Elaine goes out. A station wagon is idling at the curb. "Is Daniel here?" the driver asks.
Elaine shakes her head. "Not here," she says. The station wagon is driven by a complete stranger, it's filled with kids she's never seen before. "What is this?" Elaine asks.
"Scout trip. Any idea where he is?"
She shakes her head, none.
"Don't worry," the driver says cheerfully. "We'll find him."
"All right, I'm going," her mother says, picking up her suitcase as soon as Elaine comes back into the house.
"Okay, talk to you later," Elaine says.
"You do whatever you want," her mother says.
"I'll talk to you later, Mother," Elaine says.
"Whatever," her mother says.
"I'm too tired," Elaine says.
"Think of other people, Elaine," her mother says, walking out.
The workman comes downstairs. "It's patched for now," he says. "We'll get in there and really do the work on Monday-it'll hold over the weekend."
The house is empty. The wrecking ball is leaving. It is being taken away, guided back down the driveway.
The morning is gone-burned off, like fog.
Elaine opens the refrigerator, pulls out bits and pieces of things, condiments and crackers. She pours herself a glass of wine; she thinks of Mrs. Hansen, who didn't come today. She hopes everything is all right; she wonders if she should worry. Elaine sits at the kitchen table, daydreaming. She pictures herself as a different person in a different life. She sees herself in places she can't even point to on a map, high in the thin air of the Himalayas, wandering the hills of Tuscany, traveling under a new name, making no reference to her life before.
Every day Elaine thinks of disappearing. She will leave and take nothing with her-"You have yourself" is what people say, and that's what stops her. She fears she is nothing. Nonexistent.
The cop is in the kitchen. He arrived unannounced. He stands in front of where she's sitting at the kitchen table, a white foam cervical collar around his neck.
"You're home," he says.
"Last night," she says, coming out of her daydream/travelogue.
"How was it?"
"Fine."
"Did you sleep well, or were you up reading all night?"
Elaine is puzzled.
"You need me," he says, moving in.
"What happened to your neck?" Elaine changes the subject. She gestures toward the foam cuff, thinking of an ox in a yoke.
"Fender bender," he says. He comes closer. His knees press against her leg. "I can tell you want me; I've known all along."
She stands up, banging against the table-things rattle.
"Remember when we first met? I saw you the next morning, crawling naked across the floor, I saw you stand up with dirt on your belly. You put on a coat, and then you answered the door. I've been watching you ever since."
"Watching me?"
"Keeping an eye out. I've noticed a few things, like with your recycling, you don't separate colored glass from clear, your plastic from your paper-I could give you a citation for that." He squeezes her breast. "Go upstairs," he says.
"They'll be home soon."
"Hurry," he says.
His uniform is sculpted to his body, his body is all muscle; every time he moves, another bulge pops out. The sight of his erection pressing against his tan trousers is what gets her. It rises like a pornographic emergency, engorged, trapped.
He undresses her. He doesn't ask. He is persistent and rough.