Paul doesn't bother to tell Elaine that when they finally pulled up to the house, Sammy wouldn't get out of the car and Paul wasn't sure what to do, whether to force him or lay a trail of Cheerios and hope that he'd eat his way inside. Paul waited for a few minutes and then just left Sammy sitting there with the car door open. Paul doesn't say that when he went into the house and Elaine wasn't there, he was worried that she'd left for good. He doesn't say that he doesn't know what they would do without her.
Paul doesn't tell Elaine that he's aware that almost anyone else would think it's a perfectly lovely Saturday but that he's scared, absolutely petrified, and he doesn't know why. Instead he says, "Phone rang a little while ago and I didn't get it."
"I'm sure the machine picked up," Elaine says.
Sammy steps into his room and checks everything out: toys, books, bed.
"Are you all right?" Paul asks Elaine. Paul doesn't tell Elaine that about half an hour ago he looked out the bathroom window and saw her walking back and forth in front of the house, muttering to herself, her hair hanging in front of her face, like a lunatic.
"I'm worn out," she says.
"Rest," he says.
"The hole is temporarily fixed," she tells Paul. "The sheets are in the wash."
Elaine follows Sammy into his room. "Everything up to snuff?"
"Open the window," Sammy says, and she does. She lies down on Sammy's narrow bed, her head against the comforter, buried in blue sky, clouds. "Tell me everything," she says, and Sammy starts to spin a story about a giraffe, a monkey, and a little boy. Elaine falls asleep. She drools.
Sammy lies on a small rug near the open window curled into a C. He naps-dreaming lightly.
It is Saturday night.
Elaine wakes up and goes looking for Paul-he's downstairs folding laundry. "Sheets are dry," he says. "I pushed the bed back to its original position. Hopefully, there won't be any more leaks."
"Hopefully," Elaine says. "What are we supposed to be doing tonight?"
"Dinner at the Montgomerys'," Paul says, "but Joan called to say they canceled, they're in bad shape, a complication with the crazy kid. She seemed annoyed-what will we do, Saturday night and all of us on our own? Should we do something without them? Can we get a reservation anywhere?" Paul does a good imitation of social desperation, the panic of people left without plans. How dare the Montgomerys.
"Did Daniel come back?" she asks.
"Not yet." Paul sits at the kitchen table. He has made himself a drink. He sips. "And Jennifer will be here in half an hour," Paul adds. He pulls a Baggie out of his pocket, takes out his rolling paper, and turns out a neat and narrow joint.
"Not in the house," Elaine says.
"Come on," Paul says, "it's Saturday night." He opens the door to the basement and coaxes her halfway down. "Do it with me," he says, flicking his lighter, taking a deep drag. The stairwell glows. Paul hands the joint to Elaine. "We have to get Daniel back," Elaine says, blowing smoke.
Paul nods and takes a hit.
"I fixed the lock on the front door," Elaine says. "Now no one can arrive unannounced."
For Elaine, pot is like a prism, a kaleidoscope turning things; objects and emotions fragment, stretch, and slow, everything looks a little different-mentally muted, visually more intense.
"What do you want to do tonight?" Paul asks.
"I wish we could just be normal. One normal happy family," Elaine says, drawing a deep hit.
"And if not that?"
"Could we do nothing? Why do we always have to do something, why does something always have to be happening?"
"What about Daniel, should we call those people"-their name intentionally escapes him-"and have them send him back?" Paul asks.
"We have to go and get him," Elaine says. "We have to bring him home."
"Mom," Sammy calls. "Mom?" There's a pause. "Dad," Sammy calls. "Dad?"
They each take a last hit, and Paul pinches the joint, putting it out. "Ollie, ollie, oxen free."
"You're awake," Elaine says, coming up the stairs.
"The front door is closed," Sammy says.
"It's okay," Paul says.
"Where were you?" Sammy asks.
"Downstairs," Paul says.
"Did you have a good nap?" Elaine asks.
"You snore," Sammy says.
"Would you like some cran?" Elaine asks, pouring juice.
The phone rings.
"It's Joan," Paul says before anyone answers.
Elaine picks up. "Hello?"
"Henry and his date are going to scale the rock-climbing wall at his gym, and then they're going to the movies in Yonkers. They're planning to eat popcorn for dinner," Joan reports, as though popcorn for dinner is shockingly decadent, unforgivable.
"And what are you going to do?" Elaine asks.
"I'm not sure at all. Ted keeps telling me to calm down. But I don't think I've spent a Saturday night at home since I was fifteen."
"Look at it this way." Elaine hears Ted in the background. "At some point in your life, you're going to be spending Saturday nights at home again. Why not just relax and see what the evening brings-you never know."
"I can't stand it," she says, bickering. "I'm not ready to stay home. What are you and Paul thinking?"
"We're just going to keep at it, we have so much work to do on the house," Elaine says, relieved to have a good excuse.
"Well, let's talk tomorrow and compare notes," Joan says.
Someone pounds on the front door.
Paul lets Jennifer in.
"Door's locked," Jennifer says.
"Elaine fixed it," Paul says.
"Handy." Jennifer sniffs around. "It smells good in here. Did you spray something? Burn a reversing candle?"
"Tell him that," Paul says, pointing at Sammy, who's walking around holding a wet washcloth over his nose and mouth.
"We had it washed, scrubbed floor to ceiling," Elaine says.
"Scrubbing bubbles," Paul says, thinking of the thick white foam.
"What's your mom doing tonight?" Elaine asks.
"Homework," Jennifer says. "Secretly she's thrilled dinner got canceled, she's 'sick to shit' of obligations. What's the plan around here?" Jennifer asks.
"We're going to get Daniel," Elaine announces. "We'll be right back. Are you guys okay for now? You're not starving, are you?" Elaine asks. "Can you wait?"
"We're fine," Jennifer says, looking at Sammy.
"Not hungry," he says, his voice muffled through the washcloth.
"Actually, I'm hungry," Paul says, grabbing a stack of Oreos.
"Give me one," Elaine says as they're backing out of the driveway. The munchies have descended.
A buzz. A little high, vibrating. As Paul drives, Elaine pulls the Oreo apart, licking the middle, scraping it with her teeth, eating the cookie.
Their teeth are quickly coated, caked with black cookie crumbs like tobacco stains that stick like mud on the gums. If they smiled, they'd look like Halloween hoboes.