"Where's Pat?" Joan asks. "We can't have a party without Pat."
"You know how women are," George says, leaving the line dangling.
Elaine wonders, Did Pat tell George? Does he know more than he's letting on?
"Henry's here," Joan says. "Now, where's Paul?"
Paul hates Henry, he hates Elaine, he hates everybody. He meets Henry down by the curb and hands him a drink.
"How was rock climbing?" Elaine asks.
Henry smiles. "It was fantastic."
When the Montgomerys arrive, they all stop talking, they stare without meaning to.
"We're so glad you're here. How are you?" Joan asks before the Montgomerys are even out of the car.
Catherine and Hammy get out; their eleven-year-old daughter climbs out after them, she stares at the ground. Catherine and Hammy smile and wave, their hands traveling back and forth through the air, as if they're washing windows. "How are all of you?" they ask.
"Would you like a drink?" Paul gestures with the pitcher.
"Fill 'er up," Hammy says, closing the car door.
"We're so sorry about canceling last night," Catherine says.
"It's been a hell of a week," Hammy says.
"We missed you all so much," Catherine says. "We couldn't wait to get home."
"Back where we belong," Hammy says.
They've said the right thing; they've said nothing at all.
"How are you really?" Elaine asks again, privately, a few minutes later.
"How could I be?" Catherine says.
"You must be so relieved to have it over with," Joan butts in.
"It isn't over, it's just begun," Catherine says, and stops herself. She shouldn't say more, more would be too much. She sips her drink. "It's a mean martini."
"It's the onions," George says.
"Isn't it surprising none of us have had cancer yet?" Joan says, and no one knows what she's talking about.
Mrs. Hansen and her husband cross the street. "Fruit in vodka," Mrs. Hansen says, handing Elaine a large, foil-covered bowl. "My old standby. I've been soaking it all night."
Mrs. Hansen's husband, the hubcap, circulates through the crowd, presenting himself to everyone as "The Invisible Mister."
Liz, Jennifer, and a friend of Jennifer's cut through the yard. "We walked," Liz says. "It's further than you'd think."
"I haven't walked in years," Joan says.
Jennifer introduces her friend, Robert, a straitlaced kid except for a set of Frankenstein-like bumps or welts across his forehead. She leans toward Paul. "See the ridges above his eyes? He has barbells under his skin. Subcutaneous decorative jewelry-implants. Isn't it great? Way more subtle than piercing. You sort of see it and you sort of don't."
Paul stares.
"It's going to be wonderful," Catherine says, coming around the corner of the house. "French doors and a deck, who could ask for more?"
"Lots of people," Ted says.
They are suspended in a strangely golden hour, that odd expanse of time at the beginning of the summer when afternoons are elongated, holding off the dimming of the day.
Sammy and the Montgomery daughter playing with walkie- talkies. Elaine overhears Sammy ask, "What are you wearing?"
"A tiara," the girl says.
"And what's under it?" Sammy asks, not knowing what a tiara
is.
"Hair," the girl says.
Daniel and Willy have George's little M by her wrists and ankles. They swing her through the air-she squeals. One of her shoes falls off.
"Are you hurting her?" Paul asks.
"Willy, it's time to put her down and say good-bye. Time for you to go home," Elaine says.
Ted gets into his car and toots the horn to get everyone's attention. The friends gather round. Joan and Ted are grinning, so proud of themselves, clever-good at the game.
"We have a little something for you," Joan says to Elaine and Paul. "From all of us."
Ted pops the trunk.
"The piece de resistance," Joan says.
"Could someone give me a hand?" Ted asks.
George steps in, and he and Ted pull a big black orb from the trunk.
Elaine sees something black and round and thinks of the wrecking ball, the hard knocking against the house.
"A Weber kettle," George announces, in case anyone doesn't know.
"Top of the line," Ted says. "We wanted you to have the real thing."
"Let's get some legs on it," Ted says, reaching into the trunk for the missing parts.
"Welcome home." "To new beginnings," Catherine puts in, and they tap their glasses together; the tinkling clink of good glass for a moment sounds like the music of a wind chime.
"It could have happened to any one of us," Ted says. "And that's the truth."
Elaine and Paul look at each other for clues. Elaine finally sputters, "We're overwhelmed. Thank you, thank you so much."
The men set up the grill, filling the kettle with coals. Henry hands Paul a can of lighter fluid with a red ribbon on it. "Fire it up," he says.
Paul remembers squirting the fluid against the house, streaks of it splashing the back wall and evaporating. He remembers the excitement, the anxiety. He remembers coming home, after the fire, late at night in the dark, finding the house still standing. "My aim isn't always true," Paul says.
"It all depends on how full your container is and how hard you squeeze," George says.
"Go on," Ted says. "Hop on the horse."
And with the other men standing by, Paul squirts the stuff on the briquettes.
Henry strikes a match, a quick, fiery burst. He throws it in, and a flash of flame rises from the kettle.
"Bravo!" Joan says.
Showing off, Ted squirts a little more stuff onto the fire, and the flames shoot higher.
"Don't get reckless," Joan says. "That's how accidents happen. That's how this whole thing started."
The men hover around the grill, waiting for the coals to turn. The women press hamburger meat into patties.
George goes into the house to make more martinis; Elaine follows him in. She's come for something, she had a reason, she just can't remember what. It's dark. She turns on a few lights.
"Is Pat all right?" she asks.
"Fine," George says, stirring the pitcher. He pours himself a drink. He downs it and pours another. "She's fine." He adds a splash of vermouth to the pitcher. "That's the benefit of being the bartender," he says. "You get to sample the elixir. Where did Elvis die? All day I've been wondering, did he die on the throne?"
"Is this a joke?" Elaine asks.
"No," George says. "I'm just trying to remember if he died on the toilet."
Mrs. Hansen raps on the window. "Music," she shouts. "We need some music if we're going to dance." She's wearing a dandelion chain like a crown on her head-the Montgomery daughter made it for her.
George glances around the room for the stereo, for something to turn on.