"All that's here is TV," Elaine says.
They pull the TV stand close to the window, put it to a music station, and turn up the volume.
Outside, images flicker across the bushes.
"It's like we're in a movie," someone says.
"Martinis, get your martinis here," George calls as they return to the crowd. He taps his glass against the pitcher, ringing it like the ice-cream man.
The man from Pelham lights the bamboo torches, and the scene starts to look like a jungle party, a tribal gathering. The yard throbs with the smell of citronella, the scent of meat cooking taints the air. Cars drive by, slowing as they pass.
"This is perfect," Jennifer's friend tells Paul. "You're inverting the phenomenon of the backyard, playing the interiority of the back against the exteriority of the front-substituting private space for public, not worrying who might see, what they'll think. It's a radical gesture."
"Whatever you do, don't marry him," Mrs. Hansen whispers to Jennifer. "He'll reduce you to rubble."
"What happens next?" Elaine asks Catherine.
"You don't want to know," Catherine says.
Elaine squeezes Catherine's arm-giving her the go-ahead to continue. Liz and Joan stand by ready, waiting to hear.
"The only way they'll treat him is if they treat the whole family. We'd have to move up there and go into residential family therapy."
"You'd move?" Joan asks, missing the point.
"And if you don't agree?" Elaine asks.
"The state may try and charge him as an adult."
"They couldn't really do that, could they?" Joan says. "It seems kind of extreme, doesn't it?"
"He ate somebody's fingers," someone says.
"There but for the grace of God go I," George says, flipping hamburgers. The men have been listening in.
Hammy's lip trembles.
The light fades, big birds gather on the electric lines. They call to each other.
"Listen to the birds," Elaine says. And they all do.
"It's a wonderful life," Mrs. Hansen says.
"Who's to judge?" Mrs. Hansen's hubcap says, raising his glass. "We all have so many damned opinions, so much we think we know. We don't know anything."
They are all so glad to be back together again. They feel the warmth, the heat, the flicker of the flames. None are what they seem, none are what you think, none are what you'd want them to be. They all are both more and less-deeply human.
"I'm so happy to be here," Catherine says; then she begins to cry and runs into the house.
"It's been a week," Paul whispers to Elaine, who hasn't for a minute forgotten. "Almost this time of night. I squirted the stuff and lit the flame, I fanned the fire and you kicked the grill," Paul says.
"We started the fire that burst the bubble that burned the house and so on and so forth," Elaine finishes the tune for him.
"Do they know what happened?" Paul asks.
"I don't think so," Elaine murmurs.
"Are you embarrassed about the grill?"
"A little. Aren't you?"
"Dinner is served," George says, taking the burgers off the fire.
The children come out from around back covered in dirt. They've invented a game called Making Clouds that involves spinning in circles and kicking up loose soil-they're filthy.
"What were you thinking?" the parents ask, smacking at their children, beating the dirt off their clothing. The children, dizzy with delight, woozy from spinning, laugh hysterically and fall down on the grass.
Catherine is back. She's washed her face, powdered her nose, and taken some sort of little pill that the doctor ordered.
"Whatever does the trick," Mrs. Hansen says, laying a line of mustard down her dog.
"Delicious," Joan pronounces, and they all agree. "I'm so glad I had the idea."
It is dark now. The light of the fire, the glow of the torches, plays off their faces, staining them an orangey yellow. The adults have Mrs. Hansen's famous fruit in vodka, and the children make themselves silly and sick on s'mores-sandwiches of chocolate, toasted marshmallows, and graham crackers. "Excrete," Daniel says, mushing everything together, repeating his theme for the day. White sticky stuff oozes over his fingers.
"How many have you had?" Elaine asks, wondering how he'll sleep.
"Didn't count," he says.
"Were the burgers cooked enough?" Liz asks. "I ate mine, but I thought it was raw in the middle."
"Would anyone like an after-dinner drink?" Paul asks. "What goes good with hamburger?"
"Brandy," George says.
They sit on the grass, drinking, having a look at the stars. "Isn't it nice to sit outside?" Ted says. "We're never just outside for no reason."
"Especially in the dark," Joan says. "I hate being in the dark."
There is the wash of headlights across the party, a car pulls into the driveway, the door slams.
"That's Pat," George says.
Crossing the grass, she calls ahead, "I'm off schedule."
"We're finished," Elaine calls back.
"You missed dinner," Joan says.
"Would you like a drink?" George asks his wife. "I just made a fresh pitcher."
Elaine goes into the kitchen to get Pat a glass; Pat follows her. The cabinet is empty, the glasses are all dirty, the only thing on the shelf is a Curious George mug. "I have very little to offer you," Elaine says.
"I'm sorry I left so abruptly yesterday." Pat presses against her. "I'm a little in love with you."
Elaine washes a dirty glass. "Wine? Martini? Seltzer?"
"What are we going to do?" Pat asks.
Elaine slides away from her. "Paul and I are fixing the house, we're making everything good again. There's nothing else to do," Elaine says, handing Pat the empty glass.
In the yard, there is the sound of crickets and the whoosh of someone's sprinkler kicking on. "He's going to have the best grass," Paul says.
"There's something cursed about that house. No one stays," Liz says. "It's always turning over."
"Who lives there now?" Joan asks.
"Someone with a baby," Elaine says, sitting down again. "That's all we know. We see them wheeling him around sometimes."
"There's the Big Dipper," George says, pointing up. And they watch the sky. It is bigger than they are, and it is calming, and they are quiet.
"There goes the space shuttle," Daniel says as a plane passes.
"Really?" Sammy asks.
"Not really," Liz says. "It's a plane out of La Guardia, a night flight to Europe filled with bankers, movie stars, and runaways."
They all take a few deep breaths. They drain their glasses, stretch out their arms and legs, and say, "This is so relaxing, I am so relaxed. For the first time in a long time I feel as though I don't have a care in the world."
Mrs. Hansen's hubcap pulls out a pack of sparklers and gives one to each person.
"To summer," they say, lighting up, tapping the sparklers against each other, toasting. The sparks are bright white, phosphorescent, clean and clear. They are a sweet explosion firing the night, evaporating in the air. "To all things bright and beautiful."
"Touche," Ted says, sword fighting with Paul.
And then they have had enough.
"Big day tomorrow," George says, bringing things to a close. "Back to work, back to school. I almost forgot-your things are in my car." He goes down to the car and returns with a box of clothes. "Back to you," he says.
Under the torchlight Elaine can see that they are perfectly pressed. "Thank you," she says to Pat. "For everything, always."
"Damn knees," Ted says, trying to get up off the grass.
"Call you tomorrow," Liz says, walking off with Jennifer and Robert.
In the end, the goal is to be left with something: a spouse, children, even parents if you can manage it. The goal is not to be left alone, not to be left old, poor, and on the street. Everyone thinks it could happen to them, everyone worries that they might drift so far from reality as not to be welcomed back-think of bag ladies, men living on steam grates, the Montgomery boy. Everyone secretly knows that it's something that could happen at any moment-an error or an accident.