14
By the time I finished at Sears, I needed to pick up the kids, so I still hadn’t seen the damage.
But I resolved to sit down with Ruth that night, once the children were in bed, and finally have the talk that had been looming since we crept past the two weeks that I had mentally given her. It was time for Ruth to go home.
I warned the children about the fire, knowing full well it could be much better or worse than Ruth had said.
I did breathe a sigh of relief when we pulled into the driveway and the house appeared completely normal. At least it was standing.
The kids scrambled out of the car but ignored my reminder to grab their books and went running into the house, calling for Ruth. I reached into the back seat for their things and went inside, where the smell of smoke hit me immediately.
I coughed, then began opening windows, finally making my way to the kitchen, where I stopped short.
When she had said she wasn’t used to my stove, I expected a pan fire. But I realized that had been naive of me. It looked like a bomb had gone off in the oven itself. A singed fragment of my curtains remained, and the wall between the stove and kitchen sink was reduced to blackened exposed beams.
The Formica countertops, however, remained unharmed.
“Ruth?” I yelled, then coughed some more, crossing quickly to the kitchen window to fling that open as well.
“In the living room,” she called back. Her voice sounded a little hoarse.
I left the kitchen, wondering how we would ever get the smell out, and made my way to where the children were hugging her on the sofa, the puppy on her lap between them. “Did the firemen examine the wall?” I asked without greeting.
“Yes, yes,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not ‘fine,’” I said, anger rising. “Half of the wall is gone. I need to know if the studs are secure or if the house is going to collapse while we sleep.”
“They said it was structurally sound.”
“You told me it just needed a coat of paint. We need to replace the wall.”
“And then it’ll need a coat of paint.”
I counted to ten in my head to slow myself down. Then I sat on the edge of the armchair. “What exactly happened?”
“I told you: I’m not used to the electric stove. I’ve always cooked with gas.”
I studied her for a moment, but she didn’t meet my eyes. “And the oven?”
“Well, there wasn’t room in the cupboards when I went shopping.”
I blinked rapidly at her as I processed this statement. “So you ...?”
“Just put a few things in there. And then I ... well ... I may have turned the wrong knob when I went to start some soup.”
My mouth fell open. I knew we should have this conversation away from the children, but I couldn’t quite stop myself. “What was in the oven?”
“Not much. A bag of flour. Some Jiffy Pop. Crackers.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “Popcorn. In the oven?”
“I wasn’t going to cook it in there, obviously. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and I knew the children wouldn’t look in the oven.”
The kids weren’t the only ones. It would never have occurred to me to look inside the oven to see if there was anything in there before preheating it.
“Ruth, you cannot store flammable things in the oven.”
“Well, I certainly can’t store anything in the oven now ,” she said. She turned to the kids. “When the new stove arrives, we’ll try again on the Jiffy Pop.”
She was extremely lucky that the children were sitting there, because the fire looked tame in comparison to what I would have done.
I might have done it anyway, even with the children present, but a knock at the door saved her.
Assuming it was Janet, come to see the carnage for herself, I opened the door and started to say to come in. But instead of Janet, a handsome man stood on my doorstep.
“Yes?” I asked him, not in the mood for whatever he was selling.
“Um, hello,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Barry Waterman.” I looked at his hand long enough that he dropped it, shoving the offending appendage into his pocket. “I ... uh ... Is Mrs. Feldman home?”
“I am Mrs. Feldman.”
“Oh, I meant the other one. She asked me to come by when I got off work.”
“Who exactly are you?”
“Barry Waterman.”
“Yes, you said that part already.”
Ruth appeared behind me. “Barbara, let Mr. Waterman in,” she said, her tone chastising me for my rudeness as if I was supposed to know who he was.
But my house had nearly burned down that day, so I was past being polite. “I don’t exactly want guests right now.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ruth said to the young man. Then she turned back to me. “Did you pick up dinner, like I said? Mr. Waterman was one of the firefighters today, and I thought he might like to join us.” She lowered her voice to a loud whisper that Mr. Waterman could clearly still hear. “He’s single.”
I stared at her as she ushered him into the house. Yes, she was getting evicted this evening. After I figured out how to get rid of the appropriately named fireman.