The Great Below

The Burns: Part 2

Octavia woke to the buzzing of an alarm clock. Time had grown sluggish and difficult to gauge; she had been paging through her water-logged scrapbook, waiting for Victor to return, when she'd dozed off. The first thing she noticed was smoke. It crawled, dreamlike, over the plaster ceiling. She yawned, inhaling the dark sulfur smell and stretched, feeling the carpet rub the backs of her arms.

There's no alarm clock in the living room.

Octavia rose on her elbow, the handcuff tugging in response. She took another deep breath and coughed. Dinner was burning. She jerked upright. The smoke formed trails from the lip of the oven door that spilled gracefully up, feeding a puddle on the ceiling. The oven timer buzzed its single, incessant high note. Just outside the kitchen door, the smoke alarm waited, flashing a tiny red light, reminding her of its readiness. Its capacity to destroy the evening.

Octavia leaped to her feet so fast that the handcuff caught and threw her back to the floor. She scrambled, grabbing the hard edge of the couch near the foot to pull it along with her. It didn't budge. She hit it, punching at the thick, stupid stuffing not because it caused any progress, but because she felt a twinge of satisfaction for having done it.

Outside of the buzzing timer, the house remained quiet. The hall beyond the kitchen was dark. Octavia tried sliding her hand out of the cuff, but Victor had closed it tight. She jammed the metal toward her knuckles; she spit on her hand and spread her saliva over the red, wrinkled skin. She glanced back at the kitchen, where smoke curled closer to the alarm.

The alarm could bring fire fighters.

She paused on one knee, pulling away from the sofa, imagining a fire fighter chopping her handcuff loose with his axe and carrying her to safety. She pictured him as the young man from the train station – no, the male model from her Better Homes & Gardens magazine. The smoke was growing thick and she began to cough. It's okay, he would tell her, and his voice would tickle her ear because they were so close. She pictured him wearing designer sunglasses along with his uniform. You're going to be all right.

The smoke alarm wailed.

Octavia ducked, surprised, and shielded her ears with her free arm. Her fantasy was exactly that; every door and window were closed and soon any arrival would be a late one. She stood as straight as she could and flung herself toward the kitchen. Something in her wrist made a noise like a cork popping from the lip of its bottle and she went sprawling on her front, shouting profanity. Octavia rose on her good hand and raced to the oven. She spun the knob off, silenced the timer. She grabbed a pair of potholders from the top drawer, then overestimated the lifting ability of her newly injured wrist, and dumped the lasagna on the floor. The hot tomato sauce splashed her feet in burning droplets.

There would be no explaining this to Victor. The smoke alarm continued, a bullhorn against her ears. It was the reason she didn't hear the front door open.

Octavia caught movement in her peripheral vision and turned to see Victor drop packages from his arms before sprinting to the alarm. He broke the cover off and tried forcing the batteries out; when that didn't work, he wrenched the entire unit from the ceiling. Plaster dust coughed out of the hole, dusting the top of his hair in a halo of white.

Octavia felt a cough welling up again, so she pressed the back of one potholder against her lips.

"What in the hell is going on?" he asked. To enter the kitchen, Victor had to place his feet between splashes of tomato sauce. The lasagna had a layer of black on it that had turned brittle like charcoal. The air was acidic and sour. He crossed to the patio door and pulled it wide, letting the cold night air rush in.

"I'm so sorry," she replied. "It was in too long."

He returned, taking the potholders from her and setting them on the far counter.

Everything in her rebelled. Octavia's stomach churned and the fight had gone out of her, partly because tears spilled down her cheeks and obscured her view of the scene. It was a blessing. "I'm sorry," she said again, and the quality of her voice betrayed her. "I couldn't reach it in time." It was hard to talk over the knot of tissue in her throat. She knew what was coming with the force of that same train she'd wanted to flee on last night, and there would be no stopping it. It wasn't electrical this time – it was the stink of scorched tomato sauce.

Victor's hands closed over hers, and he examined the red skin at her wrist. "How long have you been able to get out of those?"

Not the question she'd been expecting. Her breath came a little easier. "Never...this was the first time."

"And dinner," he asked, nodding at the mess on the floor. "Did you do this to punish me? You're still angry about the shoes."

"No." His quiet, reasonable tone had disarmed her. His feelings were hurt and it was the night of his last match. "I fell asleep – I didn't mean to. I wanted everything to be perfect."

"Pick it up," he said.

Octavia nodded, grateful for his mercy. She would clean everything and make something else. She would have to move quickly. If she ignored the bad wrist and worked fast, she could have something for him before he left, she was sure of it. She lunged for the potholders behind him, but Victor's hand caught her at the waist.

"I told you to pick it up."

"I will," she said, "I just need the potholders. Could you—"

His hands closed tight over hers, dragging her down to the floor. Octavia struggled, not thinking that it would anger him further, and when she lost her balance she dipped one knee into the sizzling mess and cried out.

"I said, 'pick..." he began.

"Don't do this," she pleaded. Her hands were taut, the muscles stretched to their limit. She'd known what was coming a few moments ago but something he'd said, something different, had confused her. Victor's technique had changed and she hadn't kept up.

"...it..."

"NO, VICTOR!"

He flattened both of her open hands onto the remains of the searing pan.