Chapter 12: The Tin Under the Oven

Benedetta screamed his name.

Teo was out of the chair before he was awake, my son clamped to his chest in one big hand.

He saw the smoke and turned straight to me.

"Take him."

I took my son.

"Where's the girl?"

"Upstairs. In the crib."

"Go. Both of you. Out the front, not the alley."

The storeroom door had a bright orange line under it now.

I ran.

I'd had twins five weeks ago and I took those back stairs two at a time anyway, with my son screaming against my neck.

My daughter was awake in the crib Teo built, watching the smoke drift across the ceiling.

I scooped her up with my free arm and ran back down.

Benedetta had the front door open, the bell jangling.

I pushed both babies into Benedetta's arms.

"Take them to the florist's. Go."

"Where are you going?"

I didn't answer her.

I went back in.

The kitchen was full of smoke at the top, clear at the bottom, the way they teach you in school.

The storeroom door was open.

Inside, the flour sacks were burning along the back wall, and the shelves, and the paper.

Teo stood in the doorway with the kitchen extinguisher, spraying white foam into the heart of it.

The back door to the alley stood open.

The old baker was coming through it in his coat and slippers, because it was ten past three and he'd been walking to work.

He grabbed the second extinguisher off the wall by the oven and pulled the pin with his teeth.

I got the hose from the dish sink and dragged it as far as it would go.

The three of us fought my father's storeroom fire with two extinguishers and a dish sprayer.

We coughed with our eyes streaming for four minutes that lasted a year.

Then the sirens came up Taylor Street.

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