Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [91]
Bebe looked at him. “Oh, Eliot. This is just a miracle. I . . . I. . .” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Eliot wiped them away with his finger. “Baby Jake is gonna love his new room back home that mommy fixed up for him. Aren’t you, baby?”
Bebe kissed his tiny fingers. “Daddy’s right, little one. You have a ceiling full of stars. And a big happy clown in the corner of the room to protect you. And lots and lots of stuffed animals to snuggle up with. And your very own merry-go-round pony to sit on when you get bigger.”
Eliot rolled his eyes and smiled. “And don’t forget his very own PastaMaster, Jumping-Jack-O-Matic, and stained-glass Monarch butterfly collection. Oh, and let’s not forget his brand-new snow blower.”
“Eliot,” Bebe whined. “I got the snow blower for you. So you don’t throw out your back.”
“Bebe, my love. How could I throw out my back when I have my brand-new Chirochair 3000?”
“Don’t be mean,” Bebe whimpered. She kissed his nose, then kissed her baby’s. “I love my guys,” she said. “And I love making a nice home for them.”
Eliot couldn’t help but laugh. “Soon there won’t be enough room in the home for your guys.”
“Shhhhhhhh,” she said. “He’s sleeping. Anyway, I’ve already decided to get rid of a few things. I think it’s time to simplify. Pare down. You know, get a little more Zen.”
“Oh, brother,” Eliot moaned.
B
ecause the Glade Plug-In shared an electrical outlet with the neon spoon, the room ionizer, the bread maker, and the acoustic rodent repeller, it overheated. The plastic warmed, and then started to melt. The outlet blew and the clock on the bread maker went black.
But a tiny spark landed atop Bebe’s brand-new copy of Zen and the Art of Simple Living.
The spark burned a small hole in the cover and the page below began to smolder. Before long, the book was on fire. Quickly, the fire leapt from the book to one of the nearby baskets lining the kitchen counter. Soon, all the baskets were blazing, and the fire spread to the cabinets, the walls, and the ceiling. Flames fell from the ceiling and caught on the carpets. The elephant-foot umbrella stand exploded, causing the antique mannequins next to it to become engulfed. Soon, the sectional sofa was in flames and thick black smoke was billowing out from behind the swag drapes. The Venetian glass collection cracked and shattered to the floor.
By the time the fire department arrived, the duplex was a three-alarm inferno. It had taken nine men to get it under control.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Lt. Brickhouse said to his partner. “I’ve never seen a residential fire burn that hot. This is like a fucking warehouse fire. What have they got in that place, anyway?”
“Beats me,” said his partner, wiping a gloved hand across his forehead. “But it’s always the pack rats.”
Lt. Brickhouse shook his head. “Ain’t that the damn sorry truth.”
“At least nobody was home.”
The men stared at the smoldering rubble. “I sure wouldn’t want to be the one who comes home to this mess. Poor folks are gonna have to start from scratch, right down to the can openers,” the lieutenant said.
Because Bebe’s next door neighbor had agreed to take care of Pepper, the dog had a clear view of his home as it burned to the ground. He whined and circled in front of the living room window. In his own doggy way he knew something was terribly wrong. No more house, no more kitchen table to sit under, no more Beggin’ Strips.
T
rish glanced at her watch. Because she’d stayed on the phone with her father longer than she realized, she was running behind. She needed to rush over to makeup and powder her face quickly. She felt herself begin to shine while she was talking on the phone. As she dashed out of her office she collided head-on with Amanda.
“Oh no, oh, God. I am so sorry, Trish, look at your blouse. I keep forgetting that you’re in Peggy Jean’s old office now. Oh, no!”
Trish’s sheer white top was drenched with chocolate milkshake. Trish was furious. But there was no time to reprimand Amanda now. “Get me another blouse.” She checked her slacks. They were clean, thank God.