Hot Flash Holidays by Nancy Thayer Page A

present, watch him as he opened it.
    Where was the camera! She was standing here chewing away like a squirrel, and where was the camera?
    In the kitchen? Probably.
    The doorbell chimed. Polly raced down the stairs, Roy Orbison hurrying with her, his long, chubby body swaying, nearly tripping her as they went.
    The air downstairs was smoky. Hadn’t she pushed up the fireplace flue? She’d have to open the windows, let the smoke out. First, though, she hurried to the front door.
    “David!” she cried. “Amy! And Jehoshaphat!”
    Amy’s brown braids were looped on the top of her head in a kind of Fräulein milkmaid look. Instead of a coat, she wore a hairy brown poncho. Jehoshaphat’s chubby baby face stared over his mother’s shoulder from her backpack.
    They were really here! Polly was so thrilled, she nearly burst into a flamboyant flamenco. At her feet, Roy Orbison danced and barked his hoarse old dog bark. “Come in, come in.”
    David bent to pat the basset hound. He smelled faintly of manure and Lysol. “Mom, why is it so smoky in here?”
    “Oh, darling, I lighted a fire, and I need to—” There were so many things to do at once, she couldn’t finish her sentence. “Let me hold Jehoshaphat while you take off your things,” she told Amy, reaching out for her grandson. Amy allowed her to lift the little boy from the backpack.
    “Mom, something’s wrong.” David pushed past her, still in his coat.
    “Darling, it’s just—” Carrying Jehoshaphat, who was squirming around, looking in all directions at this new environment, Polly followed her son down the hall and into the living room.
    “Jesus Christ!” David exclaimed. “Mom, call 911! The house is on fire!”
    But Polly was paralyzed as she stood in the doorway to her living room. What she saw was so bizarre, her mind couldn’t, for a moment, force it to make sense. Flames shot up from the mantel, where her organic greenery was crackling and popping as it burned, and her wooden candlesticks glowed orange.
    “Oh my God!” Amy shrieked. Lunging forward, she snatched Jehoshaphat from Polly’s arms. The little boy began to scream along with his mother as she flew back outside.
    The dog, confused and frightened, stood in the middle of the hall, threw back his head, and bayed like a lost soul.
    David had his cell phone out and was dialing 911.
    “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” a choir sang from the CD player.
    Fire,
Polly thought.
Water.
Breaking out of her stupor, she ran into the kitchen, found her big lobster pot, set it in the sink, and turned on both faucets. The water ran and ran, and yet, as if she were caught in some kind of nightmare, the pot would not fill. Slowly, slowly, the level of the water rose, while black smoke drifted down the hall and into the kitchen.
    Finally the pot was almost full. Polly hoisted it from the sink, turned, and started to run toward the living room. But with her first step, the water sloshed out of the pot, spilling onto her slacks and puddling onto the floor. Slipping, slithering, she almost went down.
    Carefully, slowly, Polly regained her balance. She moved her legs as quickly as she could while keeping her upper torso and arms completely still, to prevent more water spilling. Arms stiff, she walked zombielike to the living room.
    David was by the fireplace, poker in hand, knocking the burning greenery and blackened candleholders onto the tile hearth and into the fireplace.
    “Oh, David,” she cried, “be careful! Don’t burn yourself!”
    “It’s all right now, Mom. I’ve got it under control. When the fire department gets here, they can check whether it got into the walls somehow, but I think we’re okay.”
    Polly stood helplessly, holding her heavy pot of water. Above the mantel, the wall was streaked with black, and the beautiful oil painting she and Tucker had inherited from his family was scorched and curled into fragments of ruined canvas. Roy Orbison had stopped bellowing and sniffed