My aunt told me to go to the bottom basement step and count to one hundred. I didn’t want to go but her voice was high and tight. So I climbed down the stairs and didn’t cry. The basement was dimly lit and full of shadows, but its damp air was cool against my hot cheeks. I sat on the bottom step; the back of my head throbbed. I pressed my hand to it and when I pulled my hand away there was bright blood.
I’m bleeding, I called upstairs, but no one answered.
Nearby stood an old boiler with a vent like a mouth and I tried not to look at it.
I called again, I’m hurt. I want to come up.
My aunt called back, Count to one hundred.
I started counting. At thirty-two a watery vibration sounded from a wall nearby, an eerie roar that rose and fell. My limbs were full of pins and needles and I had the childish thought that if I turned to run up the stairs the boiler would leap at me.
I looked at it. Wide as a car and taller than my aunt, it seemed to crouch in the shadows, its pipes reaching like arms. But it was only a machine. It was as old as the house, my uncle had told me, and used to heat its rooms with steam before the house was switched to electric and then to geothermal heat. I used to come down here with him—he had a workbench in the far corner that was gone now. The boiler was like a huge pot that simmered, he said, and he drew me a picture of how it worked. I remembered the scratch of his pencil on the paper and the smell of WD-40 and epoxy glue. The basement didn’t smell like that anymore; it smelled only of wet concrete.
When he finished the drawing he wondered aloud if he could get the boiler working again, just for fun. It would make a mess and your aunt won’t like it, he said. But I bet we could do it if we put our two minds together.
His tools were still down here, locked in a cabinet. I got up from the stair. My head had stopped bleeding. I found a wire hanger forgotten on the floor, twisted it into the shape I needed, and picked the cabinet’s lock. The shelves were full of drills and sanders and pliers and screwdrivers, and it smelled like I remembered, like oil and glue and also a whisper of something burnt.
I imagined my uncle standing beside me, his broad face and wispy hair. His wool sweater. In my mind he said, A flashlight, a wrench, and a box of matches. With those things in my hands I turned back to the boiler.
The sun had gone down. The narrow windows at the top of the concrete walls were black and my flashlight made a small yellow circle in the darkness.
Only one way to find out how it works, my uncle’s voice said.
Take it apart, I said, and I imagined him nodding and handing me the wrench.
I climbed onto a crate and loosened one of the pipes at the joint, then shined my light inside. There was insulation stuffed in there and I pulled it out. I blew air into the hole and it made a low, vibrating note.
I went from one pipe to the next until they were all clear. I studied the box’s metal pressure gauge, unscrewed its cover, pulled out its wiring. Then I put it back the way I found it.
Not much to it, is there? my uncle’s voice said.
Will it work?
Let’s find out, he said, and I lit my way to a bag of charcoal sitting under the stairs. The boiler’s heavy drawer groaned when I opened it. I tipped the charcoal inside, struck a match, and dropped it in. I struck more matches and let them fall into the pile of coal until the coal began to cinder and glow.
I shut the drawer, opened the pressure valves, and flipped the boiler’s switch, but nothing happened. I stoked the coals and they glowed orange, but the pressure gauge showed no flicker of movement. I waited several minutes, watching the gauge the whole time; it didn’t change.
My aunt called from above, They’re talking about Inquiry on TV. I dropped the matches and ran upstairs.
In the living room she sat in the dark, the TV flickering blue and green on her face. It’s the communications system, she said.
I sat down on the sofa. What about it?
It stopped working. Or the crew’s not responding. They aren’t sure which.
I watched the screen. What else did they say?
There’s nothing we can do about it, she said. We should go to bed.
Outside the dark window flecks of snow were falling. I wanted to say something to make her feel better. But all I could think to say was, I’m sorry I scratched your cheek.
I know you are, she said. She stood, picked up one of the square sofa pillows, shook it out, and left the room.
That night I woke to a hollow clanging in the walls and a low hiss. I stayed very still under the covers as the sound rose, and rose. I thought of the boiler in the basement and exhilaration—and panic—twisted my stomach. I forced myself to sit up and the air was thick like smoke. But it wasn’t smoke; it was steam. I felt its warm droplets on my face and hands.
A shout came from John’s room. I went into the hallway as he emerged from his bedroom. Damp hair plastered his round face and his cheeks were flushed red. Steamy air billowed through his doorway.
My aunt came out of her room, her eyes unfocused, in a robe printed with blue and green parrots. What on earth? She waved her hand through the steam.
John’s pajama pants sagged with moisture. He looked like he had wet himself.
She tried to burn me in my bed! he said.
I did not!
My aunt bent down, gripped my shoulders, lined her face up with mine. What did you do? One of the parrots on her robe had an orange-and-green wing and a beady eye in the center of its small head. I reached out to pinch the tiny black eye, but she grabbed my hand and held it fast. June? Her voice sounded like it might crack in two.
Then—a jolt of sound under our feet. A popping, sparking roar.
My aunt streaked past me to the top of the stairs, the parrots rippling. Get out, get out! She pulled John and me down the stairs, out the front door, and into the freezing night air.