The War of the Roses

On the day before the party, she moved a cot into the kitchen. Her idea was to prepare everything that day and to spend the night in the kitchen, working right up to the point when the three in help she had hired would arrive. Carefully, she inspected the food she had purchased for any signs of tampering. The wines as well. Satisfied, she began the job of preparation.

For some reason, the one arm tap in the stainless steel sink would not run cold. She tried the other sink and the same condition prevailed. It wasn't a serious problem, but when she moved the tap arm to hot, it came out scalding and scorched her hand. She screamed in pain. It had never happened before, but after the initial shock, she countered the problem by emptying ice cubes into a large stock pot and used the resulting cold water for washing the various ingredients.

Only vaguely did she relate the mishap to Oliver. Even if it was sabotage, she was determined that nothing would stand in her way. When one of the mixing heads came loose from the mixing bowl on the kitchen island center and flew into the ceiling, narrowly missing her face, she received her first jolt of real concern. Her fingers shook as she picked up the head, looked at its thread, then reattached it. It could have been her fault. She might not have tightened it properly.

She fitted the Cuisinart with the slicer top and fed peeled potatoes into it, watching with satisfaction as the thinly sliced pieces piled into the transparent bowl. But when she turned the bowl cover to the off position, it did not stop the blade from whirring and she quickly flicked the machine to the off position. Still it continued to whir. She then reached to pull the plug from the socket but it would not come out.

As she contemplated the problem the room seemed to be growing hotter and she noted that all the burners on the electric stove were red hot. She turned the knobs, but her action had little effect. Still she resisted any sense of panic, determined to remain calm despite the continuous whirring of the Cuisinart. Finally, in a fit of pique, she tugged at the wire and the Cuisinart fell to the floor, which loosened the slicing blade and sent it careening like a projectile into the range hood, ricocheting off a cabinet before it lost power and clanked into one of the sinks.

To avoid being hit, she had fallen to the floor; as she rose the knife box toppled, spraying knives over her body, making cuts in her thighs. Running to the sink, she inadvertently pulled the arm of the faucet, scalding her hand. As it shot away from the fiery liquid her hand brushed the disposal switch, which set the machine moving deep in the bowels of the basin. She tried to shut it off, but it did not -step. As she reeled away from it the range-hood fan inexplicably turned on, as well as the two blenders along the shelf.

Reaching for the plugs, her hand brushed the toaster, which was hot. The red light went on in the coffee maker and on the microwave oven. The dishwasher began its first whirling cycle. Joining the maddening symphony, the disposal began to rasp, offering a grating, nasty metallic counterpoint.

The sweat of fear poured down her back. Every electrical appliance in the kitchen seemed to have turned on in sequence.

The cacophony of sound stabbed at her eardrums and the blood from her knife wounds began to soak through her slacks. Her scalded hand ached as she staggered madly around the kitchen bumping into pots, pans, colanders, salad bowls, scattering canned goods and food, breaking plates. Her head banged into the copper pots hanging overhead and when she felt herself falling from dizziness, she grabbed at them, bringing them down with her and bruising herself.

She lay in the wreckage screaming and helpless. Finding the strength to crawl along the kitchen floor on her belly, she grasped at the knob to the downstairs door, lifted herself, and staggered down the wooden stairs, slipping near the landing, banging her head. The noise from the kitchen followed her. She groped for and found the fuse box, opened the metal door, and pulled the master switch, plunging everything into darkness.

She lay on the cold floor of the basement, wondering if she had died. The house was uncommonly still, the air conditioning silenced. Every part of her seemed to ache and it was the pain finally that convinced her that she was still alive. In the darkness she could not tell if it was tears or blood that rolled down her cheeks. She could not even determine which was more pervasive, her pain or her anger.