House of Blues

head on the right, lifted a little. She tried again,
and thought she felt it lift a little farther. She kept trying, and
each time got her legs closer to the floor.
    How could she get the bed to come up?
    I don't think I can.
    Truly, it seemed like a losing battle, but she kept
trying. Finally, with a great creaking, it came up enough for her to
touch the floor. On the next heave, the whole thing began to upend
itself.
    Reed watched with eyes like coasters, apparently
trying to gauge whether it was going to hit her on the way over. It
didn't, however. After about twenty minutes of heaving and wrenching,
Skip found herself on the floor with a bed on top of her—mattress,
box springs, and frame.
    "Skip, are you all right?"
    " I think so."
    She was a little dazed. It had hit her hard. She
hadn't thought it would be so heavy.
    Okay. I did it. Now the question is, can I move?
    I don't have far to go. Four or five feet, probably.
Piece of cake. She took a deep breath, and as she did, she smelled
smoke.
    Oh, shit.
    She hoped Reed hadn't yet noticed the smell; she'd
panic, not knowing where her child was.
    Only one thing to do. Same thing I'd do if there
wasn't smoke. Like a hermit crab, its house many times its size on
its back, Skip began to make her way toward her own discarded
property. She had to move on her elbows, like a soldier slithering
through trenches, but it was much harder than it should have been,
not only because of the weight, but because her arms were so far
apart, taped as they were.
    The carpet smelled of feet, and cigarettes, and some
kind of chemical, a cleaner, probably, and the fabric itself. Yet she
could smell smoke as well, and it wasn't the sharp scent of tobacco
burning.
    Reed said, "Skip, do you smell anything?"
and there was a tremor in her voice.
    Skip didn't answer. She was drenched with sweat, she
must have blisters on her elbows, and she thought perhaps her back
was wrenched beyond usefulness.
    She caught the leather handle of her purse in her
teeth and began the painful business of turning toward Reed. If she
could just make the turn, she'd only have about three feet to go.
    About half as many as I just went. About as many as I
could cover in three centuries. By which time we'll be ashes.
    Still, slowly, like the snail that carries its house,
she twisted her body and, with it, the bed. She rested a moment,
forehead on the carpet, before beginning the endless slither toward
Reed. Sweat poured into the fabric. She gagged against the purse
strap.
    "Skip? I think we're on fire."
    Now she not only had no inclination to speak, she
could not; or she would have dropped the purse strap.
    Finally, every muscle in her body shaking, most of
the liquid in her left on the carpet, she judged she was close enough
to attempt the vast problem of upheaval. Reed, being cuffed, couldn't
lean down to get the purse; but if Skip could maneuver it close
enough to her open hand, she might, in about three or four hours, be
able to extract something from it.
    Skip got up on her knees, the bed like a boulder on
top of her. Reed stretched her fingers toward the purse. Finally,
sweat dripping from Skip, Reed's eyes nearly popping with the effort,
they maneuvered the trade.
    Skip made a decision.
    "Cuticle scissors," she managed to gasp.
"In the leather case. Cut my tape."
    She heaved onto her right side, which meant slamming
the bed onto the floor, on its side, which, judging by the way it
felt, probably broke her back.
    Is it my imagination or is it getting hotter in here?
    She really couldn't know, feeling as she did—as if
she'd just run a marathon.
    Using her whole body, legs more than arms this time,
she slithered toward Reed, close enough for her to cut the tape; but
she stayed there a very long time while Reed held the purse awkwardly
in one cuffed hand and felt for the case with the other.
    Smoke was beginning to enter the room, curling under
the door, only a wisp at first.
    "Goddamn motherfucker. Asshole cocksucker."
Reed kept up an impressive litany of swear words while she worked.
Finally she had the tape of one hand cut deeply enough for Skip to
wrench her hand free. It was dodgy work because she had almost no
feeling in the hand. She bent her fingers a few times, waiting for
the sensation to return, but her body would not cooperate.
Nevertheless, there was no time for recovery.
    She began the operation of freeing her left hand,
more sweat pouring.
    I'll die of dehydration if I live long enough.
    "Skip?"