Chapter 5 - The Ashes of thirty Years
The basement smelled of damp earth, cold stone, and forgotten decades. Arthur carried a heavy battery-powered lantern, its yellow beam cutting through cobwebs that hung like burial shrouds from the low ceiling.
Leo followed closely, having stripped off his charcoal overcoat and silk tie. He rolled the sleeves of his navy dress shirt past his forearms, coughing slightly as disturbed coal dust settled into the air.
At the far end of the cellar stood the massive brick structure. It was an antique Dutch hearth oven, eight feet wide, built directly into the bedrock foundation of the city block. Its cast-iron iron doors were rusted shut, coated in a thick patina of age.
“My grandfather built it in 1938,” Arthur said softly, shining the lantern across the masonry. “When the city ran natural gas down the street in the sixties, we sealed it. The draft pipe runs four stories up through the center of the building. If there’s a blockage, or a bird’s nest, or a cracked flue tile… the basement will fill with carbon monoxide in twenty minutes.”
Leo stepped forward, running his hand along the cold, coarse brick. “Then we inspect it now. Where are the flue brushes?”
“Leo, listen to me,” Arthur said, catching the young man’s shoulder. “Even if we clear the pipe, where are we going to get dry oak cordwood in the middle of a business district by nightfall? And flour? I don’t have twenty sacks of unbleached baker’s hard wheat. We have fifty pounds of stale rye in the pantry upstairs.”
“I have money, Arthur. I have a car.”
“Money can’t buy dry timber cured for bread ovens at six o’clock in the evening!” Arthur’s voice cracked with raw frustration. “And what about customers? Five hundred sales! People buy their bread at supermarkets now, wrapped in plastic! They don’t line up in alleys for an old man’s crust!”
Leo stood silent in the gloom. He didn’t argue. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the folded yellow napkin, and pressed it flat against the cold cast iron of the oven door.
“When you gave me that bread,” Leo said, his voice ringing against the stone walls, “you had every reason to lock your door and turn off your lights. Your wife had died that winter. The neighborhood kids told me you were grieving so hard you couldn't speak. But you still woke up at three in the morning, baked, and looked out for people with nothing.”
Leo turned to face Arthur, his hazel eyes fierce in the lantern light. “You didn't quit when you were broken. I am not letting you quit because a vulture in a tailored suit handed us a deadline. We clear the chimney.”
Arthur looked at the boy, then down at the yellow napkin. A faint spark ignited deep in the old man’s pale eyes. He set the lantern on a stone shelf and reached for a rusty iron crowbar leaning against the coal bin.
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“First,” Arthur said, “we pry open these damn doors.”
With a screech of protesting metal, the iron hinges broke free. From within the dark mouth of the oven, something heavy and metallic dropped to the ash floor with a hollow thud.
