by, barely.

The day drifted along. He took a nap, watched a basketball game on TV,
and cleaned, minimally, for his mother's inspection. At seven, he
walked down to George's.

"Foundrymen's Red!" he said, holding up a liter of Merlot. "Foundry
workers, I should say."

"Good timing." George rummaged for glasses, found one, and handed it to
Oliver. "The guest gets the clean glass." He washed one for himself and
filled them both. "Cellini," he toasted.

"Pavarotti," Oliver responded. "And other great Italians. Did you know
my mother is Italian?"

"Some people have all the luck."

"Yeah," Oliver said. "She was a singer when she was young."

"Probably cooks, too," George said.

"Yeah."

"Jesus, Olive Oil."

"She's coming through this weekend. She and Paul, her husband. They go
to Quebec every year."

"Good eating in Quebec."

"You bet," Oliver said. "She likes to dress up. They have a good time."

"Wow," George said. "I don't think my mom has bought a dress in twenty
years. Says she's too old for that foolishness."

"My mom is too old, but it doesn't stop her." He looked at the furnace.
"So, what are we doing?"

"We're set," George said. They crossed the loft, and he handed Oliver a
propane torch. "I'll turn on the gas at the main tank. You light it.
There's the blower valve." He pointed to a round handle mounted between
the blower and the pipe that led to the furnace. Oliver lit the torch
and knelt by the furnace. George stood by the propane tank. "Hope this
works. You ready?"

"Do it."

George opened the line, and Oliver angled the torch tip down into the
furnace. Nothing happened for several moments. There was a whooshing
sound, and George said, "Holy Mama!" A blue flame, the size of a beach
ball, was bouncing under the wooden ceiling joists. Oliver
concentrated. Air. He reached back and grabbed the blower valve,
twisting it counter-clockwise. Almost immediately, the blue flame
lowered. He continued opening the valve. The flame pirouetted
irregularly down an invisible column, drawn toward the furnace.

"Air," he shouted. "Not enough air until it got way the hell up there."

"Keep going," George said.

The flame reached the top of the furnace and began to whirl in a tight
spiral. It plunged inside, roaring and spinning at high speed. The
floor shook. "Jesus," George said.

"It's like a Goddamn bomb," Oliver said.

George put an ingot of bronze into a carbon crucible and gripped the
edge of th