AUGUST
1 Abbott and the Clogged Main
This morning there is quite a bit of water on the basement floor, so Abbott checks the Internet. He flushes the toilet and then scrambles downstairs to see more water spilling from what he thinks are called pipe joints. What he has, according to the Internet, is a clog. He consults the Yellow Pages, trying to determine, based exclusively on fonts, graphics, and slogans, which plumbing companies provide prompt service and excellent work at a reasonable price. They all do, apparently, though most of them use strange quotation marks. One advertisement for a local, family-operated business features a smiling, large-headed cartoon plumber clutching an enormous wrench and sprinting clogward, trailed by the lines that universally denote alacrity. This looks good to Abbott, and so he calls. He is handling this problem. He is taking care of his house and family. His wife and daughter went to Story Time at the public library, and they are due to return in forty-five minutes. Abbott’s wife’s dismay about the clog and its consequences in a one-toilet home will be attenuated, Abbott suspects, by her discovery of his swift and frugal decision making. The nice woman who answers the family-operated plumbing business’s phone asks if it’s the main line that’s clogged. Abbott breathes into the receiver. For an instant he considers terminating the call. The woman says, “Is it the big pipe, do you think? The four-inch one?” Abbott walks downstairs with the phone and a tape measure. The woman waits patiently. He surveys the plumbing, the impressive copper network. He has not been adequately respectful of and grateful for this system, he knows. He traces the route of the water, considers the location of the leaky joints. Yes, he tells the nice woman, he thinks it’s the main pipe. “Well,” she says, “we don’t have that big a snake.” Abbott does not understand what she’s talking about. “I see,” he says. “We can only clean out a two-inch pipe,” she says, “but I can give you the name of a pipe rooter who can take care of you. He’s the best there is.” Abbott is impressed by her generosity and her loyalty, and he is proud to have located, through his own initiative, the best pipe rooter out there. He takes down the name and number. “Thank you so much,” he says. “Have a nice day,” she says. Under normal circumstances, Abbott would take a short break between phone calls, but currently he is feeling hale and capable, and so he immediately calls the vaunted Pipe Rooter. After four rings, he reaches an automated system and he is asked to leave a voice message. He ends the call, paces the wet basement floor, and constructs in his mind a succinct, forceful, and informative message about the pipe and the clog. Then he takes a deep breath, and he calls the Pipe Rooter again. This time the Pipe Rooter answers after one ring, flustering Abbott beyond hope of recovery. “Yeah,” the Pipe Rooter says, by way of salutation. “Hello?” Abbott says, considering whether to hang up. “Yeah?” says the Pipe Rooter. “I was going to leave a message about my clog,” Abbott says. “Clogged main?” the Pipe Rooter says. “My main line is clogged,” Abbott says, “and the plumber I talked to isn’t able to handle the width of the pipe.” Abbott does not want to mention the snake if he can help it, because it’s lewd and because he is not sure he heard the woman correctly. “Yeah, you’ll need a big snake for that,” the Pipe Rooter says. “That’s what I understand,” Abbott says. The Pipe Rooter asks Abbott for his address, and Abbott supplies the proper answer. The Pipe Rooter says, “I actually have a little time right now if that works.” Abbott is thrilled by the promptness, but the thrill soon fades to distress. If he arranges and then supervises the repair before his wife is even aware of the problem, then she will never understand and appreciate his role in the crisis. She’ll return to the house to learn that the main line was clogged and then fixed. It will be like it all never happened. The toilet worked when she left, and it will work when she returns, a scenario that dismays Abbott. He might as well tell her the roof blew off and he put on a new one. She’ll be left with a bill but with no real sense of the privation or exigency, or of his competent response. “Take your time,” Abbott says. “I’m on my way,” the Pipe Rooter says. “You come highly recommended,” Abbott says. “Just open the bulkhead, if you don’t mind, and I can get started right away,” the Pipe Rooter says. Ten minutes later, the Pipe Rooter’s van is in Abbott’s driveway, and the Pipe Rooter is dragging his equipment around to the back. He is probably sixty years old, gray-haired and ruddy. Through the kitchen window Abbott watches him descend into the bulkhead. Then Abbott walks downstairs to the basement. The Pipe Rooter is crouched behind the washing machine, and Abbott lingers silently across the room. The Pipe Rooter stands and puts a large red hand on top of the washer. “My kids never liked those things,” the Pipe Rooter says, pointing to a dismantled swing chair against the wall. “When I swung them myself, they loved it, but then as soon as I put them in the chair, they’d wail.” Abbott nods. “But my grandkids love that stuff,” the Pipe Rooter says. Abbott asks how many grandchildren the Pipe Rooter has. “Four,” he says. “And two are living with us now because their mom just got a divorce and she’s trying to get back on her feet. She got married young. So now she’s got to find herself. I told her, ‘Shit, you think your parents’ house is the place to look?’” “Right,” Abbott says. “The little ones are fun to have around, but they’re wild. It’s been a long time since we’ve had kids in the house. I’d forgotten what it’s like. It’s terrible. My wife remembered, but I didn’t.” The Pipe Rooter laughs. “It’s pretty bad,” Abbott says. “It’s a blessing, though,” the Pipe Rooter says. He crouches again behind the washer. If his daughter misbehaves at Story Time, Abbott thinks, perhaps his wife will return early. “I remember this house,” the Pipe Rooter says. “I’ve been out here a couple times over the years. The snake goes out about ninety feet and there’s a place where the big blade won’t go through. I think the pipes out there under the road aren’t quite matching up.” He stands up and makes his hands into mismatched pipes for Abbott. “Maybe a busted coupling, maybe some roots coming through. So I’ll bring the snake out that far and use the smaller blade. Should take about twenty minutes is all.” Abbott says, “It just goes in there like that?” “Just like that,” the Pipe Rooter says. The sun shines through the bulkhead and makes a golden rectangle on the cement. “Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll write you a check,” Abbott says. “I was here in this house maybe ten or twelve years ago,” the Pipe Rooter says. He breathes heavily as he turns his wrench. “I’ll never forget it. See how you’ve got this open drain in the floor here?” Abbott walks across the basement and peers behind the washing machine. “I was down here working just like I am now. I kept hearing this little chirping noise, and I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Then when I was packing up my tools, this little bird flew out of the drain. Right there.” The Pipe Rooter points with his wrench. “Flew right past me, out the bulkhead, into the sky. Scared me to death. Just a little brown bird, like a swallow. I told the guy who lived here, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. Hell, if I were you I wouldn’t believe me either, but I saw it and it’s true.”
2 In Which There Are no Hard Feelings
Just this morning Abbott came up behind his wife while she was at the electric range, and he put his arms around the hard lower slope of her belly. She did not lean back into him, and she did not make that small, wonderful sound from the back of her throat. She did not stop tending her omelet. And now, hours later, she leans over the wobbly arm of the couch, trying to kiss him while he reads, but Abbott closes neither his eyes nor his big book.