The Pipes Are Leaking Again

I open the door and listen, and at first I don’t hear anything. But then it’s there—the hiss, a pinhole somewhere, and now I’m just hoping it isn’t too close to a fitting or heavily corroded. Once down there I realize we have three leaks: the babbling junction near the well pump, the misting pinhole in the half-inch near the stairs, and the dripping tee beside it. Three this time. Three’s manageable.

Dad’s been at the pump. He’s set a basin beneath the leak and inserted a hose that empties into the perimeter trough. Simple. Saves him from having to empty the basin. I track another sound to the furnace and find a lemon-sized patch of putty on the hot water pipe. He just cakes it on. And sure enough, it’s dripping fast into another basin. That’s four. 

I’ve been thinking of buying this house for them—rather, the landlord is pressuring me to buy it. She was going to accept an offer in lieu of deed but set it back into short sale to give me a chance, likely at a higher price, so I wouldn’t have to find them a new place to live. 

Still, the price is low, so low the mortgage would be less than half the rent. But the pipes. And the upstairs bathroom, the only bathroom, needs everything. The ceiling below it—or what used to be there—needs replacement. Coat of paint couldn’t hurt either. The floors should be reconditioned, too. If I do buy it, area contractors might start coming again. The landlord has stiffed them all, and it seems the address has been blacklisted. 

Good I’ve learned how to fix pipes.

I find Dad on the front porch. I tell him about the pinhole and the tee. He knows. Says he can fix them, that I should enjoy my visit. Then Mom pulls up. She’s just finished her shift and has bags of food. She hears me say the furnace leak needs to be repaired professionally and says they’ve been trying. I say keep trying. Eventually they’ll show up just to shut you up. 

I let it go. They’re trying, and it hasn’t been easy. They lost everything. We help Mom with the bags, and then Dad and I return to the porch. I mention the crab apple tree across the road hasn’t started to bud yet, and he reminds me of when we first moved there and he got me to eat one. It wasn’t that bad, not as bad as the ones back in Jersey, I say. And that’s all it takes. One memory. Just like that, we’re on the porch of my childhood home. Seagulls dropping clams on the street. Fishing trips. Baseball games. That tournament when I was thirteen and threw nine innings—it was a night game and the clay was such a bright orange and fine but packed magnificently—and we had that guy at the plate. Aaron threw a rope from right and that kid was toast. And then when I was eleven and struck out Danny Ruane twice before he got mad and hit three home runs off me. The last two still haven’t landed. And my first Little League tryout—it was hardly a tryout. I said I’d like to pitch. Mr. Jardine caught and Dad realized right then that I was a pitcher. It wasn’t a choice. I wasn’t trying or pretending to be one. I just was. It was just something I did. I was seven years old, and I was a pitcher.

Dad gets quiet and then says the tree will bud soon. It’s just something it does.