Page 82 - WTP Vol. VI #4

Jesus (continued from page 36)
But there’s nothing I can do. I’m knocking on the door and Mr. Mallory is standing there in the same damn flannel from last week. (More or less. The color is different.)
Jesus stands up on the couch. He’s bleating loud as he can. Screaming.
“Come on in,” he says without noticing Jesus, whose hooves click with every step on the hard- wood floor.
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. Never done plumbing.”
“It didn’t buckle—the floor?” I ask. That’s what I’d been hoping for. Ripping out a floor and laying down a new one—that’s good money.
His hooves stamp the couch cushions. If I were any closer, he’d bite my fingers and crack them like carrots.
“We were sitting right there,” he says pointing to
the kitchen table. “Having dinner. And then some-
thing drips from the ceiling. At first, I don’t know
what—what it is. But then it drips again from the
light fixture and I figure it’s the toilet or the sink
upstairs. I’d seen water under the sink a few days
before. I caulked it up. But this was more. So I run
upstairs to the sink and sure enough, it’s dripping.
I shut the water off and run back down. We can see
where it’s pooled up. So I punch little holes and it
drips down. Not too bad. I’m mostly worried about “And cloths. I’ll lay out drop cloths. And we’ll need mold forming. Should I worry about mold?” to move the table. Over there. We’ll just push it
He looks at me real serious and I want to tell him
a lie—tell him to rip down the drywall. Replace “Yeah, ok. I’ll take one side and—”
the ceiling. But Jesus won’t stop staring from his place on the couch, blood dripping heavy now. Blood dripping all over the couch and all over the floor. And it’s pooling up—the blood, and black mold grows all over it expanding out to the fur- niture and the standing lamp. All of it covered. And—
Jesus hops up on the top part of the couch. Cush- ions squish down beneath his hooves. He’s butt- ing his head up against the lamp and screaming louder than ever.
“No. It’s right of you to poke the holes. It’s stand- ing water you don’t want. And you drained it out, so it’s fine to patch them up. I’ll—”
“No, not now. When I come back up we’ll—” “Who are you waving at?”
“I’ll be right back, I—”
“That’s what the plumber said. And something about pipes—something about the connection between the water pipes and the sink. They get screwed in. But you’re supposed to hand-tighten. Someone used a wrench. That’s what he said. Someone—it must’ve been the previous home- owner, he tightened it with a wrench and the plastic threads cracked.”
I slam the door hard behind me.. There’s blood everywhere growing mold. And this guy—Dolan Mallory—he’s worried about mold in the ceiling. Mold—it’s everywhere. Wants me patching his holes for fifty bucks. Fifty bucks! I should be rip- ping out the floor with all the trouble I took—Jesus not talking to me. Sitting on the other side of the room staring for a whole week while I load the
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“Me neither,” he says. “But he’s a good plumber. He replaced the plastic fittings with copper. ‘Won’t crack,’ he said.”
My hand is on the door knob. I motion to Jesus to follow me outside.
“What are you waving at?”
“The tools. In the truck. I’ll be right up. And the ladder. I’ll need the ladder.”
“You weren’t waving—”
into the corner.”