Mrs. Fletcher(91)

This popularity had a downside, however. The toilet in the accessible bathroom was notoriously temperamental—easily blocked and prone to overflow—and it had been malfunctioning with increasing frequency in recent months. Eve had formally requested funding for a replacement, but the council was dragging its feet, as usual. So she wasn’t exactly surprised when Shirley Tripko—a grandmotherly woman who looked like she wore pillows under her clothes—approached her a couple of minutes before seven to let her know there was a “problem” with the handicap rest room.

“Would you mind informing the custodian?” Eve asked. “I have to introduce our guest speaker.”

“I already informed him.” Shirley’s voice was tense, a little defensive. “He needs to talk to you.”

“All right,” Eve sighed. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“He said right now.”

“Are you serious?”

Shirley bit her lip. She looked like she was about to cry.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “I just flushed. That’s all I did.”

*

Eve stood in the doorway of the accessible bathroom, trying not to breathe. The toilet hadn’t simply overflowed; it appeared to have erupted. The custodian, Rafael, was gamely trying to mop up the mess.

“Did you try the plunger?” she asked.

Rafael stared at her with dead eyes, his face partially concealed by a surgical mask. He was also wearing rubber boots and dishwashing gloves, the closest the Senior Center came to a hazmat suit.

“No good,” he said in a muffled voice. “Better call the plumber.”

Eve groaned. An after-hours emergency call was a huge—and expensive—pain in the ass.

“Can it wait until morning?”

Rafael cast a wary glance at the toilet. It was filled to the brim with a nasty-looking liquid, still quivering ominously.

“I wouldn’t,” he said.

A wave of fatigue passed through Eve’s body. A phrase she’d never spoken out loud suddenly appeared in her mind.

Shit show, she thought. My life is a shit show.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

*

She calmed down a little once she got the introduction out of the way and returned to her office. On the bright side, there was a full house in the Lecture Room; her advance work had paid off. And the toilet thing was manageable. All she had to do was call the plumber and get the problem fixed.

It’s okay, she told herself. It’s under control.

Her usual contractor—the ironically named Reliable Plumbing—didn’t return her call, and Veloso Brothers said they couldn’t get anyone there until ten at the earliest. Eve didn’t want to wait, so she tried Rafferty & Son. She made the call with some trepidation, fully aware of the thinness of the ice she was standing on, asking a favor of a man whose late father she’d banished from the Senior Center not so long ago. Luckily, George Rafferty wasn’t a grudge-holder. He was cordial on the phone, and said he’d be right over.

“Thank you,” she told him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Eve barely recognized him when he appeared at the main entrance fifteen minutes later, toolbox in hand. He’d shaved off the reddish-gray beard that had been his most prominent feature for as long as she could remember. He looked younger without it, not nearly as imposing.

“You’re lucky you caught me,” he said. “I usually go to yoga on Wednesday night, but I got hungry and ordered a pizza instead.”

Eve was impressed. He didn’t seem like a yoga guy.

“Bikram?” she asked.

“Royal Serenity.” He rolled his shoulders and massaged his trapezius with his free hand. “Doctor recommended it for my back.”

“Does it work?”

“Sometimes. Gets me out of the house.”

Eve nodded, murmuring sympathetically. She remembered that George’s wife had died in the fall, just a month after his father. She’d meant to send him a note, but hadn’t gotten around to it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “About Lorraine.”

“That was hard,” he said, shifting the heavy toolbox from one hand to the other. “Really tough on my daughter.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s back at school. It’s gonna take her a while.” He gave a vague shrug, and then put on his game face. “So what do you got for me?”

Eve led him down the hall to the shit show. Rafael had made it more or less presentable—the walls had been scrubbed, the floor carpeted with paper towels—and had even posted a warning note on the door, complete with skull and crossbones: Broken Toilet!!! Do NOT Use!!! You WILL Regret! George peered inside and nodded with an air of professional melancholy.

“All right,” he said. “Lemme get to it.”

*

Eve slipped into the auditorium and caught the tail end of the lecture. Russett was explaining the difference between Grade A and Grade B maple syrup, which was a matter of color and sweetness and the time of year in which the sap was gathered. Paradoxically, many syrup connoisseurs preferred the cheaper and darker Grade B to the more refined Grade A.

“It’s a heated controversy,” Russett explained. “But whichever kind you buy, you can’t really go wrong. In my humble opinion, real maple syrup always gets a grade of D . . .” He paused, letting the audience wait for the punch line. “For Delicious.” He grinned and held up his hand. “Thank you very much. You’ve been a wonderful audience.”