Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [73]
“Wait a minute,” he says. “There’s glass all over the floor. If you get out of the tub, you’ll step on it. I’ll get a broom, okay?”
I crouch in the tub, Chloe still whimpering in my arms, and grab a towel, which I wrap around the two of us. A minute later, Ben is back with a broom. “I swear I’m not looking. I’ll just clean up the floor, okay?” he says, as he proceeds to sweep the glass into the dustpan while Chloe and I huddle together in the too small towel.
While he sweeps, I study him, wondering if he really is Fiona’s nephew or if he’s going to ax murder the two of us as soon as he’s finished sweeping our floor. He appears to be in his thirties, with sandy hair and a scraggly beard. He’s wearing greasy coveralls, a heavy tool belt slung low around his hips, and an iPod on an armband, from which I can hear Warren Zevon playing. He’s also got a cut across his cheek, where a piece of flying glass must have caught him.
“You’re bleeding,” I tell him. Ben looks at me, then remembering the skimpy bath towel I’m wearing, looks quickly away. “There, on your cheek,” I say, pointing.
He reaches up to touch his face and then examines the blood on his fingertips. “You got me,” he says, with a trace of a smile. “I’ll just wait downstairs until you’re ready for me to fix the leak, okay?” he says. He waits a second for me to answer, but when I don’t, he leaves, shutting the bathroom door behind him.
As I pull Chloe and myself out of the tub, I catch sight of our reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Both my hair and Chloe’s are still encrusted in bubbles, twisted into stiff strands sticking out like porcupine’s thorns from our heads. I stand there staring at our ridiculous reflection, dripping tiny bubbles onto the freshly swept floor.
“You shouldn’t let leaks go, even tiny ones like this one,” Ben says a while later, tightening something with his wrench. “Didn’t you notice the puddle of water under the sink cabinet?”
“Oh, that,” I say. In New York, a leak like that would go unnoticed by any self-respecting landlord in the city. Renters are conditioned to follow suit.
“Come here and take a look,” he calls, gesturing with the wrench. “The bottom of this metal cabinet is starting to rust. When you wash your hands or use the sink, you have to be careful to turn the faucet all the way off.” He has a heavy Pittsburgh accent, pronouncing “wash” as “warsh.” He pops up from underneath the sink and demonstrates, giving the faucet an exaggerated turn.
“And this,” he says, pointing accusingly at a stain at the back of the sink, waiting for the ominous nature of the offending stain to fully register. “Do you see this? It’s rust. Caused by a drippy faucet. Really,” he says, shaking his head, “this whole unit should be replaced. Good thing Aunt Fi noticed it. Hey, when I’m finished here, you want me to hang up your Waterpik for you? Might as well. You get it at Eckerd? I got one on sale last week, too. Works great.”
“Thanks, but . . .” But what? I’m not sure I’m staying? I’m scared of commitment? “Sure, that’d be great.”
“No problem. Which side do you want it on, right or left?”
“Right, I guess,” I say, without even thinking about it.
“You sure?” he says from under the sink, his voice slightly muffled. “Might be better on the left. Dentists recommend keeping toothbrushes at least five feet from the toilet.”
“That’s a disgusting thought.”
“Well, probably not as disgusting as actually hanging your toothbrush less than five feet from the toilet and not thinking about it. Know what I mean?” Ben says, emerging from under the sink to grab a wrench from his toolbox.
“Eew,” I shudder. “Fine, whatever you think,” I tell him. Ben looks at me and shrugs before replacing his earphones and disappearing back underneath the sink, where seconds later he begins howling to “Werewolves of London.”
It’s