doors. Owen looked around him to see the broad back of Sam Coleman, who was leaning on the desk and talking to a man in a blue shirt with a cap that said EMK Plumbing.
For a moment, Owen considered bolting. He thought about shoving his father through the doorway to the mailroom and straight downstairs, where they could order a pizza and turn on a movie and act like none of it had happened: the accident or the move or the blackout, the trip to Coney Island and the sad and weary aftermath.
But instead, he simply watched as Dad squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Everything okay there, Sam?” he called out, and both men turned in their direction.
Sam smiled—a smile that felt like its opposite—and the plumber lowered his clipboard. “That him?” he asked, and Sam nodded, stepping forward.
“Hey there, Buckleys,” he said, all friendliness and teeth. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Dad said shortly. “What’s happening?”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up, like he was surprised Dadwasn’t in the mood for chitchat. “You have a real knack for picking your days off,” he said with a short laugh. “We had a little issue with the pipes this afternoon.” He turned to Owen. “Hope you don’t get seasick, cause you practically need a boat to get around down there.”
“We’ve got it sorted out now,” the plumber said, scanning his clipboard. “It’ll be just fine.”
Sam nodded. “Yup,” he said. “He’s got it sorted out now. But what I’d like to know is why he found the valve still loose on the pump.”
Owen had been standing there listening with clenched fists, but now his heart plummeted. He cast a wild glance in Dad’s direction and saw that his face had drained of color. But he didn’t move a muscle; he stood entirely still, his eyes fixed on Sam.
“I guess I must not have tightened it up enough last weekend,” he said, his words slow and measured.
“Well, somebody sure didn’t,” the plumber chimed in, looking up. “That wasn’t real smart.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Sam said. “Not real cheap, either.”
The plumber shook his head and gave a low whistle.
Owen stepped forward. “Listen,” he said, but Dad held up a hand, and he was pulled up short, falling abruptly silent.
“It’s my fault,” Dad said to Sam, who bobbed his head.
“You bet it is,” he agreed, the false smile wiped from his face. “And look, I know you’re family, and I know you’regoing through a rough patch here, but I can’t have this kind of sloppy work in one of my buildings, especially not after what happened the other day.”
Dad said nothing, but he kept his back very straight as he listened.
“I don’t feel good about this, Patrick,” Sam was saying. “I don’t feel good about it at all. But I’ve got to find someone I can rely on.”
“I understand,” Dad said, his voice tight.
Sam rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes cutting over to Owen. “You can take your time getting out of the apartment, okay? Take all the time you need.”
“That’s good of you,” Dad said. “But we’ll be out by the end of the week.”
“Okay,” Sam said.
“Okay,” Dad said.
“Okay,” the plumber said, tearing off a bill and handing it over to Sam.
Owen was still staring dumbly at the scene before him, but when Dad began to cross the lobby, heading for the basement door, he snapped back, hurrying after him.
Dad said nothing as they walked down the stairs, nothing as he led them through the concrete hallways, ducking his head below the pipes that ran across the ceiling like a maze. It wasn’t until they were inside the apartment with the door closed behind them that he let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. He leaned against the wall, thesame place where he’d been huddled when he’d come back from Coney Island the other night, visibly shaken.
Owen was the first to speak. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I was the one who didn’t close the valve all the
For a moment, Owen considered bolting. He thought about shoving his father through the doorway to the mailroom and straight downstairs, where they could order a pizza and turn on a movie and act like none of it had happened: the accident or the move or the blackout, the trip to Coney Island and the sad and weary aftermath.
But instead, he simply watched as Dad squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Everything okay there, Sam?” he called out, and both men turned in their direction.
Sam smiled—a smile that felt like its opposite—and the plumber lowered his clipboard. “That him?” he asked, and Sam nodded, stepping forward.
“Hey there, Buckleys,” he said, all friendliness and teeth. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Dad said shortly. “What’s happening?”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up, like he was surprised Dadwasn’t in the mood for chitchat. “You have a real knack for picking your days off,” he said with a short laugh. “We had a little issue with the pipes this afternoon.” He turned to Owen. “Hope you don’t get seasick, cause you practically need a boat to get around down there.”
“We’ve got it sorted out now,” the plumber said, scanning his clipboard. “It’ll be just fine.”
Sam nodded. “Yup,” he said. “He’s got it sorted out now. But what I’d like to know is why he found the valve still loose on the pump.”
Owen had been standing there listening with clenched fists, but now his heart plummeted. He cast a wild glance in Dad’s direction and saw that his face had drained of color. But he didn’t move a muscle; he stood entirely still, his eyes fixed on Sam.
“I guess I must not have tightened it up enough last weekend,” he said, his words slow and measured.
“Well, somebody sure didn’t,” the plumber chimed in, looking up. “That wasn’t real smart.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Sam said. “Not real cheap, either.”
The plumber shook his head and gave a low whistle.
Owen stepped forward. “Listen,” he said, but Dad held up a hand, and he was pulled up short, falling abruptly silent.
“It’s my fault,” Dad said to Sam, who bobbed his head.
“You bet it is,” he agreed, the false smile wiped from his face. “And look, I know you’re family, and I know you’regoing through a rough patch here, but I can’t have this kind of sloppy work in one of my buildings, especially not after what happened the other day.”
Dad said nothing, but he kept his back very straight as he listened.
“I don’t feel good about this, Patrick,” Sam was saying. “I don’t feel good about it at all. But I’ve got to find someone I can rely on.”
“I understand,” Dad said, his voice tight.
Sam rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes cutting over to Owen. “You can take your time getting out of the apartment, okay? Take all the time you need.”
“That’s good of you,” Dad said. “But we’ll be out by the end of the week.”
“Okay,” Sam said.
“Okay,” Dad said.
“Okay,” the plumber said, tearing off a bill and handing it over to Sam.
Owen was still staring dumbly at the scene before him, but when Dad began to cross the lobby, heading for the basement door, he snapped back, hurrying after him.
Dad said nothing as they walked down the stairs, nothing as he led them through the concrete hallways, ducking his head below the pipes that ran across the ceiling like a maze. It wasn’t until they were inside the apartment with the door closed behind them that he let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. He leaned against the wall, thesame place where he’d been huddled when he’d come back from Coney Island the other night, visibly shaken.
Owen was the first to speak. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I was the one who didn’t close the valve all the
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