CHAPTER TWO: A PERFECTLY REASONABLE ACCIDENT

The plumber arrived at nine with a white van and an expression that suggested he had already heard too many explanations from people who disliked their neighbors.
His name was Oscar Vidal, and he examined the exposed pipe without making a joke.
“Something struck this from the side,” he said.
“Can you tell what?” Adrian asked.
“Not from a mark alone, and I won’t guess for an insurance claim.”
He photographed the break, checked the pressure, and pointed out a rectangular indentation beside the rupture.
“This section was installed eighteen months ago,” Adrian said.
“The fitting itself is sound.”
Oscar nodded.
“The fitting isn’t your problem.”
When Vivian came through the gate carrying a cardboard box of bottled water, she found the three of us beside the damaged line.


“Goodness,” she said.
“It looks terrible.”
I took the box because refusing drinking water would not repair a wall.
“Did you hear anything around the gate last night?” I asked.
“I sleep upstairs,” she replied.
“You know how difficult it is to hear anything from there.”
Oscar shifted his flashlight toward the ground.
A pale flake of enamel was caught between two stones near the pipe.
Vivian’s gaze followed the beam, and she stepped backward so quickly that her heel struck a flowerpot.
“Perhaps somebody from the council damaged it,” she suggested.
“They’ve been digging all over the neighborhood.”
“The council hasn’t worked on our side path,” Adrian said.
“I’m only trying to help,” Vivian answered.
She looked at Oscar as though he might rescue her from our questions.
“How long before this house can safely hold visitors?”
“I’m repairing a damaged water line,

” Oscar replied.
“I haven’t inspected the entire house.”
“I would imagine an evening meeting is out of the question.”
“That’s for the homeowners to decide,” he said.
Vivian left the water on our porch and walked away.
Oscar waited until her gate closed before asking whether there had been any disagreement about the path.
“No property disagreement,” I told him.
“The only argument we’ve had was about a group of women coming to dinner.”
He slid the broken pipe into a clean plastic sleeve.
“Keep this until you understand what happened,” he said.
“A damaged pipe can be replaced, but people become very inventive about explaining why it broke.”
By noon we had water again, but half the kitchen wall had to dry before repairs could continue.
I moved the meeting into our garage and borrowed a heater from the neighbor opposite us, a retired bus mechanic named Harold Finch.
Harold helped Adrian carry out the folding chairs.
“Vivian said you were going to be evacuated,” he remarked.
“She said that before Oscar arrived,” I answered.
Harold paused with a chair against his hip.
“She told me around seven that your place would be unusable tonight.”
I felt the hairs rise along my arms.
“Our water didn’t start leaking until after seven.”
“I know,” Harold said.
He looked toward Vivian’s house and lowered his voice.
“That’s why I remembered it.”