There are many more people than plumbers on Martha’s Vineyard – not that plumbers aren’t people. But the odds are always against you finding one. Impossible in summer, forget about it during the fall fishing derby, and who doesn’t want to get off the Island once in a while in winter? An island by definition is surrounded by water, and water is often an issue here: too much, not enough, turned to ice in my pipes. But finding a plumber is no guarantee of keeping a plumber; it’s a tenuous relationship at best. I was dumped by mine. Jilted, my grandmother would say. No note, no explanation, no awkward apology.
I could handle a broken appointment, an accidental miscommunication. But over and over, he promised to come and fix my leaky tub. He’d always come before – when the toilet overflowed, when the hot water slowed to a drip, every time my outdoor shower burst its pipes when I tried to stretch outdoor shower season into December so I could see the Pleiades.
Then came the long silence. At first I assumed he was busy with the summer season upon us. I can understand the lure of a celebrity in need, but Ted and Mary, or whomever he dumped me for, could get anyone. They didn’t need my plumber. The Island Book is full of plumbers. Their ads gleam with dependability and sturdy piping, satisfaction guaranteed. Why call mine? I’m angry. I admit it. I’m not just passing through on my way to Morocco. I’m not on vacation with a clogged sink, too dainty to plunge my arm in dirty water. This is my life. I’ll be here all winter, after the vacation emergency calls die down.
As days turned into weeks, I figured it out. It was looking more and more as though he’d forsaken me, as my grandmother would also say. Left me high and dry, preferable to high and flooded, which probably comes next.
He’s not the only plumber on the Island, of course. And it’s not the first time I’ve been dumped by a plumber. Not the second either, but a lady never names names. They know who they are. Besides, I’m not without compassion. It’s a stressful job. Demanding, desperate clients. Ever-changing septic regulations. Newfangled hookups. Six towns, six building inspectors. Rust and mold and worse. The smell.
My basement is old and dank, crammed full and cobwebby. I avoid it myself. But I always swept it for him, sent the spiders packing. Replaced a bulb once and even cleared a path to the main shut-off valve just in case he has a claustrophobic side. I don’t know if he even noticed.
Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder what I could have done differently. I was never pushy, never demanding. I understood some emergencies were more serious than mine and gracefully stepped aside when someone else was out of hot water. I never gasped audibly at the bill and I always paid on time. I respected his integrity. I left my house unlocked. I wouldn’t do that for the cable guy.
I also learned to do a few small things myself to save him a trip, not be a bother, not look needy or desperate. I can use a plumber’s snake without scratching the porcelain now, and I can empty a trap to find a ring down the drain. But maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I should have kept him guessing, let him find the main shut-off on his own. If I lost my mechanic, I’d spend the fifty-seven bucks to take my truck off-Island. And Falmouth is full of dentists, if the need arises. But here I’m talking about my bathtub. He has to come to me.
For months, I pretended it was an amicable parting, a mutual decision to go our separate ways. He’s clearly gone but I’m stuck here, left behind, my heart as cracked as my tub.
I haven’t called another plumber yet. There’s only so much rejection a person can take. I avert my eyes at construction sites, ignore the blaring music and crew camaraderie, the shiny Jacuzzis waiting proudly in their crates. I put on a brave face. I miss the reassuring clang of metal on metal, but I don’t run to the window for every passing truck anymore. And yet I wonder: Was it something I said?
