Page 51 of The Nook for Brooks
Benji’s mouth fell open. “Inthe bath?”
“Benji,” Bastian warned, though he was smiling too. “Boundaries.”
Benji ignored him completely. “Was it… romantic? Or did the noise ruin the mood? Because if the plug was gurgling while you—”
“Benji,” Bastian warned. “Let the man have some privacy.”
“Privacy? This is Mulligan’s Mill, not witness protection. We thrive on details.”
Bastian waved his finger at Benji. “You’re spending far too much time with cousin Connie. She’s rubbing off on you.”
Benji said, “Actually, she’s rubbing up against me.” He turned to me and by way of explanation said, “She can’t keep her feet to herself under the table. But that’s another story.”
“And she’s your cousin?” I asked.
“Don’t go there,” Benji and Bastian said in unison.
I held up both hands. “Fair enough. That sounds like one family tree I don’t need to go climbing up.” With that, I tucked the plug back into my knapsack. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change out of my camping clothes and head off to… where was it you said stocks new plugs?”
“Harry’s Hardware,” Benji said. “He’s the size of a bear, but sweet as honey.”
“If Harry’s out doing a delivery, ask for Gage,” Bastian added. “He sometimes works a shift there. Just make sure you don’t ask Old Walt for help.”
“Why’s that?”
“And that’s when Doc Morgan—that cranky old know-it-all son of a bitch—told me it wasn’t my hip at all, it was my catheter hose twisted like a licorice strap. I swear he did it on purpose. That man is out to get me.”
I blinked. “Uh… right. So, about that bath plug. Is Harry working? Maybe I could speak to him. Or maybe Gage?”
Old Walt waved me off, squinting at the shelf of plumbing parts. “They’re both off doing a timber delivery. I’m in charge, and I don’t like to be rushed, young fella. Now, where were we… plugs, plugs, plugs. I tell ya, I know a plug when I see one. Question is, do you? Most folk come in here thinking a plug’s just a plug. Wrong. That’s Doc Morgan thinking. Lazy thinking. You should see the things he’s tried to plugmyholes with over the years.”
“Um… actually… all I want is to get a replacement—” I said, holding up Brooks’s worn little plug.
Walt didn’t even glance at it. “Replacements, pah. World’s obsessed with replacements. New hips, new knees, new teeth. Nobody fixes anything anymore. You know what I fixed last week? My own damn roof. With tar and grit. None of this silicone muck they sell now. That stuff’ll give you cancer or gout or halitosis at the very least.” He suddenly thought to test his own breath, blew into the palm of his hand and screwed up his nose. “Jeepers, maybe tar and grit ain’t good for you neither.”
I cleared my throat. “Right, but this is just for a bathtub, so—”
“Bathtubs!” he snapped, swinging around like I’d insulted him. “They don’t make those right neither. Thin as tin, flex under the weight of a baby and squeak like a mouse every time you shift your ass so the blood don’t pool.”
I nodded tightly. “And pooling blood is nobody’s idea of a good time. Still, what I’m really after—”
“And drains!” he barked, jabbing a finger at the floor. “Don’t even get me started on modern drainage. Shed an eyelash in your shower and the damn drain blocks straight away. Back when I was a boy, they used cast iron. You could drop a brick down those pipes, and the water would still drain away like Moses parting the Red Sea. Do you know Moses?”
“Not personally,” I mumbled under my breath. “But you probably did.”
“Hey? What was that?” he asked, half offended but cupping his ear so he could better hear me repeat myself.
“I said, I just need a bath plug,” I told him, as clearly as possible.
Walt grunted, still pawing through a box of odds and ends. “Hmph. You talk funny.”
I frowned. “Funny how?”
He finally squinted up at me. “Like you swallowed a trumpet. Where the hell are you from?”
“Australia.”
He straightened, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t we fight you in the war?”
