The Plumbing Problem
By H. James Carls
A gong announced a visitor to the Kensington residence and Waters, the butler, shuffled to the front entrance. He opened one of the frosted glass doors to reveal a man standing outside on the portico, of average height, but well-built and standing straight. After a quick glance, Waters motioned him in, his toolbox and the labels on his starched white shirt having explained his presence.
From the middle landing of the grand stairway, Mrs. Ashley Kensington contemplated the man who stepped into the grand hall. The first thing she noticed were the man’s sensuous lips, lips one might associate with a Latin lover or a gigolo. They were the fulcrum of a face that was plain but strong, like the short columns supporting the marble rail beyond the open door. She imagined his face nestled among the busts she once saw at the Palazzo Pitti.
Ashley Kensington swept down the flowing stairway, its wooden steps barely creaking beneath the thick crimson runner. Her outfit, the latest couture from her Parisian designer, undulated in time with her figure.
“You called for a plumber, ma’am?” Stitched above his shirt pockets were the words “Majestic Plumbing” and the name “Jackson,” a name that seemed fitting. A working class man not named after some saint. She liked that.
“Why yes, we did.”
Jackson took in Mrs. Kensington’s face, sharp and angular. Even at this time of the morning, her makeup was already as perfect as her manicured nails. Her hair had an off-center bob, businesslike but hardly plain. Her expression was open as she answered him, but he sensed flickering transitions of intensity, a carbon arc stare ready to ignite in a moment. Although his boss at the shop constantly harangued his employees about up-selling, Jackson knew that would be futile. This was a lady who knew what she needed and no one could sell her more or less than that.
“Let’s look at your problem. The dispatch said there was an odor in an upper bath?” “Yes. This way.” She pointed up the staircase as she turned that way, and he followed. “Madam, I can take care of him,” Waters said, but she waved him off.
“I have some questions for him. I’m curious.” Waters bowed and retreated to the rear of the house.
The stair interrupted the cubic volume of the entrance hall, its solid mahogany panels reaching two stories, where they supported a ceiling of polished beams and gilded plaster medallions. A center cupola added to the light that filled the space, cascading across old oil portraits. She noticed him staring at the paintings, men and women in 19th and early 20th century dress.
“Don’t ask me who they are. My husband kept them when we bought the estate. Said they gave the place more class.”
At the landing, there was a gallery stretching in both directions, with tall mullioned windows that overlooked a swimming pool and a garden beyond. He could see March winds rippling through the canvas covers draping the pool furniture; heard them trying to push through the nooks of the building facade. Ashley Kensington led him to the end of the rightward hall, into a bedroom that took up most of an L-shaped wing. A dark blue and gold scheme dominated, with massive white cornices where the walls met the ceiling. On the left was a door into an ornate bathroom that overlooked the pool area.
“So, Jackson, if you need to fix my plumbing, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Jackson paused at her odd phrasing, then said, “The most common problem is a blockage in the sewer line. But there should be clean-outs for that.”
“Clean-outs?”
“It’s a cap that can be unscrewed so a long tool can work through the blockage. Probably in your basement. All the drains lead down there, so that’s a good location for a clean-out.”
When he entered the bath, he sniffed and grimaced. “Ahhh. Sewer.”
“Yes, is that the smell? My husband refused to use it and then blamed me. Can you imagine?” Her icy glare surfaced, directed at no place in particular.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s obviously sewer gas.” Jackson opened the toilet lid, which revealed a dry bowl. “Huh. No one's used this in a while?”
“No, my suite is at the other end.” She gestured toward the long gallery. “My husband was in Europe for two months on business and just returned. Perhaps you’ve—perhaps you’ve heard about him?”
Her face was now a blank, except for those eyes, waiting. Those eyes told him that perhaps too many people had heard about her husband.
“Don’t know much about business people. I just fix problems.”
“So—” She glanced at the toilet, then turned back to him. “—sewer gas. Is that dangerous? Could it kill someone?”
“Well, ma’am, it’s unlikely unless—” “—Unless?” She seemed almost eager to know.
“It can contain some dangerous gasses, like methane, and hydrogen, maybe chlorine. Plus, some that would suffocate you down in a sewer. Then there is hydrogen sulfide, which is where the odor comes from. But the plumbing system keeps the concentration zero or very low, unless something goes wrong.”
“As in?”
“For instance, if you have a dry trap like this—the U-shaped part of the bowl. It retains water and keeps the gas out. But even a dry trap isn’t an enormous problem, unless you also have a blocked stack vent.”
He paused, finished with his explanation. Her expression assured him he was not.
There was an awkward pause, then he said, “You see, ma’am, the toilet dumps through the trap into a vertical drain, but that drain is also open to the air through the roof. That’s the stack vent, which keeps the gas from bubbling through the trap.”
“Otherwise…?”
“Otherwise, your bathroom fills with sewer gas.”
“—and that could be... dangerous?” She laid her hand on his arm, her eyes broadcasting curiosity.
“No. Well, it’s possible," he glanced down at her hand. "But you need a large concentration of methane or hydrogen. Those two are odorless, but hydrogen sulfide? That will run you out of the bathroom.”
“I see.”
“Do you ask questions like that of all the service people who visit?” He stared at the hand, its heat seeping through his sleeve. She slid it away.
“Sometimes. I like to know who I’m dealing with. You seem to be good with all kinds of plumbing challenges.” She smiled at him. “So, no genuine worries. Unless a large amount of methane somehow got into the pipe. But only if a blockage happened.”
“Right. You really pick up on things, don’t you, ma’am? But that’s unlikely to happen, of course.”
She changed the subject. “Do you ever do any work, perhaps, on the side? I mean, not for Majestic Plumbing. Do you like to... moonlight?"
“I never really considered it.” He had a feeling this wasn’t about his work anymore, but didn’t want to invite trouble from a rich man’s wife. He reached to the toilet and flushed it, filling the trap again.
“That should fix your problem.”
Mrs. Kensington eyed him for a moment. “Don't you want to check out my stack vent?” “I—I—I think we’ll monitor it. If you see any bubbling in this toilet, just call us. You have a tile roof, so checking it could be, uh, dangerous.” An unexplained nervousness crawled along his back and he edged out of the suite.
She followed him down the grand stair, past the eyes of the paintings and the ears of Waters. Taking a thick black jacket from a coat rack in a corner, Mrs. Kensington led him out onto the portico. She stopped at the bottom of its marble steps.
“I really enjoyed talking to you. You seem honest and straightforward. Perhaps you can return sometime. Take care of other things.” There was warmth in her words to him. No, it was heat.
“Perhaps.”
But Ashley Kensington’s thoughts interrupted her. She turned away from him and he saw that intense look break across her beautiful face. Then her eyes shifted toward him and softened again. His toolbox became unbalanced as something in it shifted. He knew he needed to leave, but had second thoughts about it. In the recesses of his mind were other problems, problems he wasn’t sure he should solve.
Still, he left. The Kensington Estate paid his bill in full and on time, but his boss berated him for not up-selling such a prime client. He should have asked about the other bathrooms. He should have examined the pool. He should have checked her stack vent.
Two months later, a news story caught his attention. Chadsworth “Chad” Kensington, head of the private equity firm Kensington Holdings, returned from another long and somewhat scandalous business trip in Europe. On the day he returned, a freak explosion blew him through an upstairs bathroom window and into the empty swimming pool below it.
The investigation revealed that a bird nest—a very messy one made of sticks and mud—had plugged a plumbing vent on that end of the house, leading to an unprecedented accumulation of sewer gas that was ignited as Kensington lit a Cuban cigar before his bath. Evidence pointed to barn swallows, although the detectives admitted in passing that a roof pipe was an odd location. Kensington’s widow stated to the police that the bathroom had previous problems. She believed Kensington could not smell the sewer gas because he had a very bad cold. The investigation was closed, with the death listed as accidental. The insurance policies and estate were settled in short order, as were several pending sexual harassment lawsuits involving his firm.
Shortly after this, Jackson got another service call to the Kensington estate. There was a major repair to be done in an upstairs bath.
Eventually, with less coaxing than she initially expected, he became Ashley Kensington’s personal plumber.
