Plumbing Crisis: Part 2

     Continued from last week....

     The plumber came in the early evening the same day of the toilet eruption.  He was a big bear of a guy, late middle-aged, and, though I refrained from checking, I have no doubt that he displayed several inches of the requisite "plumber's crack" whenever the occasion called for it.
     "Hello," he said to Clara when I opened the door.  She was wearing white jeans and a white shirt with a black ruffled hem.  The shirt had a purse with a golden chain and a red bow embroidered onto it. "Do you mind if I come in and check your toilet?"
     "Yes," she said, which meant, "Yes, you can come in."  It also meant,  "I like everything about you.  I like the big red truck you came in, I like the funny shower caps you're wearing over your feet [so as not to track mud into our house], I like the grizzled gray whiskers on your chin, and I especially like your big belly."
     The man came in and stood clasping his hands.  He looked around and swallowed.
     "Ah...."
     "It's upstairs," I said, leading him up.  Even though his feet were covered with those ridiculous shower caps, he stepped gingerly on the carpet.  He looked like a polar bear trying to walk on its toenails.
    "Mmmmm-hmmmm," he said, peering into the bathroom.  I felt the urge to make amends for the mess and the smell, though obviously he must have seen much worse.  He seemed to possess an interesting mix of rough and delicate sensibilities.  I could see him roaring obscenities at a ref from the stands at a football game, and then apologizing profusely to the people sitting next to him.  I could also imagine him eating escargot with a tiny, gilded fork, and then farting voluptuously.
     "Well, we'll be downstairs," I said, grabbing Clara's hand.  She was prepared to follow the plumber into the bathroom or into the depths of hell.  Wherever he might lead.
     "No, Mommy, I am helping this man," she said.
     "No, Honey.  This man does not need our help.  Come on, come downstairs.  Don't you want dinner?"
     She followed slowly, but when we got to the kitchen, she looked at me seriously and said, "Mommy, I am going to help this man."
      "How about some Flying Pie pizza?"
      Realizing I'd left the pizza in the car, I ducked into the garage.  When I came back a half-minute later, she was, of course, gone.  I found her in the bathroom doorway, watching the plumber.  Did he need something, her body posture seemed to ask. Maybe she could get him a wrench or something from his truck? No?  How about a stuffed animal from her bedroom? How about Mrs. Potato Head?
     The plumber was deep in a mystical, primeval dance with the toilet, wielding something that looked, at a glance, like an orange, plastic version of Crocodile Dundee's whip. He murmured quietly to himself while he worked.  
      I tucked a wildly-protesting Clara under my arm and carried her downstairs.  The plumber followed a few minutes later.
     He stood in the kitchen, rubbing his hands together and looking uncomfortable.
     "Ah....Uh, it was a big wad of paper towels," he said.  Wet wipes, I thought, but there's no reason for him to know of my indiscretion.
      "That stuff don't pass," he said with the utmost gravity, as though finding paper towels in the plumbing was unheard of and even sort of catastrophic.  I could imagine him saying instead, "Ma'am, there was a chunk of plutonium in your toilet pipes."
     "Once it got into the mainline, it could've easily cost you five hundred dollars," he continued, clasping his hands and shaking his head in despair.  "And then, if we didn't catch it, the plutonium chunk would've gotten into the city sewer line, gently irradiating the innards of all your neighbors while they attempted to void their bowels and bladders."
     "Do you have any idea, Ma'am, how the paper towels could have got in there?"
     "Uh," I swallowed.  Why did he need to know that? I glanced at Clara, because she was the only one who knew it was me that dumped all those wipes in the toilet.
      The plumber misinterpreted my glance.  "Ah," he said, all the grimness and tension draining from his face.  "So it was someone, over here, in this region?"  He waved a massive, meaty paw in Clara's general direction and grinned.  She had climbed into her booster seat and was watching him with deep interest, her little cheeks pink because it was warmish in the kitchen.  She looked like a cherub.
     "Yes," I said, and he laughed and sat down at the kitchen table to finish writing up the invoice.  Clara climbed down from her chair, ran past him and deposited her favorite stuffed dog on his lap.  She never lets anyone hold the dog.  Sometimes me or Simon, but never anyone else.  In fact, I've seen her scream like a horror movie actress when another child picked it up. The plumber made over it, saying what a beautiful dog it was, how soft, etc.  And I watched from nearby, marinating in guilt over implicating my child in my crime.