The guy I dated was hunched over my kitchen sink, up to his smooth, knobby elbows in milky water thick with potato starch, meat bits, onion skins, rimmed in grease—being pretty good about it considering I’d broken up with him again, and what I’d allegedly done to his car. I hated calling so soon but I couldn’t afford a plumber.

“Probably the potato peels,” he said, drying off his arms, glancing down at a month’s worth of junk mail and bills accumulated on my wooden desk next to the pantry. He lifted the top envelope—a subscription kit to Time-Life’s Do-It-Yourself series—lifted it straight up like the lid to a narrow box of candy. I grazed him with my hip on my way to the coffee pot. “Oh…whoops,” I said flatly.

He sounded so happy that morning on the phone, it made me sick. How pathetic, I thought. Somewhere down the line, and we weren’t exactly young anymore, he had never learned to fight. No hollering, flat-hands, apologies. A total pushover. Arrowed straight for making up way too soon. But he was convenient. He could fix stuff that I’d normally have to pay for. Granted, he repaired in his own weird ways, to save money, so I couldn’t complain. Whenever one of his fix-it jobs broke again right away, I could see him making mental notes about the half-assed method he’d invented, filing it neatly with the others. “We don’t need to try that again,” is all he’d say.

“Maybe it’s time you started a compost heap,” he suggested.

I nodded my head, as if. “Yeah, right.” All I really wanted was the drain fixed, a bigger garbage disposal, someone to pay those bills. I’d made beef stew the day before, trying to cook something decent for my kids. Chopped a bunch of carrots, potatoes, celery, the usual, and crammed the leftovers down the disposal. Not good.

The kitchen was a wreck. Dirty dishes from last night’s supper, breakfast that morning. Pots and pans. That useless crock-pot my parents gave me—maybe a wedding present. I guess the idea was time management. The problem was trying to figure out supper at 6:30 in the morning. I wasn’t that organized. Besides, that marriage was for only one year and two kids, what some call an arrangement of convenience. I doubt mastering the crock-pot would’ve made much difference.

I intended to use it for the stew. Tried to dump everything in there but it wasn’t big enough, so I poured the whole mess into a five-quart aluminum pot my mom once used, way back, for sterilizing glass baby bottles. Dinged and dented around the bottom, it had echoed perfectly on New Year’s Eve: Standing in our pajamas, barefoot, in the front yard banging a wooden spoon against the soft metal. Each Thanksgiving, my dad used it to cook the turkey carcass. Boiled it down for hours, then tossed in the egg noodles. They’d swell up with all that turkey juice till there was no more room.

“You tried the plunger?” Jack asked, digging in his toolbox, pulling out rusted, metal objects: a hacksaw, drill, needle-nose pliers. I scooted some of it closer in with my foot, worried about the kids.

“Already tried that.”

“Where is it?”

I opened the back door. The neighbor’s Siamese cat was grooming itself on top of the white, plastic patio table. Matching white, plastic Adirondack chairs were leaning face-first against the house. The reddish-pink camellias along the side fence were just beginning to bloom in the early spring sunlight. What a day. The kids should be outside playing, I thought, instead of watching television.

The plunger had air-dried. I handed it to Jack.

He tried that for a while, then gave up.

“Plan B,” he said. “You have a wrench?”

Jeez, I thought. You get what you pay for. “Always called a plumber.”

“Gimme something to bail this water out.”

I handed him a cup and the dirty aluminum, baby-bottle pot.

“How ‘bout some Drano?”

I reached under the sink, far back, and came up with a mildewed can of Drano. While he read the label, I wondered what he really knew about plumbing. I mean, my neighbor had told me that none of the chemical drain openers worked. Can’t buy anything strong enough over-the-counter, he had said. How come Jack didn’t know that?

“Just pour it down the drain,” I instructed him.

“Yep,” he said.

“You want a beer or something?” He shook his head, giving me the if-you-loved-me look. He ran the water. It pooled. He reached for his car keys, looked like a rental key chain. I pretended not to notice. “Where’ya going?”

“Get the wrench.” Door slammed.

I carried some dishes into the bathroom. I didn’t want Jack to think I was a pig. We’d been together since the divorce, off and on, for about six months. He hadn’t said anything, it was still too early, but I knew how guys silently stored up details like she’s a slob, or she’s a lousy cook, or she’s always in sweats, or jeans, or flannels. It was all true, especially after the last divorce, but I was trying to make an effort, start my life all over again. Washing dishes in the bathtub, I felt like I was doing my part, like I could be counted on in an emergency. The kids came in to watch.

“What are you doing?” Nick asked. He was four.

“I’m washing dishes.”

He turned to inform his sister, Amelia, three, “Mom’s washing dishes in the bathtub.” He was amused.

Amelia’s fists shot up toward the ceiling, elbows locked, her right foot pointing toward the floor. “Cheerleader!” she yelled defiantly, then spun on her left heel and returned to the playroom.

“Where’s Mr. Jack?”

“He went to get his wrench.”

The dishes left black and gray scratches in the tub. I stacked then on the vanity to dry. There were more dirty ones. I carried them back to the kitchen, arranged them neatly next to the stove, out of the way. The phone rang.

“Lemme speak to my kids.”

I held the receiver against my stomach. “You dad’s on the phone,” I hollered. Nobody stirred. Nothing. I tried again, “C’mon. Your dad’s on the phone.”

Amelia came trotting out. She clambered up a bar stool, sat on the counter, held the phone receiver with both her pudgy hands.

“My mom is washing dishes,” she blurted out.

While she jabbered, I went for Nick. He was in the playroom, stretched out on the floor, shoving Matchbox cars over a ramp he’d made of my flip-flops.

“C’mon, Buddy.” I ran my hand over his back, shook him a little. “Say ‘Hi’ to your dad.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay,” I said, glancing at Gumby on the TV. I wanted to stay and watch. My two little brothers and I used to worship the cartoons, Saturday mornings. We’d pretzel together under a bedspread, all arms and legs, hypnotized. Gumby was ahead of his time, I thought, returning to the kitchen.

“Nick doesn’t want to talk right now,” I said.

“Go get him.”

I didn’t respond.

“Bitch.”

He hung up.

“Okay. Great,” I said, forcing a smile. “Bye now.”

Amelia raced back to the playroom. I could hear her squealing to Nick, “Daddy and Miss Cindi are gonna take us to the mall, and I get make-up!”

Jack returned, wrench in hand.

“Anything happening?” he asked on his way to the sink.

“I’m washing dishes in the tub.”

“Could be worse.”

What a dope, I thought. I should’ve kited a check.

Amelia came back searching for something to eat. “Look, Mr. Jack,” she said, extending her palm, revealing a tiny, gold cross. I had recently enrolled the kids in Sunday school. My hope was that they’d learn to avoid sleeping with strangers. Granted, they were still coloring sheep, but I was pretty tapped-out.

“Like it?” she asked him.

“Love it,” he said.

I told her to wait in the playroom; I’d let her know when lunch was ready. Nick was right behind her, thirsty. He saw the tools, Jack scrunched under the sink. He stood around waiting while I started the peanut butter and jelly.

“Hey Nick? You wanna hand me a towel?” Jack said. Nick yanked a dishtowel off the refrigerator handle.

“Thanks, Chief.”

“I’m making your lunch, Baby. Wait in the playroom.”

“I’m helping.”

“That’s nice but I just need you to wait in the playroom.”

He trudged off.

“What’s your problem?” Jack stood up, stretched his back. “He likes to help.”

“Excuse me,” I said, reaching around him for the silverware drawer. Every day I had to hear Nick tell how he and Mr. Jack had fixed my car window, hair dryer, trash compactor. The way things were going with Jack and me, the way they usually went, I didn’t want the kids to get hurt.

“You want one?” I asked, holding up a limp sandwich.

“Nope.” He continued with the pipes, was fooling around with that wrench when I heard him say, “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” I bent over, peered in. Water was spraying out the pipe all over the cabinet.

I swung that aluminum pot off the counter, a silver arc behind Jack. Rancid water splashed from it, drenched the back of his faded, red t-shirt, and I froze, my jaw clenched.

He chuckled and slowly pulled away from the cabinet, turned toward me, smiling. “How ‘bout dumping the rest of that outside?”

He reached for the car keys, then kissed my mouth.

“Busted a fitting,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“You want some money?” I called after him.

I heard the kids fighting over something in the playroom, a dull thump against the wall. Amelia started wailing.

“Lunch!” I yelled, carrying their Kool-Aid to the table. Nick ran in first.

“What was that?” I asked him.

“Amelia wouldn’t let,” he began his defense.

Amelia entered, pressing a hand to the back of her head. “Nick,” she sobbed, “pushed me.”

“My dad told me when she does something to me to do the same thing back to her.”

Brilliant, I thought.

“Do you think Jesus wants you to slam your sister’s head into the wall?”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry,” Nick muttered earnestly.

Amelia followed his lead, “I’m sorry,” she said, tipping her face toward the placemat, eyeing her brother.

I think they equated Jesus with Santa Claus so it was beginning to work.

“What about grace?” Nick asked.

That was new, too. “Will you say it for us?” I asked him.

They bowed their heads. Nick vertical-palmed, Amelia interlaced.

“Thank you God for my food. God bless Mom and Amelia.” Then he hesitated.

“And your dad,” I said as normal as possible.

“And my dad,” he said.

“And Miss Cindi,” Amelia chimed in.

“And Miss Cindi,” I said.

“And Mr. Jack,” she said

“And Mr. Jack,” I said.

- Tracy Heinlein