Bunny trail, part 2

 

I didn’t come home from Japan dreaming of a Jacuzzi. We were building our house in Virginia, and for upstairs, an old-fashioned clawfoot tub was my idea of perfection.

I found an ad for one in Staunton. Before I went off in the truck Paulson threw some cargo straps in back. Make sure it’s down tight, he warned. Get them to help.

In the strangers’ yard sat the tub, bona fide cast iron. I gave it a look and they loaded it (somehow enough people were around). They agreed with me about not tying it down—beastly heavy as it was, it wouldn’t go anywhere.

Afterwards, wanting to stop by my niece’s place—Karen’s—to say hi before heading back to the house, I got a little lost. Trying to make an unexpected turn, I jammed on the brakes and heard a horrific explosion behind me, like a gunshot. The tub had slid and crashed into the back window, Chiclets of glass spewing everywhere.

The tub sat a while in the carport. I scraped off the layers of pink and green paint on the exterior and turned it white. The bottom, inside, had this raspy feel to it, like somebody in the 1800s tried to patch the porcelain, but what’s ever totally dazzling? How would the thing be old, then, and valuable? At last Paulson and a relative lugged—pant, pant, pant—my prize up the stairs and set it down on its paws.

Eventually we had three peachy-fleshed cherubs who fit inside, oh glee.

To be cont’d.