Bunny trail, part 3

 

And then down there in the bottom of the tub, little shreds of something started peeling off. What? What in the world?

RED MEANS LEAD™ said the packet of test swabs, and sure enough, at the spots where Paulson rubbed, brown-ish blood-ish smears bloomed. Not candy red. Not like the piercing streak of raspberry red on the Covid tests nobody knew about, yet.

That monstrosity of ours got pant-pant-panted back down the steps and trucked to the recyclers. (Do they melt off the porcelain for the iron, or what? Does anybody know?) Now there’s an acrylic one—or maybe fiberglass—upstairs below the windows. A drop-in, no feet. I didn’t putt-putt to Home Depot by myself to pick it up. I didn’t yank up the floorboards and fashion them into a deck, griping at the chore. But I had to endure my husband’s muttering and drive myself batty over every minor hitch. For us both, the overhaul was a messy, thumping headache.

Who can say, now, what nanoparticles of doom seep from the tub’s pores and into our grandchildren’s skin (and Rhona’s)? If you think anybody here is inclined to investigate, think again.


 

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