Mrs. Foster's Leaking Faucets

Bill Slade sat in a recliner in the living room of his small apartment. It was not the prettiest of places to live, but for Bill, it was home. He was watching the evening news, hoping that, if the Gentry were out in force, he might be able to glean it from the stories on the TV. Some days, this made it easier to justify staying inside, but some days it didn't. Bill was finding that fewer and fewer days were meeting the criteria, so he went out more, but it was a quiet day, and he had nothing to do but sit in the big, comfortable chair and wait for something to happen.

It was only halfway through the 6 o' clock news when the apartment phone rang, meaning it was either a telemarketer, or one of his tenants. Hello? he said, lifting the phone to his ear.

"Yes, Mr. Slade? This is Claire Foster, apartment 4B. I'm afraid the pipes in the kitchen have sprung a leak, would you mind taking a look at them for me? I would appreciate it very much." It was the elderly woman who had moved in to the building a few weeks ago. Bill had stopped by to welcome her to the building, gave her his number in case anything needed to be fixed, and a small welcome basket filled with cookies he had made. It was not much, but he tried to make his building feel safe, welcoming. It was the only way he could stand living there.

"That would be my pleasure, Mrs. Foster," Bill replied. "When would be a good time for me to stop by?"

"Any time works for me, Mr. Slade. I don't get around too much these days, so I'm almost always here," the old woman said.

"How about I swing by in half an hour?" he asked her. "I just have to get my things together and I'll be right up to help you out, Mrs. Foster." She told him that would be fine, and so Bill finished watching the evening news, changed into some old clothing (in case things got messy, as they tended to in these situations), grabbed his toolbox and took the rickety elevator up to the fourth floor. He knocked on Mrs. Foster's door and a tiny woman with silver hair and a pair of bifocals answered.

"Oh, Mr. Slade, please come in! You don't know how much I appreciate you coming so quickly," she said, motioning him inside. She led him to the kitchen, and Bill opened the cabinet underneath the sink. Sure enough it was leaking -- not too badly, but in time, it would cause some nasty water damage, both here and in the apartment beneath this one. Luckily, it was a common problem, and with a few twists of his wrench, Bill had stopped the dripping. The faucets were harder to repair, but for one so suited to the task at hand, it was still a breeze. Granted, an old woman probably could not do such things on her own, so Bill was more than happy to have helped out.

"There you go, Mrs. Foster, all finished," Bill said, crawling out from under the sink. Looking around the dimly lit apartment, Bill could see old photographs hanging on the walls. One, hanging just above the sink, showed a younger (though still elderly) Mrs. Foster, with an old man he could only assume was Mr. Foster. "Who's this with you in this picture, if you don't mind me asking?"

Mrs. Foster takes a long look at the picture and smiles, though there is sadness in her eyes. Bill can feel the sorrow getting stronger as she sighs and says, "That is my husband, Charles. He died almost a year ago now. I couldn't afford to keep the house, so I came to live here and... I'm sorry, I must be boring you, Mr. Slade. I'm sure you have better things to do than listen to an old woman's sob stories."

"I've lost a wife and child myself, Mrs. Foster, I know that sometimes you just need to talk about these things. Besides, I'd like to hear about Charles. He looks like a kind man."

Mrs. Foster looks at Bill for a moment, trying to find the words, and tears begin to form in her eyes. "Yes. Yes he was, Mr. Slade," she says, finally. The sorrow is practically palpable to the changeling, though it is tinged with a certain fondness and joy -- the bittersweet effect of memory. She told Bill about the man that she had loved and still did, though he might be gone, told him of how she had met Charles as a young, beautiful woman, the romance they shared, the life they led together, the family that had grown up around them and scattered to the wind. Bill drew in the occasional deep breath, feeling the pain of this woman's sorrow, while simultaneously drinking deeply of the Glamour that flowed from her. He listened to the stories she told, and was glad to. Everyone feels a bit lost sometime, and he of all people knew that talking helped.

When she was done, she said, "Thank you, Mr. Slade. You don't know how much this means to me."

"Please, call me Bill," he replied, smiling, "and believe me, it was my pleasure."