Standing at my dreaded post, the kitchen, out of the corner of my eye I saw Eva fling open a drawer, yank out a dishtowel and race downstairs. I didn’t notice or think about it, because I was too busy counting all the unused cookware and appliances that have been buried in cobwebs since my wedding shower. Doug was sitting at the kitchen table contemplating a word search on a box of Raisin Bran.
Twenty-plus dishtowels and trips downstairs later, it dawned on me that it was possible my girl was up to something.
“Eva, what are you doing with all my towels?” I demanded.
“The house is leaking,” she explained.
I looked at Doug. He looked at me. There was the unsaid “Whose turn is it to get up and investigate?” between us. I rolled my eyes and followed her downstairs.
I studied the ceiling for drips. I searched for a trail of towels. Nothing.
“Where’s the leak?” I asked, but Eva was already on it. She flung open the door, stood out in the pouring rain, and pointed.
There below the roof and gutters was an eavestrough gushing with rainwater, stuffed with two drawers full of towels.
Unlike my juicer, wok, George Foreman rotisserie and bread machine, there will never be cobwebs in my washing machine. And perhaps, I consoled myself through gritted teeth as I flung the sopping wet heap on top of a mountain of clothes that is turning into mildew as we speak, all this laundry is a blessing. At least it gets me out of the kitchen.
