I shrugged to myself and continued to my front door, keys at the ready. As I let myself in, I caught a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. Henry’s cat, Ed, shot out of the bushes and across the yard in time to streak into my apartment ahead of me. He’d invented this game himself, timing his run to catch me unawares. Inevitably, I forgot to check his whereabouts before I opened the door and he’d slip through the gap to victory. Sometimes I didn’t even see him make his move and only discovered him after the fact, when he announced his win. He was a chatty little thing. Once inside, he usually slowed to a stop so he could sniff the shag carpet in case a mouse had left him a scented love note. Neither Henry nor I had been aware of vermin on the property until Ed came to live with us. Now he made regular patrols and left rodent remains on both our doormats as proof of his superior hunting skills.
Henry had acquired the cat six months earlier, when his brother William carted him from Michigan to California. Their older sister, Nell, who’d be turning one hundred years old on December 31, had adopted the nameless cat as a stray. Soon afterward, she’d tripped over him, taking a nasty spill that left her with a broken hip. William and Rosie had flown from Santa Teresa to Flint to assist with her care. When another brother, Lewis, threatened to have the cat exterminated, William had taken it upon himself to pass the beast along to Henry without permission or prior warning. This was not a good plan. Henry had been vehemently opposed to keeping the cat, until the vet informed him that Ed was a Japanese Bobtail, a rare and ancient breed known for their intelligence, their talkativeness, and their affinity for human companionship. Henry had promptly named him Ed and now the two were inseparable—except for those occasions when the cat came to visit me.
Henry and I had agreed that Ed would be strictly an indoor cat. The street we lived on wasn’t subject to speeding cars, but there was sufficient traffic to be hazardous. There was also the issue of the occasional dog running loose, and while we felt Ed could defend himself, he was too precious to risk. Ed, of course, had other ideas, and we’d no sooner confine him to Henry’s house than he’d find a way out. We were still trying to determine how he managed. It was embarrassing that he outwitted us so easily.
I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool, tossed the mail on my desk, and turned on a lamp in my living room. There were no messages on my answering machine. Ed had leaped up on the counter, where he was now reclining, watching me with interest, his devotion largely inspired by the fact that I plied him with treats. I stepped into the kitchen and took out his bag of crunchy party mix. I opened the package and tilted a selection into my palm. He chose a few kibbles shaped like chickens, leaving the fish and mice for another occasion.
I put his treats away and then picked him up and carried him under one arm as I pushed the thumb lock of the patio door to the open position, went out, and pulled the door shut behind me. Ed’s purring was an audible rumble in the vicinity of my ribs as I crossed the patio. I knocked on Henry’s door. I heard a muffled command, which I assumed was encouragement to let myself in. I peered through the glass and spotted him lying on the floor, stretched out on his back. I could see shorts, long bare feet, and a portion of his sweatshirt, while his head and shoulders were positioned halfway into the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
I opened the door and stuck my head in. “Is everything okay?”
“Plumbing issue.” He exhibited a wrench, which he waved in my direction before he went back to work. He’d placed a five-gallon plastic bucket on the floor to one side, along with an assortment of cleansers, liquid dishwashing soap, window spray, sponges, and rusty S.O.S pads he usually kept out of sight.
I set Ed down on all fours and closed the door behind me. “You have a leak?”
“I have a plan,” he said. He put the wrench down and inched his way carefully from under the counter, holding a J-shaped ninety-degree fitting made of PVC. “Sink trap.”
“I can see that.”
He struggled to his feet, shaking his head at his own creakiness. Henry is eighty-nine years old and in phenomenal shape for a man his age (or any other age, now that I think of it). He’s tall and lean, with thick snow white hair and eyes the color of bluebells. He held up the trap and tilted it, emptying the contents into the plastic bucket. “Water creates a seal that prevents sewer gas from passing from the pipes back into the room.”
“I thought the trap was to catch stuff in case you dropped a pricy diamond ring down the drain.”
“It does that as well.” He moved the bucket into position under the sink, which I could see now was filled with soapy water. “Watch this.”
He pulled the plug and the sink full of water drained noisily into the bucket below. “What you’re looking at is Step One in my new water conservation system. I can dump this bucket full of gray water in the toilet to make it flush. I can also use wastewater to irrigate my lawn.”
“Which is why you have a hose hanging out the bathroom window, yes?”
“You got it. I’ll keep the tub stoppered while I shower and then siphon the water out the window into my shrubs. Think of all the city water I can save. I probably waste a gallon every time I run the tap, waiting for the water to get hot. Last week, I ordered a book on gray water use, and we’ll see what more we can do.”
“Sounds good. Is that a new flower bed?”
He looked at me blankly.
“I saw the empty mulch bags.”
“Oh! No, no. The mulch bed is there for purification purposes. You can’t store gray water for more than twenty-four hours because of the bacteria content, so any runoff has to pass through healthy topsoil.”