Leaks

My boss stood on the roof of an old rectory in Philadelphia, pointing at a plumbing vent. He was fifty-one. I was twenty-one. “That sealant is failing,” he said. “So is the flashing.” He kicked chunks of gunk from the pipe. “Take a picture.”

Before we’d ascended to the roof, we’d been on the building’s third floor. And before that, on the second floor. That’s where the leak had appeared, the one that the church secretary had called to complain about. Since we were preparing a building assessment report on the church across the street, she figured we should weigh in on the rectory, too.

I could have drawn the path between the failed roof flashing and the water damage two floors below, but it wouldn’t have been a straight line. It would have looked more like a child’s Etch-A-Sketch art: down, over, down, over, down… Yet the water’s hidden path was logical, traversing rafters, joists, plates, and studs before dripping into a puckered goo of ceiling plaster.

“Anything else?” I asked the client. Only this was my seven-year-old client, and it was just last night. He held tissues that were soaked and puckered with tears. I asked him questions, trying to trace the path of what was bothering him back through the school day. We rolled across recess, music class, and lunch. Did an older student slight him in the hall? Did I pack enough food?

For the little I know as a parent, at least I’ve learned that a leak’s source is just as likely to be indirect as direct. The path can go down and back, down and back a week, a month, or more before the damage becomes visible. I held my son and flipped through his project files. Recently I relented and let him watch a ninja show that may have been too scary. Also, his Dad has been traveling a lot. And the Fall sports season just ended. I kept his dossier to myself and continued asking, quietly, “Anything else?” A child can be old enough to speak his mind, but unable to name what’s vexing him. So we went to the roof to check the skylights and pipes.

As my son nodded off, I kicked loose the right chunk of gunk. On his bedside table was a pencil. It was just like the one he’d thrown at me during homework (Time out). Later, at dinner, he put his head down on the table.  The leak began in his eye, or perhaps in his nose. He was getting sick.

I checked on him at 11 PM, and he was as hot as a coke oven. The feeling that visited me was not happiness, but more the relief of turning onto a familiar road when you’re lost in a big city. “Take a picture,” I thought. It’s always a picture, never a map.