For several seconds, I genuinely couldn’t understand what she was suggesting.
“You’re draining the pool because of my tomato plant?”
“Your unauthorized tomato plant,” Chad corrected.
I turned toward him.
“Thank you, Chad. That changes everything.”
Brenda folded her arms.
“You were instructed to remove it. You refused. Therefore, the committee determined that a complete review of poolside sanitation and maintenance was appropriate.”
“Because of a vegetable?”
“Because of your attitude.”
There it was.
The truth, delivered without the slightest embarrassment.
The pool wasn’t being drained because it needed cleaning.
It was being drained because Brenda wanted to show me that she could.
I looked at the workers.
“Do you have written authorization from the county for this?”
One of them hesitated.
“We were hired by the association, sir.”
“Did anyone tell you this is an emergency reservoir?”
He glanced at Brenda.
“No.”
Brenda stepped between us.
“Your services are no longer required here, Mr. Maxwell.”
Then she turned to the younger worker.
“Remove that plant.”
He looked at me apologetically.
I started forward.
“Wait. I’ll take it.”
But Brenda had already snapped, “Dispose of it.”
The worker picked up the pot.
He carried it toward a large plastic trash container.
I was still walking toward him when he tipped it over.
The pot struck the bottom with a sharp crack.
Dirt scattered.
The thin green stem disappeared beneath broken terracotta.
I stopped.
It was such a small thing.
A cheap pot. A young tomato plant. Something I could replace for six dollars at a garden center.
But I’d planted it the morning after my final paycheck arrived.
Every day since then, I’d watered it, checked the leaves, and watched it grow.
It was the only project in my life that seemed to be moving in the right direction.
Now it was lying in a trash can because a woman with a clipboard wanted to punish me.
Brenda watched my face.
“Perhaps next time you’ll take our regulations seriously.”
I looked at the emptying pool.
Then at her.
“You’re right, Brenda.”
She seemed surprised.
“I am?”
“Absolutely. I think everybody in this neighborhood is about to take these regulations very seriously.”
I turned and walked home.
Behind me, the pump continued roaring.
By the time I reached my kitchen, my hands were shaking.
Not because I was frightened.
Because I was furious.
I made another cup of coffee and didn’t drink it.
I walked into my home office, sat down, stood up again, and stared at the framed engineering drawings hanging above my desk.
For weeks, I’d avoided looking at them.
They reminded me of everything I’d lost.
There was the water treatment expansion I’d helped design outside Columbus. The pumping station rehabilitation that had kept a small town from losing service during a winter freeze. The distribution network model that had taken eighteen months and more arguments than I cared to remember.
And then there was a drawing labeled:
WESTWOOD MUNICIPAL WATER GRID — SECTOR FOUR.
Harmony Creek sat almost exactly in the center.
I’d worked on that system years earlier, before the subdivision existed.
I remembered the project.
The developers had wanted attractive houses overlooking the wooded hillside. The city had required additional fire protection because the area was some distance from the nearest major pumping station.
A large emergency water main ran behind the property.
I took the drawing off the wall.
Spread it across my desk.
And studied it.
There was the ordinary residential supply.
There was the smaller service connection used to fill the community pool.
And behind the pump house was a much larger municipal fire-suppression trunk line.
I remembered the design discussions, the reserve tank, and the arguments over access easements.
The line was capable of delivering an extraordinary amount of water when properly operated.
More than enough to fill the pool far faster than the association’s normal supply.
I sat back.
Then I laughed.
It wasn’t a happy laugh.
It was the sound a man makes when an exceptionally bad idea begins to look like the best idea he’s had in months.
I imagined Brenda waking up Saturday morning, marching to the pool to admire her empty concrete monument to authority, and finding it full again.
Not partially full.
Completely full.
I imagined her trying to explain it.
I imagined Chad standing beside her, nodding at absolutely nothing.
For the first time all day, I smiled.
Then I picked up my phone.
Dave Sullivan answered on the third ring.
“Sully’s Drains and Digs. If it’s wet where it shouldn’t be, I’m your guy.”
“Sully, it’s Leo Maxwell.”
“Leo! How’s that French drain?”
“Beautiful. Best thing in my backyard.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I have a hypothetical question.”
“Those are my favorite kind.”
“Suppose somebody drained a community swimming pool for an incredibly stupid reason.”
“Go on.”
“And suppose somebody else wanted to refill it much faster than the normal municipal connection would allow.”
There was a pause.
“Is this about the woman with the visor?”
I blinked.
“How did you know?”
“She tried to fine me fifty bucks for dripping water on the road when I worked at your house.”
“That was air-conditioner condensation.”
“I know. I explained that to her. She told me I needed written permission for unapproved vehicle discharge.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course she did.”
“So what’s the question?”
I told him what I’d found on the drawing.
Sully listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
“Leo,” he finally said, “that would be an incredibly stupid thing to attempt without city authorization.”
“I know.”
“Potentially dangerous.”
“I know.”
“Potentially expensive.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“How badly do you hate this woman?”
I looked through the window toward the community pool.
“Enough that I’m seriously considering something I should know better than to do.”
Sully sighed.
“Come by the shop.”
His workshop occupied a large detached garage behind his house.
