The Slab

by Michael R Collings

  From the Tamarind Valley Times, 21 November 1997:

  ANOTHER TRAGIC DEATH ON KILLER CURVE

  The still-smoldering remains of a late-model sports car were discovered at four o’clock this morning by a passing motorist. The driver had apparently been racing down Norwegian Grade, notorious as one of the most dangerous roads in the entire Tamarind Valley. Because of the inaccessibility of the wreckage at the bottom of the canyon, police investigators were unable to reach the scene of the incident until well past seven o’clock. At this time, the identity of the driver has not been released.

  The incident, the fifth fatality on that section of road in less than two years, will likely spur increased controversy in the City Council over whether or not to widen the pavement, at an estimated cost of…

  From the Tamarind Valley Times, 22 November 1997:

  NORWEGIAN GRADE MYSTERY intensifies

  In a bizarre twist, the driver of the late-model Corvette destroyed by fire along the Norwegian Grade two nights ago has been identified as an unlicensed fifteen-year-old, Miles Stanton, of 1066 Oleander Place. Attempts at notifying his parents led to the grisly discovery of the bodies of his mother, Elayne Stanton Warren (35) and his stepfather Daniel Warren (37), in the bedroom of their home on Oleander Place. Both had been stabbed repeatedly. One informed source reported unofficially that the circumstances surrounding the deaths were particularly vicious.

  “It was like a slaughterhouse in there,” the source noted. Officers present at the scenes of both incidents refuse to make any additional statements, other than that a preliminary investigation suggests the youth first killed his stepfather, then his mother, and then attempted to escape in the car owned by his stepfather. Elayne Warren leaves no immediate relatives; Daniel Warren, owner of four automobile dealerships in the area, is survived only by his mother, Amanda Warren, of Woodland Hills.

  Funeral services for all three are pending.

  Chapter Seven

  The Huntleys, February 2010

  Cracks

  1

  The good news was, for several weeks after that night, neither Willard nor Catherine saw a single roach.

  The bad news…in the middle of February, it began to rain.

  The first few days of February were fortunately clear, relatively warm, and dry. The skies were the deep blue portrayed in the more touristy postcards that touted Southern California as a perpetually green, perpetually blooming paradise. One of the neighbors down Oleander Place even had a beautiful large tree in the front yard that was laden with bright, ripe oranges. From a certain angle it was silhouetted against the Coastal Range across the freeway and could itself have been the star of just such a post card.

  Once school resumed, the neighbor kids-occasionally including the Huntley four-were able to play outside wearing only light jackets well into twilight. Not that Will, Burt, and Suze seemed drawn to any of the pro tempore, shifting gangs that formed and re-formed along the short street. The older three Huntleys stayed pretty close to home, satisfied with brief forays into the backyard for tag or wildly awkward attempts at badminton…played mostly without the benefit of nets-or rules.

  Sams, however, seemed delighted by the limitless prospects from the front yard. His favorite Christmas present had been a brand-new, battery-powered, ride-on car. The thin plastic body was molded in bright-red with mock-chrome details, then finished in the general outlines of a classic 90s Chevy Corvette, sleek, low to the ground, looking like it was racing even when standing still, with the promise of infinite, lightning-fast speed.

  Well, perhaps very slow lightning.

  “Willard, he’s too little for something like that,” Catherine had protested when Willard caught her arm and guided her over to where a floor model sat gleaming on the top shelf in a Wal-Mart display. “He’ll get hurt.”

  “Nonsense, he can probably walk faster than that thing can go, and anyway it has seatbelts. Safety first, you know.” He laughed and pointed at the specifications on one of the boxes.

  “And it’s way too expensive,” Catherine responded, not willing to give up the battle just because of a little laughter.

  “Yeah, it’s more than the bikes we got for the other kids,” Willard agreed, “but not that much more. And besides…”

  “And besides, you always wanted something like that when you were a kid, didn’t you?” This time Catherine laughed.

  “Okay, you caught me. But they didn’t make motorized cars then. The only thing we had were clunky, pedal-driven sedans and fire-trucks. One of the kids on my block had one when I was six or seven and it broke my heart that I didn’t.

  “Of course, when he let me try once, I was almost too big and the pedals stuck and I ended up pushing it along with my feet, which wasn’t all that much fun. But it was the principal of the thing.”

  Catherine was silent for a second before she sighed and nodded. “All right. At least we live in a safe neighborhood now. No one racing up and down the streets.”

  The car came home with them that day.

  The moment he opened the huge box on Christmas morning, Sams seemed possessed by the car. He sat in it through all the morning festivities, even though the battery hadn’t been connected and not even the horn would work. He sat in it mock-steering and making his own hooting horn sounds while the rest of the family trooped out to the garage to be surprised by their own sets of wheels, bicycles in a variety of styles, colors, and sizes. He wanted to sit in it when Catherine called everyone in for the traditional Christmas breakfast of freshly baked cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate.

  “No you don’t, buster. No spilling on my brand new carpet,” Catherine had said, trying to sound stern but failing so miserably that both she and Sams burst out in hysterical laughter.

  But he was allowed to take it outside right after breakfast and, while the other three pedaled up and down Oleander Place, occasionally joined by other small riders on other pristine bicycles, Sams drove his Vette in tight little circles on the driveway, beeping away and waving at Catherine every time he passed her standing by the garage door.

  It had been a very good Christmas.

  By early February, Sams was allowed to ride not only on the driveway but for three yard-lengths on each side of Oleander. At the end of the rose border on one side, he would dutifully turn around-staying carefully on the sidewalk-and ride back around, past his own driveway, and down the other side to where the white picket fence began, then turn around and repeat the process.

  Left to himself, he would probably have been happy to putt around all day. Still, an hour or so in the afternoons usually satisfied him.

  2

  Willard was in a hurry when he backed out of the garage early that Friday evening.

  He had just gotten home-a couple of hours before usual, as it turned out, since his current project had been abruptly cancelled. He wasn’t in a particularly good mood because of the interruption in his routine, but he was happy to be able to spend some more time with the kids. He wasn’t generally around in the afternoons when they arrived home from school.

  He was just settling in to work on a jigsaw puzzle in the family room with Will, Jr., Burt, and Suze, when he heard Catherine yelp from the kitchen.

  Roaches was his first thought. But no elongated scream followed the short outburst, so he tentatively relaxed.

  “Willard,” Catherine called. No terror in her voice, just the everyday we’ve-got-a-minor-crisis pitch that any parent of small children might recognize.

  He rose, careful not to disturb the scattered puzzle pieces, and made his way through a small disaster area of roll-and push-toys that Sams hadn’t gotten around to putting away.

  “What is it?” he called…just as he got the first whiff of smoke-thick, cloying, unmistakable. “What’s wrong?” This time there was more urgency in his voice.

  “Oh, nothing. Just this da…this stupid waffle iron. Again!”

  The family-sized waffle iron was a virtual antique, the final fossilized re
lic of their wedding reception. It was a gift from one of Catherine’s aunts, who gave one-identical in make and model-to each of her nine nephews and nieces as they married. Originally gleaming in chrome and black, the iron was now stained and streaked by spatters of ancient grease and the baked-on spilled-over remains of thousands of pancakes and waffles, all seemingly impervious to even Catherine’s meticulous close-inspection cleaning.

  Recently, it had begun taking forever for the heating element to get hot enough, and when the orange alert light finally went out, the resulting waffles were more often than not irregular, burned on one edge, half-raw on the other.

  Now it sat on the countertop, its cord coiled sinuously over the tiles, its plug hanging like something dead over the edge of the stainless-steel sink, and the plastic cover of the outlet just above it blackened with a smear of greasy smoke.

  “I just plugged it in, and the outlet sparked and then spurted flame. I yanked the plug and everything stopped. But I think the iron has finally shorted out.”

  “It’s about time,” Willard said. “It’s old enough. Must have at least a hundred thousand miles on it by now.” He leaned over the counter to give the offending appliance a cursory inspection. “What about spaghetti for dinner?”

  “I’ve already promised the kids their favorite waffles. They’ve really been helpful today. And they like them so much. Everything’s ready…except the iron.”

  The kids called Catherine’s waffles Super-waffles. Willard glanced down the countertop and saw a row of little bowls already set out, filled with grated cheese, bacon bits, slivered walnuts, and chocolate chips. Each of the kids requested a special combination of ingredients, baked into the crispy waffles, then topped with maple syrup, raspberry jelly, or peanut butter and honey.

  Some of their choices set Willard’s teeth on edge, but the kids loved them.

  “I guess I could run on down to Sav-on and see if they have an iron available,” Willard said.

  “They do,” Catherine responded, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I saw one just the other day. I was going to buy it but hoped this one would last a little longer. I probably should have known better.”

  Willard sighed and shrugged. “Okay, let me get my coat and wallet. I won’t be gone long.”

  “And while you’re there, would you pick up some dessert,” Catherine added as he disappeared down the hall.

  She turned back to mixing the waffle batter.

  Neither of them saw Sams standing in the kitchen doorway, listening intently.

  3

  It took a couple of minutes for Willard to slip on his winter jacket, rummage through his suit pants for his wallet, convince the three children still seated around the jigsaw puzzle that they really would have more fun staying at home this time rather than tagging along to the store, and finally step into the garage.

  Almost instantly, he felt a surge of anger flood through him.

  He knew that he had lowered the double-sized garage door when he got home earlier. He distinctly remembered thumbing the remote and watching in the rear-view mirror as the heavy wooden panel slid down, then grabbing his briefcase from the passenger seat and climbing out.

  He knew he had.

  But now the door stood gaping open. Again. For the past few days, the automatic opener had been malfunctioning, erratically closing when the door was half open, opening unexpectedly when the door seemed firmly closed.

  He’d have to get the motor fixed. And the back part of the foundation, he reminded himself furiously. The door was just one more thing to do. Shit.

  He slid into the front seat of the car, buckled himself in, and turned the key.

  At least the car started smoothly. No troubles there.

  He began rolling out of the garage and down the driveway, gaining speed on the slight incline from the house to the street.

  And suddenly slammed on the brake, jerking to a halt and jamming his chest painfully against the webbing of his seatbelt. For an instant he could not breathe and his vision went black.

  Something red and silver had winked into sight in his side-view mirror, abruptly emerging from behind the dense, head-high shrubs that filled a small triangle between the driveway, the front sidewalk, and the side fence-virtually the only landscaping on the property that didn’t look newly planted. Whatever it was had winked into sight, glimmered for an instant, and disappeared.

  Behind the car!

  Before he could even consciously register what he had seen, he knew-he knew — what it was.

  Sams’ new toy…with Sams’ driving!

  He had thrust the car into park, twisted the key in the ignition, released his seatbelt, and was halfway along the length of the car before his mind truly began functioning.

  Those damned bushes. I knew they were too tall. I knew someone was going to get hurt some day. And now Sams!

  Each beat of his heart clarified in his mind what he would see-what he must see…the small body lying crushed on the cracked concrete of the sidewalk, blood streaming from broken flesh to flow, dark and thick and cloying, into the crevices, into the earth beneath, sinking in deeper and deeper, to contaminate and corrupt…

  As he reached the back fender and could see clearly behind the car-the empty sidewalk behind the car-he heard a long, high giggle from the passenger side, then saw Sams putting up the driveway and into the darkened garage. The boy executed a perfect circle with his tiny car, sliding with practiced ease into a spot next to the three parked bicycles.

  As he climbed out, he lifted a small plastic bucket-his sand-castle bucket, Willard realized-now filled with half a dozen large, glossy oranges. He was grinning widely, proud of himself for helping.

  “See, Daddy! I picked up dessert, too!”

  4

  Almost before dawn the next morning, Willard stalked into the front yard, dressed in an old, thread-bare Pendleton shirt and a thick nylon vest, and began savagely slashing at the stand of bushes with a pair of long-handled, wickedly sharp, tree loppers.

  It had taken Catherine the better part of an hour to calm Willard down the night before, so shaken was he at the realization that he could so easily have run over his son. First he blamed himself, then he blamed the bushes, then he blamed the previous owners who had planted the damned things where they would block the view like that. Then he blamed himself again, for buying the damned house in the first place, with its roaches and its cracked foundation.

  The only person he didn’t blame was Sams.

  Dinner was a fiasco. Even though the kids intuited that something was wrong, that something had happened outside that Mom and Dad were studiously talking about only in hissed whispers, they were nonetheless upset when Catherine announced that, no, there wouldn’t be any super waffles for dinner tonight.

  “But you promised…”

  “Mommm!”

  And so on until Willard thundered, “Quiet!” and startled the kids so badly that Sams, who had no idea at all what was going on, started to cry.

  Finally, though, dinner was over, the kids were settled for the night, Catherine and Willard were lying in bed talking quietly.

  “Tomorrow, they go.”

  “Maybe we could call someone to take them out for us. You know, a professional gardner…”

  “No. First thing in the morning. I’m not waiting another day.”

  So first thing in the morning, Willard began. His face tensed in an expression somewhere between concentration and obsession, he began.

  At first the job wasn’t so difficult. The plants were dense, woody, with leaves dusty green on one surface, a pale, rusty gold underneath. Even so, the newest growth was still tender, easy to cut.

  As he worked his way down, however, the older shoots grew more thickly, intertwined so complexly that it was impossible to cut just one and pull it away from the rest. Again and again, he struggled to work the loppers through the woody heart of the shoots, until his shoulders and hands began to ache. His fingers throbbed from the strain, cramped when he
took a moment for a break and loosened his grip on the handles.

  Under his breath, without consciously realizing it, he began to curse, fluidly, angrily, letting words slip easily between his lips that he would normally never have even thought. Images flickered in and out of his mind, images of bloody bodies, and broken bones, and shattered skulls.

  He slashed more violently at the plants.

  In spite of the cool day, he began to sweat profusely. The thick flannel shirt hung along his back, sodden and sticky. Finally, he stripped out of his vest, removed the shirt and threw it on the ground behind him, slipped back into the vest, and, bare-armed, began again.

  Hack. Slice. Wrench and pull.

  And again.

  “Dad, can I help?” Willard hadn’t heard Will, Jr., approach, hadn’t been aware that the sun was midway up in the cloudless sky and that he was panting and nearly shaking. He jumped in surprise…and anger at the interruption-even though a part of him welcomed a distraction from the directions his thoughts were carrying him.

  “What?” He turned too quickly and for a moment felt dizzy. Then the disorientation passed. “What?”

  “Can I help? I could…”

  “No. I’m taking care of it. Thanks.”

  “But…”

  “No. You heard me. No. Go away, Will.”

  Willard bent back to the task.

  When Catherine came out some time later-he didn’t know how long it had been-to hand him a glass of water, he barely acknowledged her. He took a long swallow, then poured the rest of the cool water over his head.

  “Willard, you’ll give yourself pneumonia if you don’t…”

  “I’m all right. Let me alone to work.” Then hack. Slice. Wrench and pull.

  It must have been mid-afternoon when he finally finished gutting the worst part of the bushes. He could almost see bare earth, and the bulk of the greenery lay thrown haphazardly behind him.