Michael Collings - The Slab

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.

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 relic 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.

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!”