Michael Collings - The Slab

Hair still damp from the rain, still wearing nothing but his bathrobe, he began padding slowly through the house, beginning with the back bedrooms, progressing to the bathrooms, the hall, the entry, the family room, the living room, ending up in the kitchen.

“Willard,” Catherine said, a note of scolding in her voice. “What are you doing barefoot? You’ll catch your death.” She held out a bright red mug, steam coiling from the surface of its contents. “Here, this will help.”

He ignored the mug and instead continued his slow, almost stalking survey of the kitchen, each wall, the ceiling, the floor tiles under the back window, several still ragged and broken from the night he punched through them with the paring knife to reveal the roach-filled rift.

“There’s more of them,” he said, almost absently.

“More of what?”

“Cracks.”

Catherine glanced around. Now that he mentioned it, she could see tiny cracks in the angles where walls joined walls, where walls joined ceiling. She turned a slow circle. There was a thin shadow connecting one corner of the doorjamb to the ceiling. Another starting from the far corner of the window and spidering upward a foot or so.

“I hadn’t really noticed them,” she murmured.

“They’re in every room. Every one,” Willard said.

“Mom. Dad,” came Burt’s voice from the living room, just a few tones away from whining. “Will’s cheating.”

“What?” Catherine and Willard answered at the same time, turning to face their middle son.

“He’s cheating!” This time the voice was sterner. Burt obviously felt more comfortable with his complaint now that he had his parents’ attention.

“They’ve been playing Monopoly since they got home from school,” Catherine said. “They couldn’t go out, and they were getting antsy, so I let them take the board into the boys’ bedroom.

Catherine’s father had introduced Will, Jr., and Burt to the wonders of high finance the previous Thanksgiving at her family’s home in Santa Barbara, while she and her mother were cleaning up after the traditional family feast and Willard and Catherine’s youngest brother sat transfixed by one football game or another.

Neither of the boys had quite grasped the subtleties of the game, but since Grandpa hadn’t been too strict about the rules, they had gradually evolved their own version, one that was a bit faster, a bit wilder, a bit more cut-throat than a strict interpretation of game protocols might normally have allowed.

After several hours at the board, as they were putting the pieces away and carefully separating the play money into appropriate piles, Grandpa said, “Why don’t you guys take this on home with you. Grandma and I don’t play it anymore so you may as well.”

Both boys went running into the kitchen. “Mom, can we, can we?”

It took a minute or two for Catherine to figure out what they were yelling about, since their voices overlapped so much that she couldn’t quite understand the words, and her father just stood in the doorway, grinning, no help at all.

But in a few moments, the Huntley children were the proud owners of one well-used Monopoly set. It was a special-occasions-only treat for them, since they routinely became so engrossed that their games threatened to go on for hours. Rainy days frequently counted as special occasions.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Willard spoke from the open doorway, Catherine behind him and Burt scuttling beneath his arm and squatting in his usual position by the board.

Will, Jr., sat there, looking owlishly up at his parents, his eyes wide with innocence but the trace of a grin-almost a gloat-hovering on his lips. Suze was across from Will, also her usual position, her face flushed and her eyes screwed up as if to keep from crying. Sams crouched along the side of the board between Suze and Will. He held a handful of play money in his chubby fists-he played Banker, holding out money when required so the others could take what they needed

Three voices answered Willard’s question.

“Nothing!” A sharp treble with a hint of a crack in it.

“Will’s cheating!” Burt’s voice.

“Will’s hiding money under the board! He knows he’s not s’posed to hide money under the board.” Suze was a stickler for rules, even if the kids had made them up themselves.

Willard held out his hand.

“All right! All right! Enough!”

Silence fell.

“You guys know what happens if you fight over a game.”

“But, Dad…!” This time four voices tumbled over each other, Sams’ joining the rest.

“No. You know what happens.”

“Okay,” Will, Jr., said. Shoulders slumped, he started picking up bills that had been scattered on the board and the surrounding carpet during the disagreement. Burt collected houses and hotels, dropping them into the proper slot in the box. Suze gathered up the tokens and put them away. Sams just sat there a few bills still grasped between his fingers. Will, Jr., had to pull them out of his hands before Sams finally gave up. Only then did he start to sniffle, prelude to a cry.

“Bedtime,” Catherine said, stepping around Willard.

“But…” Again, all four chimed in.

“I know you haven’t had any time with Daddy, but he was late because of the rain. And there’s school tomorrow, so scoot, all of you.”

None of them scooted, precisely. But under Catherine’s and Willard’s watchful eyes, they meandered through their evening rituals, finally settling themselves in their beds. Suze turned her light out without being asked.

Willard reached around the door jamb to flick the switch in the boys’ room.

“No!” Sams was sitting bolt upright in his box bed. He had his blanket pressed so tightly against his cheek that his knuckles glowed white in the overhead glare. “No! Light!”

Willard glanced at Catherine. This was new. None of their children-Sams included-had ever indicated any untoward fear of the darkness. Even Sams had slept without a night light since he was two.

Catherine knelt by his side.

“Come on, Sams. You know everything is all right, even with the light out.”

“No!”

This time Catherine heard a touch of panic in his voice. She rubbed his back, trying to comfort him.

“Oh, let it be,” Willard said from the hallway. “Just for tonight.”

She shot him a sharp look. They had discussed this when Sams was first trying to sleep in a darkened room, and they had agreed that he was old enough. Anyway, his two brothers were in there with him, and he could crawl in with Burt if he woke in the middle of the night. And besides, they had a hard and fast rule-never disagree in front of the kids, especially when there was already a rule in place.

“Willard?” There was an unspoken question in the way she said his name.

He caught it.

“Just this once.”

“Just this once,” Sams piped in imitation. “Light?”

Catherine hesitated. To make an issue of it would probably reinforce whatever it was that was bothering Sams. But she didn’t want to give in completely.

“All right. We’ll leave the hall light on and the door open. That okay, Sams?”

He nodded, already relaxing under her touch.

She laid him back, tucked his covers around him-careful not to hide his blanket-and crossed to the door. Willard had already turned on the hall light. She snapped off the one in the boys’ room.

“Good night.”

“Night” came quietly from both bedrooms.

“What were you thinking in there?” Catherine was almost whispering, even though she and Willard were at the opposite end of the house from the boys.

Willard shrugged and sipped his coffee. “I didn’t think it really mattered that much. Just this once.”