Michael Collings - The Slab

“And the road at Norwegian grade has actually slid halfway down the hillside at one place. There’s only part of one lane left, and the cops have shut it down completely as well.

“Basically, were cut off. There’s no way out of Tamarind right now, at least not until the rain stops. Literally, no way out.”

Catherine stirred her tea. “The schools are closed as well. Here and in Newton Park both. And a lot of the houses in the higher parts of Coastal Crest are in danger of sliding if the hills get any more unstable.”

“All this after only a day and a night of this rain. What will happen if it continues as long as the forecasters predict?”

It did. The rain didn’t ease for four days, when traffic was finally allowed to travel north and south on the freeway. Norwegian grade wouldn’t be usable for seven or eight months, depending on how long it would take to carve a new roadway out of the hillside. And in the lower parts of Tamarind Valley, some of the housing developments were cut off stores and businesses for almost a week.

Charter Oaks fared better.

It was built on a small rise, not quite a hill exactly but one of the higher parts of the valley. The Huntleys were not totally isolated. When they ran out of milk on the third day, Willard could negotiate the rain-sodden streets far enough to buy more-along with toilet paper, that other necessity for any household with multiple children. But for all intents and purposes, even they were housebound.

Two adults. Four children. Two hamsters. And a dog.

The rain continued to fall so hard for three of the four days that, except that single trip to the store, none of them left the house.

It was a big enough house. Everyone had a place to go for a moment of peace and quiet. But mostly they spent the days in the family. Willard watched TV, alternating between whatever sports events he could find and the incessant “Storm Watch” reports on half the channels. He missed going to work. He felt almost uncomfortable stranded in the house, with nothing purposeful he could do. He fidgeted, finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything. Several times, when one of the kids raised a voice-whether in pique or even once when Sams abruptly shrieked with laughter at something Will, Jr., had done-he felt a deep irritation, something like the infant cousin of the fury the first night of the rains. A couple of times he couldn’t keep himself from almost yelling at them to be quiet. He wasn’t at all happy. He wanted to get out of the house.

Catherine watched with half an eye, mostly when reports on the “Storm-of-the-Decade” were on, and the rest of her attention on knitting scarves and sweaters for nieces and nephews that lived in colder climates. Although not an imperceptive wife, she noticed nothing particularly wrong with the way Willard was behaving.

The kids played Monopoly. One marathon game. The three oldest sat in their usual places around the board, rolling the dice and moving their tokens-there was an odd bit of squabbling at the beginning, when Burt grabbed the Boot, Suze’s favorite, and Will took Burt’s favorite piece in retaliation. It took an intervention by Catherine and a warning from Willard that the game would be put away for the duration if anything like that happened again to settle things.

Sams seemed perfectly happy to squat along the fourth side, holding out handfuls of money whenever it was needed. When he got tired, he simply rolled over and fell asleep on the floor, his blanket tucked securely along his cheek.

So they played, breaking only to eat and go to the bathroom and, somewhat later than usual, head unwillingly to bed. When Suze ran out of money on the first day, Will loaned her some. When Burt hit “Go Directly to Jail” three times in a row, Suze calmed him down.

And the rain continued. They could hear the constant drumming on the roof, and the splattering of drops on the picture window behind the couch. Oleander Place became a small river of runoff.

And the rain continued.

When it came, the break in the monotonous routine was sudden and devastating.

On the morning of the fourth day, just before the rain tapered off, diminished to a restless drizzle, and finally stopped completely (although none of the Huntley family ever thought of that as the day the rain stopped), about an hour after breakfast and well into the never-ending monopoly game, Sams suddenly stood up and wandered down the hall.

No one paid any real attention.

A few minutes later, he returned carrying one of his favorite toys, a clear plastic ball in which either Yip or Yap, the boys’ hamsters, could race around the floor, constantly delighting Sams as well as the rest of them. The short-nubbed carpeting in the family was just right for the ball-it slowed Yip or Yap sufficiently that Sams could keep up with whichever one was exercising at the moment, yet allowed the hamster to race along fast enough to keep everyone entertained.

Solemnly, Sams placed the ball on the floor by the game board. The he went to stand beside Burt.

“Help me?”

“What?” Burt kept looking at the board, intent on the fact that if Will threw a seven, his older brother would be confronted by the horrifying fact of landing on Park Palace…with three hotels. Burt waved his little brother away absently.

“Help me?”

“Burt,” Willard said from the couch, barely removing his eyes from the television, “help your brother.”

Burt finally glanced up, saw Sams, then saw the plastic ball sitting on the floor. He understood at once what was needed.

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t roll until I get back,” he instructed Will, Jr. He wanted to be there for the big moment.

The two boys disappeared down the hall.

They were gone for several minutes, longer than it should have taken to retrieve either Yip or Yap from its hiding place in the cedar chips.

Neither Willard nor Catherine noticed the time, although Will, Jr., wriggled in impatience at the wait.

Finally, Burt came down the hall, followed by Sams.

“Dad,” Burt said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Dad, Yip won’t play with us.”

“Then bring Yap out,” The boys could apparently tell the two hamsters apart, although to Willard’s adult eyes they looked identical. “Maybe Yip’s eating or something.”

“No, he’s just laying there. He won’t get up to play with us.”

This time Willard heard a note of anxiety in Burt’s voice. He stood, casting a knowing-almost an accusatory-glance at Catherine. They had been waiting for this to happen ever since she had talked him into letting the kids have the things. Neither of them were particularly eager for what they both knew was coming. Catherine put aside her knitting and rose as well.

Will, Jr., and Suze simply sat at the game board, as if standing guard lest some errant breeze shift the playing pieces.

Willard led the way down the dark hallway toward the back bedroom. The room itself was cast into murky shadow by the cloud cover outside. The little Mickey Mouse lamp was on but not the ceiling light.

He walked over to the small table that held the hamsters’ cage. One of them, it must be Yap, was running circles on the exercise wheel, spinning away as if his little life depended on it. The other one, Yip, lay half hidden in cedar chips at the back of the cage.

Willard reached in.

Yap ignored him and kept the wheel spinning at breakneck speed.

Yip didn’t move, either. Willard closed his hand around the bit of fur.

Nothing.

He lifted the hamster out of the cage, glanced over his shoulder at Catherine, and nodded. They had both had small pets as children. Small pets, however much loved and however well cared for, often did not live long.