Michael Collings - The Slab

He didn’t even wait.

As soon as he saw that she was awake, he crawled onto the bed, over her, and under the covers between her and Willard.

“What the hell…!” Willard shot out of bed, brushing frantically at the front of the well-worn Lakers T-shirt that was part of his night wear. That and his boxers. Winter or summer, never anything else.

Catherine sat up just as abruptly.

“Willard!”

“He’s wet! Soaked! Just feel.”

She did. She hadn’t noticed it when Sams crawled over her into the bed, but he was drenched, sopping, the front of his pajamas stained shades darker than the back.

Sams had been wearing extra-thick pull-up night diapers for a couple of months now. He had never had an accident before. He was almost completely potty-trained. Both Catherine and Willard were proud of how well he had managed the transition.

But now, he lay curled up on the bed, deeply asleep in spite of having just come into their room seconds before, and smelling pungently of urine. There was a dark spot spreading on the sheet beneath him, and a matching dark spot across most of Willard’s chest.

“Okay, Willard. You change. I’ll take care of Sams. And the bed.”

By the time she had picked the baby up, he was awake. He started to whimper.

“You’re all right,” she began. Then: “Willard, he’s shaking like a leaf. Trembling all over.”

Now that he was over the shock of awakening to the feel of wet-baby against him, Willard seemed more in control. He had stripped out of the T-shirt and, since they were damp as well, out of his boxers.

Naked, he circled the bed and put his hand on Sams’ back.

It felt like he was touching an electric vibrator set on ‘high.’

Willard rummaged in the closet for an old sweat shirt while Catherine removed Sams’ pajamas and the diaper. Urine dripped from the plastic lining, ran glistening down the back of Sams’ legs.

Willard grabbed him and wrapped him in the sweat shirt, holding him close while Catherine pulled sheets and blankets off the bed and threw a new set onto the top of the dresser.

She had just tucked the last corner of the fitted bottom sheet around the mattress when: “Daddy, why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

Will, Jr., stood in the doorway, his eyes riveted on his father.

Willard grabbed one of the cast-off blankets-fortunately mostly dry-and whipped it around his waist, never letting go of Sams.

“Will, what are you…?”

“Daddy didn’t have any clothes on?” That was Burt, coming up just behind his brother to stand in the doorway.

“It’s okay,” Catherine said, hurrying over to the two. “Sams just wet himself in our bed and Daddy’s clothes got all wet, too.”

“Oh.” Both boys nodded. Curious mystery of nature explained.

“Why does Daddy…?”

“That’s enough.” Willard let more than a little of his impatience-and embarrassment-show in his tone. “What are you guys doing up. It’s”-he glanced at the clock-“3:15.”

“We couldn’t sleep.” Will answered for both of them.

“And we can’t go back to bed.” That was Burt.

“There’s something in…”

“Oh, for…” Still wrapped in the blanked, still clutching Sams to his chest. Willard led the boys back down the hall. Catherine had told him about the frequent night-time visits over the past days, and Willard had thanked her for taking care of things and letting him sleep. She had also told him about the putting-which-ever-boy-it-was-to-bed routine.

He didn’t have to put Sams in bed. The baby was still shaking, although not as much, and was fast asleep. Willard didn’t want to disturb him. And anyway the kid didn’t have a diaper on yet.

But he could turn on the Mickey Mouse lamp, check the closet and with one hand shift the hangers around to reassure Will and Burt that nothing lurked behind them. He watched Burt crawl into his bunk and Willard climb up the end of his, then stretch out and pull the sheets up. He switched off the lamp, called a quiet “Good night,” and left before either of the boys could answer him.

“Catherine, what in hell is going on?” He was whispering but his voice carried over the soft rustling of bedclothes being smoothed.

“Let me have Sams. And you put something on.”

She laid the sleeping Sams onto the bed and deftly dressed him in a dry diaper and fresh pajamas. She had already tossed the wet things in the hamper in the bathroom, but the air still carried an ammoniac tinge. Willard wrinkled his nose in distaste.

He dressed in fresh boxers and a different-but just as faded-Lakers T-shirt and crawled into his side of the bed. Catherine laid Sams between them and settled herself.

“Are you going to let him sleep in here? I thought we agreed that he was old enough…”

“Just this once. I think the poor baby was really frightened. He felt like a nestling that has dropped to the ground, terrified and shaking and… And I want him to stay with me tonight.”

Willard stared for a moment.

“Okay. Now let me get to sleep.” He grunted and rolled over, his back to Sams. Catherine noted that he left a small space between his body and his son’s. Just in case.

The rest of the night-what was left of it-passed undisturbed. Willard managed to pull himself out of bed when the alarm clanged, changed quietly enough that Catherine and Sams never stirred. When he left, he carefully closed the door, although something inside of him wanted, oh so badly needed, to slam the door.

Let them see what it was like to get wakened from a sound sleep.

That morning at breakfast, the boys were subdued, even more than they had been for the past little while. Suze was fine; she chattered and ate and got ready for school with no problem.

Sams was sleepier than usual but that was perhaps to be expected. And-Catherine noted with no little surprise-he didn’t bring his blanket with him to the table. As soon as he had eaten, though, he disappeared for a minute, then came wandering back into the kitchen with the wretched thing dragging behind him. Okay, so he was all right.

Will spoke very little. He didn’t remember why he had come into his parent’s room that late. He didn’t remember dreaming, or thinking he had seen anything. Neither did Burt.

Both boys did remember seeing their father without any clothes. Willard was fairly modest-except, of course, when he and Catherine were alone…they did have four children, after all. So none of the children had ever seen him naked.

The boys started to ask questions, but Catherine simply shook her head. No, this is not the time.

They both seemed unduly fascinated by what they had seen.

The same thing happened over the next three nights, Tuesday through Thursday.

Well, not the same thing, exactly, but for one reason or another all three of the boys found themselves, singly, in pairs, or as a triad-standing by Catherine’s bed in the middle of the night. Each night there was enough commotion to rouse Willard. Each night he handled the interruption of his sleep with less and less patience.

“What is this,” he bellowed at Will, Jr., when the boy was leaving for his own bed at 4:15 on Thursday night, “a damned tag-team performance?”

“Willard,” said Catherine, laying a hand on his arm.

He shrugged it off, perhaps more vigorously that she expected.

“Well,” he said, not modulating his voice at all out of deference to Suze, who was still asleep in the next room and hadn’t caused any problems all week. “It might as well be. It if isn’t one of them, it’s the other. If it’s not that one it’s the third. Or all three of them.”

To be fair, Catherine thought, he has a point. Not all of the nightly visits had been quiet, or easily resolved. More than once, Sams had been in tears. Burt came in on Tuesday night sobbing as if his best friend had died. Will, Jr., was generally quieter, but as Willard’s anger grew, he took to glaring at his father, as if trying to stare him down. Twice, it had been enough for Catherine to traipse down the hall with the wanderer-or wanderers-and go through what had become an established ritual. The other times, it took either Willard or both of them to persuade the boys to return.