Michael R Collings (28 page)

He turned to face Willard.

“At least this house has wide eaves. Probably you won’t have any rain coming directly inside unless the wind is especially strong.”

He paced over to the back wall and knelt beside the break. He crumbled a bit of the concrete between his fingers. Then he took a pencil-like implement, extended it to a couple of feet, and worked it into the crack. Inch after inch of the thin metal disappeared. He wiggled it back and forth. Willard could hear concrete scraping against the metal.

Sai pulled the shaft out and studied it.

“See here,” he said, pointing to a clump of damp brown caught on the end. “The crack extends completely through the foundation slab, more than a foot. This”—indicating the clump—“is soil from beneath the house.”

He ran his hand up and down the back wall.

“Most likely, this wall will continue to pull away from the slab, a bit at a time. The patio out there is slowing the movement a fair amount, but even that is being pushed gradually toward the back of the yard.

“I wouldn’t worry too much though,” he said, facing Willard again. “It will probably take a couple of decades more before the place threatens to collapse.” He shrugged as if to say, wish I could tell you something else, but facts are facts.

“What can we do,” Willard whispered, stunned beyond anger.

“The house is about 1600 square feet, right?”

Willard nodded.

Sai pulled out his calculator and began working it. His fingers flew from key to key,
tap tap tap
, faster than Willard’s eyes could follow. Then Sai made a few notes on his clipboard.

“Okay. First, you’ll need a geologic survey. Figure about $10,000.”

“Didn’t they do a survey when they built….”

“Sure, but surprise, surprise, the original reports for these two subdivisions disappeared years ago. You’ll need a new one.

“Then permits from the city. Considering what has to be done, another couple of thousand.”

“But we don’t….”

Sai continued inexorably. He had long since realized that it was more merciful to get all of the bad news out at once.

“Then you have a choice. The easy way would be to dig a trench, say three feet deep, all around the house. Install pneumatic jacks every three or four feet and gradually raise the house sufficiently to drill horizontally into the existing slab and insert as much rebar as possible. Then force a layer of cement across the top of the slab to fill in the cracks. That will have to cure for a couple of months, probably, then the house can be let back down into almost its original position.

“Of course, that will create a host of new problems inside, which will have to be repaired. Tearing down a fair amount of the drywall, retiling and recarpeting, repainting the whole shebang.”

“How much would that cost?”

“Conservatively, figure seventy-five to a hundred thousand. Plus loss of living space for several months.”

“But…” Willard began to feel as if he were simply a machine stalled on one word. “But….”

“That would be the easiest way, but probably would end up being only a temporary solution. The ground would continue to expand and contract and the slab, still fractured in places no matter how well supported and repaired, would keep shifting.

“Isn’t there a…what’s the
hard
way.”

“Oh, that would cost you may be three, four hundred thousand.”

Willard gulped audibly.”

Sai looked around the room.

“Tear the whole place down, start over, and do the thing right.”

From the
Malibu Times,
15 May 2003:

SMALL TEMBLOR FELT, NO DAMAGE REPORTED

A 3.5 earthquake was reported yesterday, its epicenter five miles off the Malibu coast. Although windows rattled and floors shook slightly, no damage has been reported.

The quake was not an unusual occurrence for this part of the California coastline, since….

The Merricks, June 2006-December 2009

Retreat

1.

Moving’s a real bitch
.

Jack Merrick wiped the sweat from his forehead with his loose shirttail—already sodden in the June heat—hoisted the box from the back of the mid-sized U-haul van onto his shoulder, and began his umpteenth trip up the driveway, into the garage, and from there into the kitchen.

The movers had already taken care of the heavy stuff—refrigerator, washer and dryer, living room furniture, beds, bureaus, dressers, that sort of thing. Most of the rest of the larger pieces had been sold off, anyway, in a massive yard sale just before they left Oregon—the, the boat, the trailer, and the motorcycle. Jack figured that it would be cheaper to buy new things than to move a truckload of this and that, most of which was junk anyway.

That left just the single van, which he had driven to California, accompanied by his younger son Clark, while Ariel and Mark followed in the Saturn. Most of what was in the van was the personal shit that accumulates, even though they had only lived in Oregon for three years, and in two cities during that time. Dishes, pots and pans, clothes, the kids’ toys—Jack had wanted to sell the bicycles but Mark and Clark had raised hell at the suggestion and, good father that he was, he had given in—a few books, Ariel’s sewing supplies, and on and on.

All neatly packed in cardboard boxes.

That now
he
had to lug into the new house.

Ariel tried to help, but her hip was still too sore to bear much more than her own weight, so she was puttering around inside, putting this away here and that away there, emptying boxes in the kitchen and bathrooms.

Mark was making himself useful enough, Jack thought, bringing in some of the smaller boxes and breaking down the empties and stacking them in a corner of the garage. They cost enough, and the family might need them again. Who knew?

Clark was probably sitting on his bed in his room. The cast was due to come off sometime next week, and the kid was pretty good at swinging himself along on the crutches, but he wasn’t worth crap as a worker. Even when he didn’t have a broken leg. Lazy shit. Eleven was old enough to pull his weight—Jack knew that from his own experiences as a kid. A broken leg wouldn’t have been much of an excuse for him back then. The old man would have made him tuck stuff under his arms and swing away, or balance boxes on his head. Clark was lucky to have
him
as a father, rather than Grandpa Merrick.

“Hey! Watch it!”

“Sorry, Dad.” Mark peeped around the corner of the box he was carrying. It was big enough and awkward enough that the kid couldn’t see over it or around it, so he was following the line of the driveway. Came this close to bumping Jack. That wouldn’t do.

“Well, be more careful next time.”

“Okay.”

Jack dropped his burden to the sidewalk and swiped at his forehead again. He watched his son struggle his way into the house, heard him yelling at Ariel, “Mom, where does this go?” Jack couldn’t hear Ariel’s response. She was pretty soft spoke, rarely raised her voice above a whisper. Made for a quiet home, something Jack valued.

He shouldered the box again and made his way into the shade of the garage—it must be ten degrees cooler in there—and then into the house. The air conditioner was running full blast but the place didn’t feel any cooler than the garage. The AC unit sticking up on the roof like a blister was as old as the house itself, nearly twenty years old, Slick Maxwell had said on the final walkthrough yesterday. Maybe they’d have to replace it. Maybe not. Who knew?

Jack continued through the house, down the hallway, around the corner, and on to the back bedroom,
his
room. His
sanctum sanctorum.
The place where he would go when the kids got to be too much, when Ariel got on his nerves and he started to lose it.

The room wasn’t large enough to be a proper
den
, but it would hold a couple of streamlined leather armchairs, his flat screen, his antique liquor cabinet, and the few personal items he carried with him wherever they moved. Mostly mementos from college, a couple of trophies, a football signed by the team the year they went to state and he was voted MVP for the playoff game, that kind of thing. What he needed to make him feel like the man he was…or at least used to be.

He dropped the box and fell into one of the armchairs. He threw his head back against the cool leather and closed his eyes. He’d worked up quite a sweat. It was pleasant to sit back and take a well-earned rest.

“Jack?” Ariel’s voice barely carried the length of the hallway but it was enough to interrupt his short breathing space. “Jack, where did you put the box with the curtains for the living room?”

“How the hell should I know,” he grumbled to himself. “It probably looks just like all the rest.” But he pushed himself out of the chair and headed down the dark hallway. Might as well get this over with. “Coming,” he yelled. “Get me a cold one from the fridge, will ya?”

Yeah, moving sure was a bitch.

2.

The first few months in Tamarind Valley went smoothly, like they always did just after a move.

The new job went like jobs went. Jack was good at what he did and no one ever complained about the results. Which was good, since it made work easy to find wherever they moved.

He took the money they had put away when they got rid of the place in Oregon and bought pretty much the same things he had sold up there. First a camper. Southern California summers were everything the travel brochures promised, and almost from the first the Merricks spent every weekend on the road, traveling to the ocean or the desert or the mountains. It was always good to get away from things, and anyway, the great outdoors was healthy for the kids, wasn’t it? They certainly enjoyed the freedom to wander around from dawn to dusk without having to be shepherded every moment.

They enjoyed the trips even more after Jack bought three off-road motor bikes, one full-sized for him, two used, cut-down models for the boys. Ariel didn’t like bikes, which was just as well. She preferred to spend the time in the camper, reading or napping. Just as well. Saved some money there.

Once Jack found out about Lake Cachuma, a couple of hours to the north, he decided that the family had to have a boat. Something small enough to haul behind the camper but big enough for fishing and water skiing. A week later a trim little craft was parked in half the driveway, safely sheltered by an electric blue tarp.

Yeah, the Merricks were a with-it, mobile family, all right. Jack liked it that way.

The boys settled into their school routines easily when fall came. Slick had pointed out the advantages of having schools near enough that the kids could walk there and back. Be good for them. Build them up. Build character.

There were the occasional rough spots, of course, but Ariel knew well enough how to handle them.

No one questioned Mark’s injured knee. Ariel write a bullshit note about him tumbling down some stairs and bruising it. It got him out of running in P.E., which was all the kid cared about. Ariel only had to drive him and pick him up a couple of days before he could limp his way to school.

Clark stayed home every now and then, but the school seemed to understand that kids that age sometimes just wore themselves out playing and needed an occasional day to recuperate.

And, on the whole, they performed well. Mark’s grades were just above average in most subjects. Clarks dipped below now and again but he always managed to pull them up. Both boys came home with report cards bearing teachers’ notes that indicated the boys were shy and perhaps a bit socially backward—but that came with moving so often, didn’t it? They both excelled in P.E, though, and that counted for something.

After the blazing heat of summer passed, Ariel was more comfortable, too. She had rarely left the house, not even to work in the yard, which was Jack’s self-proclaimed bailiwick. When she did, it was to drive the second-hand Kia Jack bought for her to go to the store and back. Stores were air-conditioned, so no one ever said anything about her long-sleeved shirts or full-length pants.

And everyone in Southern California wore shades in the summer.

On the whole, Jack was satisfied with life on Oleander Place. Since they were on the end of the street and, in spite of what he might tell Ariel, he only infrequently actually worked in the front yard—mowing and a bit of weeding now and then—they made few close friends among the neighbors.

That was all right. Jack liked his family to be self-sufficient.

3.

By the beginning of June, 2009, however, Jack was getting a bit worried. He knew the signs well enough.

Then it happened.

For once, he was glad that what seemed like every kid in the neighborhood was hanging around their back yard. For some reason, a bunch of boys had tagged home with Mark after school on Friday, and Ariel had let them stay to play. She had whipped up some lemonade, even though she knew that Jack would disapprove. When Mark lost his handhold on one of the top branches in the disease-ravaged elm in the corner, and the branch beneath gave way under his weight, there must have been ten kids standing around.

Great.

Witnesses.

This time, when he took Mark into the ER at Oak Glen Hospital, none of those goddamn know-it-alls would look at him that way. This time, he had witnesses that would swear that he hadn’t laid a hand on the kid, that he wasn’t even in the yard when it happened.

He was, in fact, sitting in the recently converted garage that now served as a family room, watching a replay of a Lakers’ game on the tube, drinking a cool one and wondering if this was the summer that he would finally break down and get rid of the old thirty-six incher and go for broke and buy a window-sized flat screen. The Lakers were even ahead for a change when he heard Mark’s piercing shriek.

Shit, it would have to happen right now—whatever the hell was going on out there. Right in the middle of a game. And with Ariel out gallivanting somewhere, God knows where that woman gets to even though she always claimed it is only to Albertsons or Sav-on, so he would have to take care of whatever was wrong. Probably just a squabble among the brats and Mark had lost. Jack got up and hitched his pants to his waist and made his way through the kitchen—not too fast, don’t let the kid think he can control you, even if he is still screaming bloody murder.

But even Jack knew with one glance that there was more wrong here than just a backyard fight. The bone stuck maybe an inch through Mark’s forearm, white and gleaming and stained with red. The boy was on his feet, but wobbly and white and looking like shit warmed over.

Okay, hospital time.

By the time Jack had buckled in and cranked the ignition, Mark was seated on the passenger side. Jack had grabbed a towel in the kitchen as they rushed through and wrapped it around Mark’s arm, so there shouldn’t be any blood on the seat.

“Hang on, kid.”

Mark didn’t answer. Jack glanced over. The kid’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was sweating like a pig.

Jack floored the accelerator.

He knew the way to Oak Glen, so it wasn’t more than a few minutes before they screeched to a halt outside the ER. An attendant was right there with a wheelchair, and Mark disappeared into the urgent-care rooms before Jack had time to follow.

When he got to the admissions desk, the receptionist glanced up. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.

“Mr. Merrick?”

“Yeah, it’s my son.”

“Mark or Clark.”

“Mark. He fell out of a tree. Broke his arm.”

She nodded. “We’ve got him inside. You can go on back when you finish signing this.” She slid a form toward him.

“Yeah, him and a bunch of kids were playing out back and Mark fell. I was watching TV.”

She nodded again but still didn’t speak.

“A Lakers’ game.”

He slid the paper back to her.

She barely glanced at it. “Go on back. You know the way.”

He was told which examining room they had taken Mark to. When he entered, there was Mark, laying back on the bed, eyes still closed and breathing heavily. The doctor was there—what was his name, Raja-badda-bing-bang or something foreign like that. They always seemed to be foreign any more. Like the hospital couldn’t afford to hire a good old American doc. And there was another person, a grim-looking heavy-set woman in a business suit standing just inside the door.

Jack crossed the room and laid one hand on Mark’s other arm.

“How’s he doing.”

“Compound fracture. But you probably guessed that. Doesn’t look terribly serious but we’ll have to keep him here at least over night to stitch him up and set the arm. Then keep him under observation. Infection, you know.”

At least they got the one that was fairly easy to understand, Jack thought. Spoke decent English.

The doctor had not looked up but kept his attention riveted on what he was doing.

“He fell out of a tree,” Jack said. “Bunch of kids were out back playing in the tree. He fell.” Jack ended weakly. He’d already said that. Enough.

The doctor shook his head slightly, up and down just sufficiently to indicate that he’d heard but not enough to invite further discussion.

“Mark?” the doctor said. “How does it feel now. I’ve given you a shot that should help.”

The boy still kept his eyes closed. “Okay, I guess. Numb now.”

“Mark, what happened?”

“I just told…,” Jack began.

The doctor held up one hand. Jack shut up.

“What happened?”

“I was up in the top of the old tree and slipped. Fell onto another branch. It broke and I fell all the way down. It hurt.”

“Mr. Merrick?” The voice came from behind Jack.

He stood and turned to face the woman. Hatchet-faced old broad.

“Would you step out into the hall with me, please?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Please step outside, Mr. Merrick. We can talk more freely there.”

Jack patted Mark’s good arm, then stalked out of the room.