The Slab

by Michael R Collings

  Willard was livid by now, almost unable to speak. He kicked savagely at the leaning shovel. The fence shivered threateningly as the impact vibrated through the handle.

  “Those bastards! I knew that something…” He took a deep breath. “But aren’t there inspections before sales, don’t houses have to meet some kind of standards? Aren’t there disclosure laws?”

  “Can you show me your contract?”

  By the way Sai asked, Willard knew that worse was coming.

  4

  Five minutes later they were sitting in the living room. Catherine had just returned from the master bedroom, where they kept important papers in a small lockbox tucked away at the top of their closet.

  She settled herself next to Willard on the couch. Sai faced them in the matching armchair.

  Without speaking, she handed the sheaf of legal-sized papers over to Sai.

  He shuffled through them, muttering here and there as if keeping tabs on what he had seen and what he had not. He was apparently looking for a particular sheet.

  “Ah,” he said finally. The silence had begun to grate uncomfortably on both Catherine and Willard. They could hear the kids playing quietly in the family room. No interruptions. Thanks for that, at least.

  “Here we are.” He leaned across to hand the papers to Willard. He had folded the top sheets back and under at the place he had been looking for, and indicated a short paragraph which his finger. “Read that.”

  It was only a line or two on the inspector’s report.

  Willard read it aloud: “Structure shows signs of some foundation issues, notably minor cracking of the external surfaces and additional soil at the base, above anticipated grade level.”

  He looked at Catherine. She looked back. They both shook their heads and shrugged, nonplussed.

  “What does that mean?” Catherine handed the papers back to Sai. “Sure, we saw a couple of small cracks here and here outside, especially at the corners of the windows, but isn’t that common with stucco houses?”

  “Yes, it is. But that is not what this sentence is talking about. What you have here is realtor-speak for ‘Beware-there’s something wrong with the foundation, otherwise the current owners would not have gone to the expense of hauling in dirt and hiding the base.’”

  “It doesn’t say a word about…!” Willard was on his feet.

  “Sit down, Mr. Huntley. Please.” Sai leaned back in his armchair and looked sympathetically at the pair. “You’re right. It doesn’t. But what it does say is sufficient in a court of law to indicate that there were fundamental problems with the slab. I’ve seen this sentence-or others like it-on enough contracts here in the Valley to recognize legalese that basically says ‘You haven’t got a leg to stand on. You were warned.’”

  “But we didn’t even see that!” Willard was standing again, gesturing angrily as if he wanted to strike out at someone-Sai, since there was no one else available.

  “You initialed the bottom of the page,” Sai said quietly.

  That stopped Willard for a second. He examined the paper again. When he spoke his voice was cold, his rage under control for the moment but waiting to explode.

  “When we signed the papers,” he said carefully, biting off each word, “they took us through them so quick that we didn’t get a chance to read everything. And Chuck said…”

  “Chuck?”

  “Chuck Maxwell, the real estate agent.” Willard’s teeth were clenched now, his body perfectly rigid.

  “He offered to accompany us to the signing. To help us if there was anything…” Catherine fell silent.

  She understood now.

  “Maxwell.” It was a low murmur, redolent with emotion.

  Sai shook his head sadly. “Even so, everything done was-from the court’s point of view-legal. Punctiliously so.” He seemed to enjoy the word. He had probably used it before in just this context.

  He let the Huntleys have a couple of moments before he spoke again.

  “I would venture to guess that you’ve seen more than just the foundation problem.”

  Willard looked startled, shaken from an angry reverie.

  “Uh, yeah. You could say that.”

  He stalked to the sliding doors that led to the patio and jerked back the carpet and padding, not difficult to do since there was no longer any tack-strip holding them down. He pointed to the break.

  “This goes from the far corner of the kitchen all the way along the back of the house.”

  He gestured widely with one hand.

  “There are cracks in nearly every joining-walls, ceilings, floor.” He motioned for Sai to follow.

  “You can see where the slab’s broken under the tiles here in the entry way.” Sai nodded. Willard did not give him time to respond any other way.

  “But here’s the best. Oh yes, here’s the really fun part.” He laughed bitterly as he led Sai down the hall. Catherine did not follow. She went into the family room to be with the children. She could hear small sounds of discomfort coming from them. They had heard their daddy’s tone of voice before, and they did not like it.

  5

  They stood in the doorway of the back bedroom, Willard fuming and speechless, Sai calm and dispassionate.

  Willard didn’t need to say anything.

  It was all there. The sinuous crack nearly bisecting the room, disappearing beneath the baseboard with the clear intention of continuing on into Suze’s bedroom and, who knew, on from there into the master bedroom.

  The rough fissure fully exposed along the back wall, inches wide and black as hell, who knew how deep.

  The odor, even though faint, still cloying and oppressive five full days after the spill. Suggestive of rot and decay and suppuration, suggestive of many things but not of sewage.

  Sai merely stood there, impassive.

  When he finally spoke, it was with a certain amount of sympathy in his voice. “I’ve see this before. House after house. There’s one place in Sunset Hills where the living room floor is so displaced along one side that there is a four-inch differential. It’s like the owners have half a sunken room. They are one of the unlucky ones. It didn’t slip that much until after the insurance deadline passed.”

  Willard stared at him, speechless.

  “I would guess that the side wall here probably shifts as much as a couple of inches between winter and summer.” He studied the line where ceiling and wall met. “See there, in the closet, where the new plaster is already cracking. You’ll probably have that in all three rooms along this wall. On family with a problem like this told me that in the summer, they can see stars between the wall and the ceiling.”

  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…

  Chapter Ten

  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.