part of the afternoon.
Maybe a quick visit to a park, if it proved warm enough. Or a surprise early dinner at Carl’s Jr. or Burger King. The boys would love a kids’ meal, complete with toy treat. It was an inconvenience to have to stay away so long, Willard thought, but better that than the alternative. Better that than the unending colonies of roaches that seemed suddenly to have infested their house.
Squaring his shoulders and sternly reminding himself to ignore the increasing odor emanating from the hamster cages-now accented by a hauntingly similar odor from Sams-Willard drove away.
7
By eight thirty that night, the house had returned to a semblance of order. The padding and carpet had been folded back in place, minus the splinters of tackless carpet strips. Willard wasn’t too happy with the slightly rumpled texture the carpet had taken on near the baseboards, but there was little he could do about that. And a few ripples were the least of his problems at the moment.
He stood up and surveyed the carpet, then turned away and began staring at the walls and ceiling, probing in the cracks along the interior baseboards.
“What are you looking for?” Catherine said as she came in from the bedrooms. She sounded worried, as if she were afraid that their attempts to eradicate the roaches had failed. “Are there any more…?”
“No,” Willard said. “No sign of wildlife.” He grinned, trying to lessen Catherine’s lingering horror over the experience.
She grimaced.
“No, I’m just curious.” He pushed the thin blade of a small screwdriver into the back corner, along the juncture of the rear wall and the common wall between the living room and the back bedroom. The plaster resisted for a moment, then the blade disappeared.
“Shit,” Willard muttered as his knuckles scraped abruptly against the plaster.
“What’s wrong?”
“Look.”
He sliced downward with the screwdriver-the blade slit through the plaster as neatly as if it were warm butter. He gestured to the dark opening.
“I’ll bet this whole damn back wall’s separated from the house. The gap’s been plastered over and painted.”
“Willard,” Catherine said sharply. “The children might not be asleep. I don’t want them to hear that kind of…”
But he wasn’t listening. He was already in the kitchen, rummaging through the utility drawer until he came up with a small hand flashlight. He carried it through the living room, knelt in the entry hall, and began examining the shiny Solarium tiles.
“Look,” he said after a few moments. He held the light at a sharp angle to the floor. Small as it was, the bulb was sufficient to cast hairline shadows that zigzagged faintly but definitely from wall to wall across the entryway. “See that.” He pointed with his free hand to the shadows.
“What is it?”
“Another crack. In the foundation slab.” He rose to his feet with a grunt and disappeared into the hallway, the flashlight throwing a faintly orange glow in front of him.
It took less than half an hour to discover that the house-walls and slab alike-seemed laced with cracks, major and minor, each of them carefully retouched with plaster and then artfully repainted to disguise the flaws. The worst of them seemed to be in the northwest corner of the master bedroom, where the plaster split the entire length of the juncture of the two outside walls-another hairline crack, so fine as to be virtually invisible unless one searched for it. In addition, the line separating wall from white popcorn-textured ceiling was ragged and rough.
Obviously the entire side wall of the house was shifting
The more he discovered, the angrier Willard became.
Curiously, he was not so much distressed at the fact of the structural flaws as at the equally obvious fact that the previous owners had clearly known about them and had done everything in their power to hide them. Fresh paint, new coats of texturing, re-plastering in strategic corners, new tiles on the entryway floor-all with the express purpose of hiding the serious problems in the house. Without a word, he stalked back through the house to the wall phone in the kitchen and began ruffling angrily through the phone
“Ma…Mar…Mat…Max-here it is,” he said, more to himself than to Catherine. “Maxwell, William. Realtor.” He punched the numbers, allowing his growing fury to communicate itself through his fingers. He tapped on the receiver as the phone rang once, twice, three times.
“Maxwell.” The voice on the other end sounded confident, sure of itself. Willard recognized it immediately, remembering the ease with which Maxwell had worked the deal for the house. I wonder how much he got from the scam, Willard thought, even as he was speaking.
“Mr. Maxwell, this is Willard Huntley.”
“Sure, Will. How’s the new homeowner?”
Faced with the easy assurance in the voice, Willard suddenly found himself stalled for words. He was still angry-furious and upset-but he wasn’t quite sure how to begin. “Well,” he said after a long pause, “actually that’s what I’m calling about.”
There was another long pause. He was half waiting for Maxwell to ask for particulars, but the silence on the other end of the line remained deafening.
“I, uh…I’ve found some problems.”
“Yes?”
Apparently Maxwell wasn’t going to make things any easier.
“Well,” Willard took a deep breath. “The walls and foundation seem to be cracked to hell and gone, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”
There, it was out. He felt better already. After all, there were such things as local ordinances, required inspections, things like that.
“Me?” Maxwell sounded honestly surprised. “What makes you think that I can do anything?”
“Well, you helped us with the house. You must know how to begin…”
“Begin what?”
”For starters, I want the previous owners…”
“The Merricks,” Maxwell added, as if he were trying to be as helpful as possible.
“The Merricks,” Willard repeated, nodding as if Maxwell could see him. “Anyway, I want to know how we can get the Merricks to make good on the problems. We haven’t even been in here a year yet-hell, we haven’t been in here more than a couple of months, and already the place is falling apart.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Catherine whispered.
“And besides,” Willard added, her presence reminding him of the immediate cause of their problems. “Besides, the place is overrun with roaches.”
“Sorry to hear that, Willard,” Maxwell said, “but there’s really nothing I can do about the problems. There was a clearly stated ‘as is’ clause in the contract, remember?”
Willard was stunned. He searched his mind but could dredge up no mention of any such thing.
“Just a minute,” Maxwell said, his voice ebbing gradually, replaced by the sound of shuffling papers. “I’ve got a copy here somewhere,” he continued, again speaking more to himself than to Willard. “Yeah, here it is.” He fell silent, except for a murmur as he scanned the contract sheets. “Right, here it is. Page seven of the original contract. ‘Summary of county inspection, specifying items anomalous to original construction, accepted and countersigned by purchaser(s).’ A couple of other items, but the gist is that any such problems become the responsibility of the new owners.
“That’s you.”
Willard opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. “But…but,” he finally sputtered. “But I
