"She's a real estate agent. And she was trying to sell us the house.
What did you expect, honesty?"
"Silly me."
People came in waves after that. There would be ten minutes with no activity, then suddenly four cars would arrive at once and the driveway would be overrun with parents, children, and single adults all searching through different boxes for different things.
As the crowds thinned and the furniture began to be loaded onto pickups and hauled away, Maureen went inside, leaving Barry to handle things alone.
It was during one of the slow times that a burly older man walked up and started sorting through a box of odds and ends. Friendly looking, with a ruddy face, thick white mustache, and round wire-framed granny glasses, he did not seem to be particularly interested in the few leftover items for sale, and after a quick cursory glance at the box's contents, he wandered over to Barry's table. "Howdy," he said. "You just move in?"
"Last weekend," Barry told him.
The man smiled. "Had a visit from the association yet?"
Barry nodded wearily. "Yeah."
The man laughed, held out his hand. "I'm your neighbor. Ray Dyson.
Sworn enemy of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association."
"My name's Barry. Barry Welch." He shook the proffered hand.
Two cars pulled up on the street and parked. Three elderly women emerged from one, a tired-looking man with a scrawny overalled boy got out of the other.
Barry turned his attention back to his new neighbor. "So you're not a fan of the association either, huh?"
"To put it mildly."
"Thank God. At least I'm not all alone here."
"Oh, hell no. There are quite a few people who have run afoul of those assholes. Most of 'emare too intimidated to say anything, but they're with you in spirit. I can tell you that much."
"Most of the people today have seemed nice," Barry admitted.
"Oh, they're not from Bonita Vista. They're from town. You're not going to get anyone from Bonita Vista brave enough to buck the rules and actually attend a yard sale." He chuckled. "Except me."
Barry looked out at the two cars. "But how did they get through the gate?"
"Someone broke the gate last night. It's open now until they get it repaired. Happens every month or so. Some contractor or roofer who's working on a job here forgets the entry code, gets ticked off, and rams the gate." Ray nodded at his fellow garagesalers . "That's the only reason they're here. If everything was normal and the gate wasn't busted, you would've come out here today and waited and waited and not a damn person would've shown up."
"Except you."
"Except me."
Barry sighed. "We just got here. We haven't even finished unpacking.
I don't want to tick anybody off just yet. Maybe we should just lay low for a while, try to get on the association's good side and hope they don't bother us."
"The association's good side?" Ray chuckled. "No such thing. And these bastards are so used to having things their way that they don't even pretend to be nice. The problem is, the courts always take their part. I threatened to sue once, and I found out that no one would take my case because I had no legal grounds. It seems unconstitutional to me, but apparently homeowners' associations have the right to make you pay dues, to make you conform to their standards, to trespass on your property in order to ensure compliance. They can require you to join and force you to abide by their rules even if it's against your will.
That's especially ironic since we're in what they call a 'right to work' state. Which means that even if you work in a union shop, you can't be compelled to join the union. Exactly the opposite of the situation here." Ray leaned forward. "In case you can't tell, I'm an old union man." "Where are you from?" Barry asked. "I mean, originally. I assume you're not from Corban ."
"New Jersey. I'm a retired transit worker. We moved out west because of my asthma. Besides, my wife has family in Salt Lake City."
"But you like it here, right? I mean, overall?"
Ray shrugged. "Sure, I guess. The scenery's beautiful, we have four seasons a year, I live in a great house, and I've met a lot of nice people, made a lot of friends. It's a wonderful place to retire."
"But?"
"But the association is way too intrusive, and it's such a... pervasive influence here. I blame the board. The association's board of directors is made up of old busybodies with no hobbies and no lives who get their jollies harassing people and snooping around to make sure everyone's conforming." He nodded at Barry. "Who'd they send after you? Who came out this morning?"
"I don't know. The guy introduced himself, but I forgot his name."
"Youngish? Short hair? Serious face? Prissy?"
"Sounds like him."
Ray nodded. "Campbell. He's fairly new, just moved in last year, but already he's their little toadie Hopes to be elected to the board once one of those geezers croaks."
"If the association's so bad, why don't people elect some new board members? Or just disband the organization entirely?"
"Maybe I gave you the wrong impression. Don't get me wrong, there are people like me who don't like them. But we're very definitely in the minority. Most of the homeowners here love having an association. They want to live in a gated community where there are strict maintenance standards and everyone's forced to keep up their property values." He smiled. "Welcome to Bonita Vista."
"Great."
Ray laughed. "So what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a writer," Barry said.
The thick eyebrows shot up. "Really?"
"I write horror novels. You know, like Stephen King."
"Stephen King, huh?"
"Well... not exactly. I say that so people will understand the type of books I write. I used to just say 'horror' and leave it at that, but people were introducing me as their friend the science-fiction writer or their friend the mystery writer, and I don't write science fiction or mysteries. The Stephen King comparison seemed to clear that up."
Ray shook his head. "A writer. That's pretty exciting. I don't think I've ever met a real writer before. Where can I get your books?"
"Around here?" Barry chuckled. "I doubt if you can. But they're at most of the big chains. I'll give you a copy of the newest one next time I see you."
"Autographed?"
"Sure."
Ray leaned forward. "You know, this might work in your favor. I'll spread the news, play up the fact that you're a big-name celebrity, a rich and famous writer. It might intimidate the board into leaving you alone."
"You think so?"
"Can't hurt."
Barry nodded. "Feel free to lie. You can tell them I am Stephen King, if you want to. Anything to keep them off my back."
"No guarantees, but I'll spread the word."
Two new cars pulled up, twin families emerging from the four-doored vehicles. One of the elderly women who'd been looking through the displayed junk stepped up to Barry's table with a vase and a set of place mats in hand, and Ray waved good-bye as Barry tallied up the woman's total. "I'll stop by later in the week," Ray said, "once you guys've gotten settled."
"Nice to meet you, Ray." Barry waved, then turned his attention back to his customer.
It arrived in their mailbox the next day. The Bonita Vista Homeowners'
Association Declaration of Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions--the promised C, C, and Rs . Thicker than the Corban phone book, it was a perfect bound document filled with nearly a hundred single-spaced pages of text, all written in dense legalese. Barry sat down, tried to read it, got through about half a page, then tossed the booklet over to Maureen. "Here you go. Some light reading material."
She glanced through a few pages, then threw it onto one of the unpacked boxes. "It looks pretty thorough," she said.
"I assume that means that loopholes will be hard to come by."
"Then thank God I'm a rich and famous writer who will be treated with deference and respect and won't
be bound by the petty rules of mortals."
She laughed. "Dream on."
"I think that's a song cue!" He rushed over to the stereo and quickly put on an old Aerosmith album. Turning up the volume, he held out his hands, and soon they were dancing through the living room, weaving between the boxes and twirling around the furniture to the music of their adolescence.
The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article III, Land Use Classifications, Permitted Uses and Restrictions, Section 3, Paragraph A:
No yard sales or garage sales may be conducted in, on, or from any Lot or any portion of the Properties.
Maureen was not sure she liked Bonita Vista.
It was not something she would ever admit to Barry. And it wasn't a strong feeling or a definite mind-set. It was more a vague recognition that perhaps her impression of the neighborhood wasn't as favorable as she'd expected it to be.
Part of it was the snotty letter they'd received from the homeowners'
association about their garage sale. Written in a formal yet clearly judgmental manner, it stated that they were in violation of the C, C, and Rs , which plainly declared that yard sales or garage sales were forbidden. The letter went on to say that they would be excused this time because of their ignorance of Bonita Vista rules and regulations, but in the future any such infraction would be punishable by a fine.
The letter wasn't all of it, though. Not even most of it. There was something else.
Only she didn't know what Outwardly, everything was fine. The few people she'd seen walking or jogging along the road seemed to be nice, the area was beautiful, and despite all of the work that remained to be done, she loved their house.
Except... Except those elements didn't gel the way they were supposed to. The nice neighbors, the beautiful environment, the perfect house, all of these were separate components, isolated attributes that were entirely unconnected.
And the whole was less than the sum of its parts.
But she refused to acknowledge any of this to Barry. She did not want to dampen his obvious pleasure with her unfounded impressions.
Besides, the feelings would probably pass.
They spent the next few weeks working on the house: repainting, wallpapering, transforming the dead dark space of their predecessors into a light, airy home that complemented their own furniture and did justice to the magnificent surroundings outside the generous windows.
They ripped out what paneling they could, papered over the rest, replaced the heavy brown drapes with white miniblinds , and pulled up the stained and rotted carpet in the bathrooms, sanding and buffing the hardwood floors underneath. Maureen had brought most of their house plants from California, even the ones she knew wouldn't survive the winter, and once the palms and ficuses were in place, once the spider ferns and hanging baskets were positioned in the corners and near the windows of the various rooms, the house looked 100 percent better.
It was Barry who discovered the sealed envelope in the master bedroom.
He was in the process of painting the inside of the closet and was dusting off the top shelf before applying his brush to it when he suddenly stopped and said, "What's this?"
Maureen looked over from where she'd been painting the window frame next to the bed. "What?"
He walked over, carrying a sealed business-size envelope. It was covered with a layer of dust and addressed to "New Homeowners." She took it from his hand. There was definitely something inside, a document or letter, and she held it up to the window, trying to see if the backlight would illuminate the envelope's contents.
"What do you think we should do?" he asked.
"I don't know. You think this was meant for us?"
Barry shrugged. "We are the new homeowners. Although this thing definitely looks like it's been sitting around for a while."
"Let's open it." She ripped one end of the envelope and used a fingernail to pry open the stubborn paper. Inside was a note on plain white stationery, black ink in a man's sloppy, hurried hand.
We are not leaving voluntarily, the note said. You need to know that.
We are being forced out of our home. It could happen to you, too. For your own protection, write down EVERYTHING!! Names, dates, witnesses.
They're doing it, they're keeping track of all of it. Don't think they aren't. You'd better, too.
Don't let them see this letter. Burn it after you read it.
The note was neither signed nor dated, and Maureen looked up at Barry as she finished reading the message. It was confusing and didn't make a whole lot of sense, but the obviously earnest and paranoid tone gave it urgency and immediacy despite the layer of dust on the outside of the envelope. The feeling within her was one of unease. "What is this?"
Barry shook his head, baffled. "I don't know."
"I don't think it was meant for us. It's obviously been sitting up there for a long time."
"Maybe kids left it. You know, when we were little, my sister and I
buried a fake treasure map before we left Napa, hoping that whoever dug it up later would think it was real and try to search for the treasure.
Maybe this is something like that. A prank."
"Maybe," she said doubtfully.
"Well, what do you think it is?"
"I have no idea. But it seems totally serious to me. I don't mean that we should take it seriously, but it seems like whoever wrote it was dead serious and was trying to get across what he thought was important information."
Barry took the note from her, glanced over it again. "What do you think we should do with it?"
"Throw it away," Maureen told him. She knew it was stupid, knew it was superstitious, but the idea of having that scribbled warning sitting in their house spooked her a little. "It's old, and it's not even ours.
There's no reason to keep it."
Barry nodded. "Yeah. You're right." He wadded up the envelope and note and tossed them both into the plastic garbage sack in the middle of the floor.
"Weird," he said, walking back to the closet. "Very weird."
Other than that, the remodeling proceeded smoothly. The combination of high altitude and manual labor tired them out and led them to bed each night well before their usual time of eleven, but their days were full, they got a lot of work done, and gradually the house began to take shape.
Outside, they cleared brush, trimmed dead branches off the trees, and planted flowers and shrubs that Maureen bought at Corban's only nursery, a mom-and-pop operation adjacent to the Shell station. Under the lower deck, Barry found not only a working wheelbarrow but part of an antique plow, which Maureen strategically placed in the patch of dirt next to the driveway in order to give the front of the house a more rustic look.
It was their third Friday in their new home, and they'd been working on the sloping section of the lot on the north side of the house and were returning from one of their numerous trips to the dump when Ray Dyson flagged them down. The old man was walking down the hill as part of his afternoon constitutional, and Barry slowed the Suburban, rolling down his window. "Hey, Ray."
The old man nodded. "Barry. Maureen. I was wondering if you two would like to come by for dinner tonight. Liz and I would love to have you."
Barry looked over at Maureen, who glanced down at her filthy clothes, at the work gloves she'd tossed on the floor. She shook her head.
Barry smiled. "I don't think so. Some other time maybe."
"Come on. It's not anything formal. Hell, come as you are and wash your hands in our sink if you want. There's no standing on ceremony with us. It's just that Liz is making a batch of her spaghetti sauce, and we thought it'd be nice to have you guys over." He looked at Maureen through the open space between Barry and the steering wheel.
"Save you from having to cook tonight. No work, no dirty dishes afterward. Come on. It'll be fun."
That did sound tempting, she had to admit, and when Barry looked back at her once again, she nodded. "All right."
"Great! What time can we expect you?"
"What time do you want us?"
"Six?"
Barry nodded. "Sounds good."
"You know which house is ours, right? The redwood one you can see from your driveway. Twelve-twelve Ridge Road. Number's on the mailbox."
"We'll find it."
"See you at six, then." Ray nodded to them, waved, and continued his walk down the hill.
Barry had been planning to start on a stump that needed to be dug out, but the afternoon was getting late and they were both tired, so they went inside to clean up. Maureen took a bath in the downstairs bathroom while he took a shower upstairs. He finished well before she did, and when Maureen emerged dressed and refreshed, she found him lying on the couch dead asleep, CNN blaring loudly on the television.
She quietly grabbed a few magazines from the coffee table and went upstairs to read on the deck, letting him rest.
They left the house at quarter to six. Barry had wanted to drive, but there was the beginning of a beautiful sunset, and Ray's house was close, less than a block away. "You have to get out of that California mind-set," she told him. "There's no reason to drive everywhere. Especially on a gorgeous day like today." She motioned west, toward pink clouds that ringed the setting sun.
"You're right," Barry admitted. "Habit."
Even after all of their yard work the past week, both she and Barry were pitifully out of shape, and they were huffing and puffing as they walked up the hill to Ray's house. They slowed the pace for the last couple of yards, trying to catch their breath, and finally stopped to rest at the edge of the Dysons’ gravel driveway.
"Jesus," Barry said. "This altitude's a killer."
Maureen took his hand, pulled him forward. "Come on. My throat's dried out. The sooner we get in there, the sooner we can get something to drink."
Ray had stopped by a couple of times to chat while they were working in the yard, but this was the first opportunity for either of them to meet his wife. Liz Dyson was a petite elderly woman with a sophisticated demeanor who seemed an odd fit with the earthier Ray, but after only a few minutes with the couple, Maureen could see how the two complemented each other, and she thought them a good match.
The Association Page 3
