The decentralization of government that people have been fighting for for years? We have it."
"I'm a liberal Democrat," Ray said. "I like big government."
Neil punched him again.
The patina of politeness, the attempt to convert through persuasive argument, was gone, and Neil's voice was annoyed and angry. "You're a slow learner, Ray, and we're not going to put up with this forever. Get with the program. We're here today as a courtesy call, to give you some friendly advice before you really get yourself into trouble."
Ray could not breathe, but he managed to croak out a message of defiance: "Fuck you!"
Chuck kicked him in the shins, Terry punched the back of his neck.
Without the support of their hands, he crumpled to the ground, gasping.
Neil said something he did not catch, and then all three of them were walking away, back up the driveway toward the road. He tried to stand up, and was only able to do so by balancing himself against the doorjamb. He ached all over. They'd hurt him, he realized, in a way that would not show, and even if there were some law enforcement agency he could go to, there was nothing he'd be able to prove. He was filled with a deep furious desire for revenge, but it was tempered by fear, by the more realistic assessment that these people were willing to go to any lengths to achieve their ends.
Their ploy had worked, Ray realized.
He had not been afraid before.
Now he was.
He was grateful at least that he had shown no fear, that he had been able to keep up his defiant bravado in front of those assholes, and he moved slowly and painfully back into the house, locking the door behind him and limping into the living room. He sat down hard on the couch, still trying to catch his breath.
A few moments later, Liz emerged from the bathroom. "Did someone stop by? I thought I heard voices."
Ray shook his head. "No," he said. He tried to smile. "It was just the TV."
The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article III, Land Use Classifications, Permitted Uses and Restrictions, Section 3, Paragraph L:
Any member of the Architectural Committee, any member of the Board, or any authorized representative of such, shall have the right to enter upon and inspect any Lot within the Properties for the purpose of ascertaining whether or not the provisions of this Declaration have been or are being complied with, and such persons shall not be deemed guilty of trespass by reason of such entry.
Whatever it was that had initially turned her off to Bonita Vista seemed to have finally and completely died with Deke Meldrum . Maureen pulled the hose around the right front tire of the Suburban as she watered the replanted irises. She looked out at the road, looked up at the sky. She no longer had any reservations about being here, and contrary to expectations, she found that she liked living in a gated community, enjoyed the security such an extra layer of protection provided. She felt safe--not because they were in rural Utah, away from the smog and the gangs and the high crime rate of the major metropolitan areas, but because they were living in Bonita Vista, an enclosed world, a hermetically sealed environment, shielded against all that lay outside. Her reservations had been turned on their head, and what she had originally thought of as drawbacks now seemed like attributes.
Barry said that it was her "accountant side" coming out, and though he'd meant it as a joke, perhaps there was some truth to that. She was neater than he was, more fastidious and methodical, more concerned with order and organization. It was a trait common to those who enjoyed working with numbers, just as comfort with chaos and disorganization seemed to be de rigueur for liberal arts people like Barry, and she had to admit that there was something reassuring about living in well-regulated surroundings.
Usually, she was big on first impressions. And as old fashioned and superstitious as it sounded, she was a firm believer in "women's intuition." Or at least her own intuition. She trusted her gut instincts, and it was rare that she changed her mind once an opinion had been formed.
But change her mind she had, and it was Meldrum's death that had been the catalyst. It was as if he'd been the conduit for the negativity she'd had toward this place. And with his sacrifice, all of that had disappeared.
His sacrifice?
She didn't know where that had come from, but she didn't want to think about it. That was a remnant of those disgraced first impressions, a holdover from before, and she refused to acknowledge that it had any validity. There was nothing untoward about Bonita Vista, and neither the neighborhood nor the homeowners' association had anything to do with that lunatic's death. It was an accident, pure and simple.
Barry walked out of the house, sipping Dr. Pepper from the battered plastic Batman cup that had been his sole contribution to their kitchen supplies. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Watering."
"No, I mean after that. Are you busy?"
"Not really. Why?"
"I thought we could check out the tennis courts, get in a little exercise. We're paying for those courts with our association dues. We should at least get our money's worth."
It had been a long time since they'd played tennis. In the early days, when they were dating, when they were poor, they spent many a Saturday afternoon on the courts of the high school next to her old apartment.
Neither of them were particularly athletic, however, and time and inclination had led them away from outdoor recreation. But playing tennis again sounded like fun, and she nodded enthusiastically. "Let's do it."
"All right, then."
"Do you know where the rackets are?"
"I put them in one of the garage boxes we have in storage. I'll cruise down and pick them up while you finish your watering."
"Okay." She smiled and pulled on the hose as she moved to the next group of plants. "Prepare to meet your doom."
"You never beat me once," he reminded her. "And I don't think ten years of inactivity have improved your tennis skills."
"Famous last words," she said. "Famous last words."
She finished watering, and after Barry returned with the rackets and a can of balls, they walked down to the tennis courts. Located near the entrance of Bonita Vista, the better to impress outsiders and passersby, the twin courts were perfectly maintained and surrounded by a high green chain-link fence meant to prevent balls from flying into the forest and to keep out nonresidents. Inappropriately large stadium lights were mounted on streetlamp-sized poles in order to illuminate the courts at night and allow evening play.
They stepped up to the gate. An electronic lock with a small keypad was mounted above the latch.
"Guess we should've read our handbook before coming down here," Barry said derisively. He handed Maureen the can of balls and bent forward to look at the metal square. "There aren't any instructions." He punched in the entry code for the community gate, but there was no response.
"Try our address," Maureen suggested. "Or our lot number."
The lot number did the trick, and the framed chain-link rectangle swung smoothly open.
"Keeping track of who uses it," Barry said. "Nice."
Maureen laughed. "You're as paranoid as Ray." She walked onto the green court, felt a slight give beneath her feet as she headed toward the net. It was a far cry from the faded lines on concrete that had defined the school court on which they used to play, and she was impressed that Bonita Vista had such a professional, state-of-the-art facility.
She touched the taut net and walked around it to the other side.
"Didn't Mike and Tina say that they played tennis?"
Barry nodded. "Yeah."
"Maybe if we practice up a bit, we could play doubles with them."
"Sure. In a year or two."
"Speak for yourself." Maureen threw up a ball and hit it over the net to him. He returned the ball, but that was the end of their volley.
She missed, swinging against air, and the ball bounced harmlessly, dead ending at the fence. For the next several minut
es, they took turns serving and missing, managing only an occasional return.
"Still think we're good enough to play the Stewarts?" Barry called.
"Let's get into it, writer boy. Four out of seven. You serve first."
They started playing. An actual game, not just random volleys. She noticed that he kept looking away from the court, out into the forest behind them, that he kept peering through the chain-link fence into the underbrush each time he picked up a ball. "Looking for Stumpy?" she teased him.
He glanced up quickly, guiltily, as though she'd read his mind, and it was obvious that she'd hit the nail on the head.
She'd been joking, of course, but she should've known better. Although he hadn't said much about Stumpy since that first day, she should have figured out that he'd be ohses sing about it. A deformed man living in the wilds? That was right up his alley, and no doubt he'd conjured up some outrageous scenarios involving under house crawl spaces and perverse voyeurism, and pets that had been stolen and eaten.
The truth, as she understood it, was not nearly so melodramatic. The limbless man was not malevolent but harmless. Almost everyone seemed to have a Stumpy story, and most of them were pretty damn funny. Barry was right; it was sad that someone actually lived like that in this day and age. But on the other hand, from everything she'd heard, it was his own choice, he preferred to live that way, and apparently it made him happy.
Barry picked up the tennis ball, and moved back into place.
"You think he's spying on us? Is that it?"
"I think he watches" Barry said. "And I think he knows a lot. Stumpy has access to everything. He can go where he wants when he wants. If he could talk, I bet he'd have quite a story to tell."
Maureen shook her head. "Just serve," she told him.
He beat her three games to one, and despite the fact that they were only playing for fun, her natural competitiveness would not allow her to go down without a fight. She walked forward. "Switch. The sun's in my eyes."
"A likely story."
Still, he let her trade sides, and she actually won the next game despite the fact that he was serving.
Then it was her turn and she let fly a not particularly effective serve, but Barry did not even try to return the ball. Instead, he let it bounce behind him and moved toward the net, motioning for her to do the same. They met in the middle of the court. "Don't be too obvious, but look across the street. There's an old lady spying on us."
She turned. On the other side of the road from the tennis courts was a house, a two-story residence of wood and glass with twin front windows facing the road. She saw the curtains move, saw an elderly face peer out.
"So? Old people are always nosy. It gives them something to do:
gossip about their neighbors."
"It's not just that. She's been watching us intently, keeping track."
"Maybe she's a tennis fan."
Maureen turned back, saw the curtains move once more. On the road in front of the house, an equally old couple was walking by, taking a stroll. The woman smiled, waved at them, but the man spent too long looking, did not turn away, and it was clear that he was watching them, studying them.
"See?" Barry said. "There's something weird going on."
"What? Face it, hon , this place isn't exactly a hotbed of activity in the middle of the week. We're probably the day's excitement."
"It's not just that." He glanced around, as though searching for something. "I feel like we're under surveillance." His gaze traveled upward to the top of the fence, to the light pole. He frowned, moved around the pole, looking up. "Check that out," he said.
"What?"
"Up there. Look."
She followed his pointing finger. Mounted atop the light pole, aimed down, was what appeared to be a video camera, the type of security device found in banks and convenience stores.
"See?"
"See what? It's obviously an anti vandalism measure. A perfectly appropriate one considering what happened to my flowers."
He walked around the pole again. "Where does it go?" he wondered.
"Where's the monitor that it's attached to?"
"There probably isn't one. It's probably just a VCR."
"But where? In the president's house?" He glanced up at the camera. "You telling me that thing doesn't have a zoom on it, that whoever's monitoring it doesn't use it to peek down babes' tennis blouses?"
"Now you're just being crazy." She looked at him. "Or is this some story idea you're trying out on me?"
"It's not a bad idea for a story, but no, I'm being serious."
"You're overreacting."
"Am I?"
"It's called security, and I have no problem with it. We have security gates here, security cameras. It's why our crime rate is almost nonexistent. It's why people like to live here."
"You sound like an advertisement."
"Barry?" She shook her head, thought of saying something else, didn't.
"Let's just play tennis."
But he wasn't ready to let it go.
"What about that old lady peeking at us from behind her drapes? What about the people walking by?" "I think it's nice," she said. "They're watching out for us."
"They're spying on us."
"Isn't this what people are trying to recapture, this sense of community, this idea that everyone looks out for everyone else? Isn't that what they mean by the 'good old days'?"
"But that was natural, it evolved on its own. It wasn't imposed on people."
"We had a "Neighborhood Watch' in California, for Christ's sake! It's the same exact thing!"
"No, it's not the same thing." He walked over to where she had put the You can and dropped his ball inside. He picked up the can. "Let's go home," he said. "I don't want to play anymore."
"I do."
"Fine. Then play by yourself. But I'm going back. I'm not going to stay here to be monitored and spied on."
"You're an asshole," she said.
They left together, walking in silence back up to the house. Maureen checked the mailbox on the way in, but it was empty. There was a piece of pink paper attached to the screen door, however, that was fluttering in the slight breeze and drew their attention. It was tucked into the top of the grating that covered the door's lower half, and they walked up the porch steps. Barry pulled out the paper and held it so they could both read.
It was a form, obviously a duplicate of an original, and the heading at the top read Exterior Maintenance Review.
Beneath the heading was a short paragraph explaining that the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Architectural Committee had conducted a review of the property and had determined that the subsequent maintenance was required. There followed a list of actions, two of which had check marks next to them: "Paint chimney chimney cap" and "Clean pine needles and cones."
They'd been gone only half an hour or so--forty-five minutes at the most--and it was hard to believe that in that time someone had inspected their house and lot for all of the possible violations listed on the form. It was also a little disconcerting. While she knew it was legal, she didn't like the fact that people had been on their property while they were gone, snooping around. There seemed something sneaky about it, something wrong. Why couldn't the inspection have been conducted while they were at home?
But she didn't want Barry to know she felt that way. He was no doubt furious and incensed at such a violation of their privacy, and as petty as it was, she was glad. It served him right.
He stared at the form. "Pinecones?"
It was rather small and silly, she had to admit, and she had half a mind to call up Chuck or Terry and ask why they were being harassed for such minor details, but she was mad at Barry and wanted him to be irritated and annoyed.
"I guess you're going to have to do some yard work," she said.
The day was beautiful, the blue sky filled with gigantic white clouds that drifted lazily from east to west, and Barry decided to write outside on the deck rather than coop h
imself up in the house in front of the computer. If he came up with anything good, or anything usable, he could type it up later.
He picked up his notebook, defiantly cranked up the stereo volume despite the fact that the music playing was an un defiant James Taylor, and pushed open the sliding glass door.
"Turn that down!" Maureen yelled from the bottom floor.
"I won't be able to hear it outside!" he shouted back.
"Buy a Walkman!"
Barry ignored her, went outside onto the deck, and settled into a chair; but he was not surprised when a moment later the music was abruptly cut off. There was a tap on the glass, and he glanced over to see Maureen grinning at him.
"Thanks a lot," he said.
"My pleasure."
She returned downstairs to where she'd been working on the computer, and he turned his attention to the page before him.
The blank page.
He stared at the lined paper. Ever since they'd moved here, he'd had a scene from the movie Funny Farm stuck in his brain. In the film, Chevy Chase moves out to the country because he wants to write a novel, and in the initial tour of the new house with his wife, he finds a perfect room for his studio where there's a bird cheerfully chirping on a branch outside the window. Later, he's sitting at his writing desk in front of his typewriter and a blank roll of paper, completely blocked, and this time when the bird chirps happily outside, Chase throws a cup of hot coffee at it.
That had been Barry's greatest nightmare, that he would be unable to write in these gorgeous surroundings, and even today, as he sat on the porch, pen in hand, there was the small nagging fear at the back of his mind that he wouldn't be able to come up with anything, that the creative juices wouldn't flow.
But he needn't have worried. As always, he had no problem tapping his imagination, and soon his pen was flying, describing the feelings of a young boy forced by his psychotic sister to eat cereal made from the bone dust of their cremated mother.
A woman walked by on the road in front of the house, and he caught her eye and waved. She gave him a thin smile, waved back, then hurried on, obviously eager to be away from him.
The Association Page 9
