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 minutes, 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
