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 himself 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.
