these empty hours.
But she felt guilty for even speculating about having a child for such a selfish reason. It was as bad as those accountants --and she knew quite a few of them--who planned their children's birth dates in order to get the maximum tax credits.
She sighed. At least when Barry had been home, she'd had someone to talk with. But with him at his office, she was alone and on her own.
Maybe she'd go down and meet him for lunch, she thought. That might be fun.
And on the way back she could stop over and see Liz. Or drop in on Tina Stewart, who'd been asking her to come by and see the new roses she'd planted.
Maureen hopped out of bed, feeling better. There were things to do, she was not entirely at loose ends, and the gloom that had threatened to engulf her only a few moments before disappeared completely, replaced with a more familiar and welcome feeling of energized purpose.
As she ate breakfast and listened to Howard Stern, whose show they got on a powerful and remarkably clear radio station out of Las Vegas, she decided to start her morning with a little exercise. It was a weekday, the tennis courts were no doubt empty, and she thought she'd hit a few balls, practice her serve, start using this free time wisely and get into shape. Afterward, she'd take a shower, then pack a lunch and surprise Barry down at his office. Maybe they'd even go on a picnic.
Maureen changed out of the jeans she'd put on and slipped into a pair of shorts. She grabbed her racket and a can of balls from the closet and jogged down the hill to the tennis courts.
As she'd known, as she'd hoped, there was no one playing she had the courts to herself, and she picked the left court, the one nearest the trees, standing in alternate corners and hitting balls into the opposite squares. Serving was the weakest part of her game, and although she and Barry were pretty evenly matched, if she could tighten up her serve, that might tilt the balance in her favor.
A red Mustang roared down the street, sliding to a late braking stop in the small gravel parking space adjacent to the tennis courts.
Beat-heavy music thumped from behind dark tinted windows, and a moment later two teenage boys hopped out of the vehicle, rackets in hand. One was blond, one had black hair, both were scruffy, and Maureen saw them and then looked immediately away, not wanting to make eye contact. She wanted to practice on her own, without interference, and she kept hitting balls, ignoring the newcomers.
But that soon grew hard to do.
The boys had brought several cans of balls with them, but she could see out of the corner of her eye that they merely hit the same ball lightly back and forth, not playing a real game, not even putting effort into a decent volley. They seemed more interested in their conversation, a disgustingly graphic and obviously exaggerated account of their sexual exploits that grew louder and louder with the telling.
Part of her wanted to tell them to either quiet down or take it somewhere else, but they looked like the kind of kids who'd talk back, and the last thing she wanted was to start a verbal volley with these punks and have to stand there and argue with them for the next twenty minutes. It was easier to just let it slide and try to ignore them.
As if reading her mind, they took the volume up another notch.
'She had one of those skanky pussies, man. Smelled like she'd been shitting out of that hole, if you know what I mean.'
'Been there, done that.'
'I ate her anyway, though. Just held my breath and chowed down for Old Glory.'
There was a harsh laugh of recognition in response, and Maureen picked up one of her balls and casually glanced over at the next court. She was nonplussed to see that both of the teenagers were staring at her.
'I hear tell those bitches from California have twats of gold,' the blond kid said. 'Taste like honey.'
He smiled in a way that made her feel as though she needed to take a shower, and Maureen looked quickly away. She glanced up at the security camera, grateful that it was there. She wanted to pack up her stuff and leave, but she didn't want those punks to think they were driving her off, that she was afraid of them, so she finished picking up her balls and moved to the next corner on her rotation, continuing to practice her serve. One ball went into the net and she walked forward to retrieve it.
A tennis ball flew over from the next court, smacked her square in the back.
She straightened up. 'Hey!' she called out angrily. 'Watch where you're hitting!'
The dark-haired boy laughed harshly, and the thought occurred to her that it had not been an accident.
She turned away, and two balls came whizzing over. One sped past her head close enough that she felt the breeze, and the other hit the back of her bare right calf with a loud slap. The pain was tremendous, she was sure there'd be a welt, and, furious, she picked up the ball and swung her racket, hitting the ball over the fence and into the trees.
She walked purposefully over to where their other ball lay, intending to swat that over the fence as well, but two more balls came at her, each of them hitting her hard in the buttocks.
She'd had enough. She was leaving. And if either of those two shits tried to stop her or harass her in any way, she was going to take her racket and smash it across his smirkyface. She grabbed her can from where she'd placed it by the fence and began picking up balls. Hers were easy to identify: dull old-fashioned grayish white as opposed to their fluorescent yellow-green.
The last one was caught in the chain-link fence near the border of the two courts, an attempted serve that had gone wild. Below it was one of their balls, and as she walked over, she saw that the blond kid was coming over to get his ball as well. She slowed her pace.
He slowed his.
Clearly, he intended to reach the spot the same time she did, and though she definitely didn't want to meet up with him, she also didn't want to show any fear.
Her grip tightened on the racket.
They reached the fence at the same time, and she ignored him as she pulled her ball from the chain link and dropped it into her can.
Blondie dropped to his knees to pick up his ball.
'Aren't you from California?' he asked. Smiling, he licked his lips suggestively and looked at her crotch.
Maureen felt violated, and she wanted nothing more than to take off the top of his scalp with her racket, but she pulled away in as dignified a manner as she could muster.
'Go to hell,' she said coldly.
Both of the boys laughed, but neither tried to stop her as she walked back across the court to the exit.
She checked out the license plate of the Mustang and committed the numbers to memory. She'd call Chuck Shea when she got home, sic the association on those assholes. Or on their parents. Someone needed to take responsibility, and at this moment she didn't care who. If Chuck thought it best to fine the kids' dads or double their dues or kick them out of Bonita Vista entirely, well, they had her permission.
But on her way back up the hill, she saw something that made her change her mind.
Or rather someone.
He was standing across the culvert to her right, in front of a low wooden house with too few windows. She had not noticed the house before, so unobtrusive was it and so far back was it set, but she noticed it now because of the man. He was at least six-foot-five, with a shock of white Lome Greene hair that seemed incongruous atop his unlined baby face. But it was the crutches that drew her attention.
That and his missing leg. For he stood there watching her, supported by the tallest metal crutches she had ever seen, crutches that glinted in the sun and shined in her eyes. The long left leg of his tan pants was filled out with his remaining limb, but the empty right pant leg dangled there, swaying gently in the air, rather than being pinned up or cut off.
Maureen tried to smile, gave a wave and an anonymous, pleasant 'Hi,'
but the man swung away and hobbled back toward the house more quickly than she would have thought possible. There was fear in his flight, a fear that she had glimpsed on his face in the brief second before he turned
