Maureen, still naked, moved up behind him and leaned on his shoulder, yawning in his ear. 'Were those fireworks?'
'Sounded like it. But I don't see--'
Another one went off, the trace appearing to originate from the bottom of the hill near the tennis courts. A weak blue burst temporarily lit up a close section of sky, sparkles falling onto the pines.
'Isn't that a fire hazard?' Maureen asked, suddenly more awake.
'It seems like it to me.'
'You think someone's setting them off illegally? Maybe kids are--'
Barry shook his head. 'These are professional fireworks. Kids don't have the equipment to shoot off skyrockets like this. You need launchers. Besides, these kinds of fireworks are expensive.'
They waited for several moments but nothing else went up.
'Maybe they were illegal,' he conceded.
'Maybe the police or the rangers or the firemen got to them already and put a stop to it.'
'No.' Barry pointed. Another trace went up, and an anemic burst of red exploded above the trees.
Maureen smiled. 'If this is supposed to be professional, it's pretty pathetic.'
'We're spoiled.' In southern California, spectacular fireworks could be viewed every weekend at various tourist attractions, along with the ubiquitous nightly displays at Disneyland: consistently impressive shows that could be seen from the beach to the Fullerton hills.
They stood, waited, and a few minutes later another skyrocket went off.
'I'm going to bed,' Maureen said, yawning. 'This isn't worth staying up for.'
Barry agreed, and they both went back to bed, falling asleep to the intermittent sounds of exploding gunpowder.
Barry awoke late. Maureen was already out of bed, and the smell of eggs and hash browns wafted down from upstairs. He dressed quickly, ran a hand through his hair, and headed up to the kitchen. It was a beautiful day. Maureen had opened all the drapes and windows, and morning sunlight streamed in from a cloudless blue sky.
'Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes.' Maureen pointed her spatula at a folded newspaper lying atop the dining table. 'Check out the paper. Top story.'
'Got any coffee?'
'Check out the paper first.'
Barry walked over to the table, unfolded the newspaper, and stared down at the banner headline.
Bonita Vista to Set Off Fireworks Despite Fire Danger He started reading.
The Corban Weekly Standard came out every Tuesday, its stories written the week or weekend before, so there was no reporting on last night's display, only a pre-event article that addressed the situation from the vantage point of a few days prior. But there was no mistaking the tone of the piece or the anger that quoted Corbanites seemed to feel toward the arrogance of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association, sponsors of the display.
Apparently, Corban was running short on water this summer due to the extended drought conditions of the previous winter, something of which Barry had not been aware. Several years before, a similar situation had arisen, and for two weeks in mid-July, before late monsoons once again raised the water table, tanker trucks from Salt Lake City had brought water to the town and people had been forced to line up with plastic containers in order to get drinking water. Such an extreme situation was not expected this year, but voluntary rationing was currently in place, and it was suggested that people with lawns not water them and that no one wash their cars.
The article went on to say that Bonita Vista had its own wells, so it was not tied to the Corban water supply and was not suffering the same shortage. But water district officials said that it was still callous, insensitive, and potentially devastating to the surrounding forest to put on the display. 'Those fireworks could cause a fire that would require digging into our reserves and could completely deplete our water resources,' the superintendent said. A representative of the Forest Service concurred, adding that it would take several weeks of consistent monsoons before the trees and brush were no longer dried out and the area was no longer considered at risk. The chief of the volunteer fire department said bluntly that his men should not have to bail out Bonita Vista because of their shortsightedness and stupidity but that they would have to, since a blaze would endanger the town and surrounding countryside.
The homeowners' association didn't care about these objections and intended to continue with their display no matter what. The final quote in the story was from his old pal Neil Campbell. 'We're not just doing this for the benefit of Bonita Vista,' Campbell stated. 'These fireworks will be able to be seen for miles and everyone will be able to enjoy them. They're our present to the town of Corban and the people living in this area. Happy Fourth of July!'
Barry looked up and grimaced. 'I need some coffee,' he said.
Maureen motioned toward the coffeemaker. 'I figured you would.'
'Jesus. Not only was it stupid from a PR standpoint, but it was dangerous on top of that.'
'And the fireworks sucked besides.'
'According to Ray, we don't even have any fire hydrants up here. One of the few things the association's actually supposed to do, take care of public safety, they can't be bothered with. It's more important to fine us over the color of our garden ties than make sure we can fight off a forest fire.'
'Typical,' she said.
Barry poured himself a cup of coffee. 'Are you still enamored with your precious homeowners' association?'
'I was never enamored.'
'But you're a little less happy with them now than you used to be, aren't you?'
She scooped up a pile of hash browns, then placed a fried egg next to the potatoes on the plate. 'Here,' she told Barry. 'Breakfast's ready. Eat.'
The writing had stopped.
Barry still went down to his office each day, still fired up the old computer, still sat in his chair in front of the screen and attempted to finish the novel that was rapidly approaching its deadline ... but nothing came.
This time, he conceded, it might be writer's block.
His inability to progress any further with his story coincided precisely with Ray's death. He'd taken a few days off because he hadn't felt like working, then the weekend of the Fourth had arrived and he never worked on a holiday weekend. But when he finally went down to his office the following week, he discovered that the well had run dry.
He knew exactly what was going to happen next in the narrative--he'd plotted out in his mind the events that were to take place in the current chapter and all he really had to do was fill in the blanks--but he just couldn't seem to get from A to B. He was stymied, stuck.
And he'd been stuck now for almost a week.
Logically, there was no reason this should have occurred. He'd been under deadline two years ago when his mom had died, and he'd managed to finish that book on time. Hell, he'd found the writing process therapeutic, and he'd ended up finishing the novel ahead of schedule, focusing on it to the exclusion of nearly everything else. And his mom had certainly meant more to him than Ray.
But still the writing had stopped.
He'd said nothing to Maureen, had been pulling a Jack Torrence on her, but oddly enough he'd found himself confiding in Hank and Bert and the gang at the coffee shop. They'd been cool to him after the debacle of the fireworks, unable this time to completely divorce him from the actions of Bonita Vista, but he assured them that he was just as outraged as they were, and he described the way he and Maureen had been awakened by the blasts and had had no idea where they'd been coming from.
His explanation was accepted, but there was not the wholesale wholehearted forgiveness that had accompanied his protestations of innocence after the dog death. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time once too often, and it was clear to him that if it happened again, suspicion would definitely be directed his way.
It was not fair... but he understood it. He might not condone the actions of the association, but he lived in Bonita Vista, paid his dues, and bore some of the responsibility. And as much as he tried to disassociate himself
