Bentley Little: The Association

"If the association's so bad, why don't people elect some new board members? Or just disband the organization entirely?"

"Maybe I gave you the wrong impression. Don't get me wrong, there are people like me who don't like them. But we're very definitely in the minority. Most of the homeowners here love having an association. They want to live in a gated community where there are strict maintenance standards and everyone's forced to keep up their property values." He smiled. "Welcome to Bonita Vista."

"Great."

Ray laughed. "So what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a writer," Barry said.

The thick eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"I write horror novels. You know, like Stephen King."

"Stephen King, huh?"

"Well... not exactly. I say that so people will understand the type of books I write. I used to just say 'horror' and leave it at that, but people were introducing me as their friend the science-fiction writer or their friend the mystery writer, and I don't write science fiction or mysteries. The Stephen King comparison seemed to clear that up."

Ray shook his head. "A writer. That's pretty exciting. I don't think I've ever met a real writer before. Where can I get your books?"

"Around here?" Barry chuckled. "I doubt if you can. But they're at most of the big chains. I'll give you a copy of the newest one next time I see you."

"Autographed?"

"Sure."

Ray leaned forward. "You know, this might work in your favor. I'll spread the news, play up the fact that you're a big-name celebrity, a rich and famous writer. It might intimidate the board into leaving you alone."

"You think so?"

"Can't hurt."

Barry nodded. "Feel free to lie. You can tell them I am Stephen King, if you want to. Anything to keep them off my back."

"No guarantees, but I'll spread the word."

Two new cars pulled up, twin families emerging from the four-doored vehicles. One of the elderly women who'd been looking through the displayed junk stepped up to Barry's table with a vase and a set of place mats in hand, and Ray waved good-bye as Barry tallied up the woman's total. "I'll stop by later in the week," Ray said, "once you guys've gotten settled."

"Nice to meet you, Ray." Barry waved, then turned his attention back to his customer.

It arrived in their mailbox the next day. The Bonita Vista Homeowners'

Association Declaration of Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions--the promised C, C, and Rs . Thicker than the Corban phone book, it was a perfect bound document filled with nearly a hundred single-spaced pages of text, all written in dense legalese. Barry sat down, tried to read it, got through about half a page, then tossed the booklet over to Maureen. "Here you go. Some light reading material."

She glanced through a few pages, then threw it onto one of the unpacked boxes. "It looks pretty thorough," she said.

"I assume that means that loopholes will be hard to come by."

"Then thank God I'm a rich and famous writer who will be treated with deference and respect and won't be bound by the petty rules of mortals."

She laughed. "Dream on."

"I think that's a song cue!" He rushed over to the stereo and quickly put on an old Aerosmith album. Turning up the volume, he held out his hands, and soon they were dancing through the living room, weaving between the boxes and twirling around the furniture to the music of their adolescence.

The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article III, Land Use Classifications, Permitted Uses and Restrictions, Section 3, Paragraph A:

No yard sales or garage sales may be conducted in, on, or from any Lot or any portion of the Properties.

Maureen was not sure she liked Bonita Vista.

It was not something she would ever admit to Barry. And it wasn't a strong feeling or a definite mind-set. It was more a vague recognition that perhaps her impression of the neighborhood wasn't as favorable as she'd expected it to be.

Part of it was the snotty letter they'd received from the homeowners'

association about their garage sale. Written in a formal yet clearly judgmental manner, it stated that they were in violation of the C, C, and Rs , which plainly declared that yard sales or garage sales were forbidden. The letter went on to say that they would be excused this time because of their ignorance of Bonita Vista rules and regulations, but in the future any such infraction would be punishable by a fine.

The letter wasn't all of it, though. Not even most of it. There was something else.

Only she didn't know what Outwardly, everything was fine. The few people she'd seen walking or jogging along the road seemed to be nice, the area was beautiful, and despite all of the work that remained to be done, she loved their house.

Except... Except those elements didn't gel the way they were supposed to. The nice neighbors, the beautiful environment, the perfect house, all of these were separate components, isolated attributes that were entirely unconnected.

And the whole was less than the sum of its parts.

But she refused to acknowledge any of this to Barry. She did not want to dampen his obvious pleasure with her unfounded impressions.

Besides, the feelings would probably pass.

They spent the next few weeks working on the house: repainting, wallpapering, transforming the dead dark space of their predecessors into a light, airy home that complemented their own furniture and did justice to the magnificent surroundings outside the generous windows.

They ripped out what paneling they could, papered over the rest, replaced the heavy brown drapes with white miniblinds , and pulled up the stained and rotted carpet in the bathrooms, sanding and buffing the hardwood floors underneath. Maureen had brought most of their house plants from California, even the ones she knew wouldn't survive the winter, and once the palms and ficuses were in place, once the spider ferns and hanging baskets were positioned in the corners and near the windows of the various rooms, the house looked 100 percent better.

It was Barry who discovered the sealed envelope in the master bedroom.

He was in the process of painting the inside of the closet and was dusting off the top shelf before applying his brush to it when he suddenly stopped and said, "What's this?"

Maureen looked over from where she'd been painting the window frame next to the bed. "What?"

He walked over, carrying a sealed business-size envelope. It was covered with a layer of dust and addressed to "New Homeowners." She took it from his hand. There was definitely something inside, a document or letter, and she held it up to the window, trying to see if the backlight would illuminate the envelope's contents.

"What do you think we should do?" he asked.

"I don't know. You think this was meant for us?"

Barry shrugged. "We are the new homeowners. Although this thing definitely looks like it's been sitting around for a while."

"Let's open it." She ripped one end of the envelope and used a fingernail to pry open the stubborn paper. Inside was a note on plain white stationery, black ink in a man's sloppy, hurried hand.

We are not leaving voluntarily, the note said. You need to know that.

We are being forced out of our home. It could happen to you, too. For your own protection, write down EVERYTHING!! Names, dates, witnesses.

They're doing it, they're keeping track of all of it. Don't think they aren't. You'd better, too.

Don't let them see this letter. Burn it after you read it.

The note was neither signed nor dated, and Maureen looked up at Barry as she finished reading the message. It was confusing and didn't make a whole lot of sense, but the obviously earnest and paranoid tone gave it urgency and immediacy despite the layer of dust on the outside of the envelope. The feeling within her was one of unease. "What is this?"