Bentley Little - The Association

"Should've listened to Greg Davidson," Barry said. "Hey, maybe I could volunteer to work it off."

"Don't even joke about that," Maureen scolded him.

She was right. It wasn't very funny. He wished he had something else to say, wished he had some sort of plan to get them out from under this, but he didn't, and he drank his beer and stared out at the sunset in silence.

She couldn't take it any more.

Liz stared at the phone in her hand for a long while, then took a deep breath, and dialed the number of Jasper Calhoun A chill passed through her as the old man answered. "Hello, Elizabeth."

How had he known it was her? Caller ID, she told herself. A lot of people had it these days. There was nothing unusual or mysterious about it. Still, she thought of his odd face with its unnatural complexion, and the cold within her grew.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

Even after all that had happened, she had too much pride to beg. She refused to give Calhoun the satisfaction of pleading for mercy. But they'd broken her. For all her tough talk and firm intentions, she had not been able to hold up under the constant onslaught. Maureen and Tina and Audrey and Moira could say they supported her and offer her friendship and hope, but they weren't with her at night.

They weren't there in the house when the bad things happened.

Last night had been the last straw.

She'd heard voices calling her from outside, seen lights shining on various windows even through the drapes, and she turned on the television to distract her. What she saw took her breath away and caused her to fall back onto the couch.

On BVTV, for all to see, was the death of Ray.

It was a re-enactment. She knew that. But, damn it, the man looked a lot like her husband, and she watched as he slipped in the shower and hit his head on the hard porcelain. He lay there for a few moments, head bleeding, then got groggily to his feet and staggered out of the bathroom to the kitchen, where he attempted to pick up the phone. The show was depicting the association's version of events, the story they wanted everyone to believe, and though Liz knew it wasn't true, she wanted to believe it, too.

She could believe it, she decided.

She just wanted all this to stop.

The man who looked like Ray stumbled onto the deck, then fell over the railing to the hard ground below, his already bleeding head landing sickeningly atop an irregularly shaped rock. The camera cut to a scene inside the house where Liz saw herself--her real self, not an impersonator-sobbing on the couch.

She let out an anguished cry, unable to endure this cruel indignity, a whole host of hurtful emotions churning within her. Immediately, the scene switched to a live feed, and she saw and heard herself wailing in real time.

She shut off the television, ran into the bedroom, jumped on the bed, and hid under the covers, pulling in arms and legs and head so no part of her was exposed. There might be a camera in this room, too, but it wouldn't be able to capture her. The camera could focus on her blanket and bedspread all night as far as she was concerned. They would not get another shot of her.

She was filled with bleak despair and a crushing sense of loss. She replayed in her mind the scenes she'd just witnessed on TV. Ray's re-enacted death had been filmed here, at her home, and she wondered when and how that had occurred. She'd left the house only briefly and infrequently since the funeral, and it was impossible for them to have staged such elaborate setups in those brief snatches of time.

At night, she thought. They filmed it at night. That's what she'd heard. That's what the noises were.

But filming those scenes only accounted for some of the noises. What else was going on? What else were they doing here?

She felt even more violated than she had before. Having her suspicions confirmed, knowing with certainty that others had been in her house, gave her not only a feeling of powerlessness but hopelessness. She did not know how much longer she could put up with this. She did not know how much longer she could survive this constant barrage.

So she'd decided to meet the association halfway.

"Elizabeth?" Calhoun prodded.

"I'd like to talk," she said.

The president chuckled. "I knew you'd come around."

"I don't want to be on the board," she insisted. "I just want to--"

"Talk," he said. "I know. Why don't you open up your door and let me in. We'll discuss the best way to handle this situation." Open her door? Liz hurried out of the kitchen and into the entryway, where she looked through the peephole. He was on the porch! Standing on the welcome mat, talking to her on his cell phone.

Don't let him in, a voice inside her said, and the voice spoke in Ray's dulcet tones.

But she could not endure any more of this. She was not as strong as Ray had been, and alone, without his unflagging self-confidence and dogged determination, she could not stand up to their harassment.

Don't... Taking a deep breath, she unlocked and opened the door.

The president stepped inside, smiling, and she shivered as he touched her shoulder. "It'll be all right now," he told her. "Everything's all right. Everything will be fine."

"I guess we weren't invited."

Barry and Maureen stood in the darkened guest bedroom, staring out the open window. The cool breeze, a preview of approaching autumn, carried with it the sound of revelers. Through the trees, a concentration of lights at the community center created an irregular dome of illumination in the moonless night sky.

They'd seen cars driving down earlier. And people walking. He knew from previous flyers that the community center would be having its grand unveiling this week, but they'd never been told a specific date and had received no invitation to the gala.

Other people obviously had.

He moved over to the east window and looked out. He saw more lights than usual twinkling through the pine branches: people had left their porch lights on while they'd gone down to see the new center, "It looks like almost everyone went," he said.

"You can't tell that by looking out the window."

"Call it a hunch."

"I doubt if Liz went," Maureen offered helpfully. He snorted. "Yeah, that makes me feel better."

"Come on. Do you honestly think they're all going to turn into rabid association supporters just because they went to a party? Most of them probably only showed up for the free food and drink. "

"Maybe."

"What's that mean?"

"You know damn well what it means." He turned to face her, seeing only an impressionistic version of her features in the darkness. "They get their way, the association. I don't know if it's ... it's magic or...

I don't know what it is. But these people are on their side! Look at the sheriff. Look at everyone who showed up to head off that rally! We were there under duress, but most of our beloved neighbors were there on their own, happily brandishing their weapons and longing for a fight."

"Then maybe it's a good thing we're ostracized. Maybe they'd convert us, too."

"No," he said firmly. "That could never happen."

"And the same goes for other people. Not all of them, maybe. But some of them. Mike and Tina. A few of the others we met."

He remembered the party at Ray's when Greg Davidson had announced his intention to leave Bonita Vista and everyone had gathered around swapping anti-association stories. "Maybe," he said. "Hopefully." He moved next to her, and they stood at the window, staring into the darkness, listening to the party.

"Labor Day's only a week away," Maureen said softly.

"I know."

"Are we going to go to the meeting?"

"Of course. This is our chance to make everything public. According to the rules, each homeowner gets three minutes to say whatever they want. I'm going to write a speech, and I'm going to suggest amendments, and by the end of it, at the very least, we'll find out who stands where. I'm taking those bastards to task, and we'll see who's with me or against me."