The Association

by Bentley Little

  There was the rattle of underbrush.

  And a sound.

  He froze, and it came again. A moan that almost sounded like a word.

  Whatever was causing it was definitely human, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck. He could not tell from which direction the sound originated, and it was not until he saw the movement of leaves and branches off to his right that he was able to determine how close the source was.

  From under the bushes crawled an armless legless man, a dirty, tanned, and heavily bearded individual who pushed himself forward through spastic undulations of his disfigured form. The man's eyes were wild and unfocused, and the slurred incomprehensible noises he made indicated to Barry that he was mentally retarded. He was wearing nothing but a muddy, blood-stained diaper, and when he opened his mouth, all of his teeth were missing.

  A chill passed through Barry, and though he knew that such a reaction was childish, that he should be feeling pity and concern rather than fear and horror, he could not help being spooked by the hideous figure before him.

  The man flopped into the center of the path, looked up at him, and shrieked.

  "It's okay," Barry said. "I'm not going to hurt you." He looked around to see if there was anyone else about, but the trail was deserted. "Do you need any help, any--"

  The man shrieked again and began jerking convulsively on the ground, his limbless body moving up and down in obvious agitation. Barry had the feeling that the man was trying to communicate with him, was trying to say something, but whether the sharp cries and ragged movements meant that he wanted Barry to get the hell away from him or that he needed some sort of assistance was impossible to determine.

  The bearded face twisted upward on the corded neck, eyes bulging hugely, toothless mouth opening impossibly wide.

  Barry crouched down. "Do you want something?"

  The figure jerked, screamed at him.

  "I'm sorry. I don't--" He broke off, unsure of what to say, not knowing how to respond.

  The man cried out again, his flopping becoming ever more frantic.

  Barry backed away. Should he just continue on, pretend as though nothing had happened? He looked ahead. The trail before him seemed dark and forbidding, and he immediately turned around, hurrying back the way he'd come. He had no plan, no specific course of action, but he knew that he had to tell somebody, had to try and get the man some help. As bizarre as the incident was, as much as it creeped him out, he understood that underneath the horror show grotesquerie, this was a real person with obviously real problems and that it was his responsibility to make sure that the authorities were alerted and made aware of it.

  He was jogging by the time he hit the road, and when he reached die intersection of his own street, he saw Frank driving by in his pickup.

  Barry held up his hands, waved him down, and the vehicle slowed to a stop.

  "Barry. You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "You're not far off." He was breathing heavily from the altitude and exertion. "I was hiking along the east bridle trail, and I ran into ... a man. A man without any arms or legs who couldn't talk and was sort of slinking along the ground in a diaper."

  "Oh, that's just Stumpy," Frank said, chuckling. "He lives on the trails."

  Barry didn't know what he'd expected, but this certainly wasn't it.

  He'd been prepared to run back down the bridle trail with Frank to show him the limbless man, even to help carry the poor unfortunate back to the truck so they could take him into the doctor's office, the sheriff's office, or wherever assistance could be found. But he was not prepared for this cheerful recognition that there was a hideously deformed person living in the forest surrounding them, this open acknowledgment that there was a freak who spent his days skulking along the green belts of Bonita Vista--and that apparently everyone knew about it. It seemed surreal, like something out of one of his novels, not like something that could happen in real life, and for once Barry was at a loss for words, uncertain of how to react or what to say.

  Frank must have misunderstood his silence. "Stumpy's harmless. Don't worry."

  "I wasn't worried about him. I'm worried for him. He's ..." Barry took a deep breath. "He's all muddy and bloody. I mean, shit, the guy doesn't have any arms or legs and he's inching along on his belly in the middle of the woods--"

  "That's our Stumpy." Frank smiled sympathetically. "Look, I know you want to help and all, but there's nothing to do. It's his choice. This is how he chooses to live. Who are we to deny him that and dictate what he's supposed to do with his life? He's an adult, it's a free country. Live and let live."

  "I don't think he wants to be there," Barry said. "He was howling like he was in pain, and I think he was trying to tell me something."

  "Oh, that's just the way he is. Don't sweat it."

  Obviously, Frank did not understand his anxiety, could not comprehend why the sight of a filthy limbless man crawling along the ground might give him cause for concern, so Barry dropped the subject. He nodded as the other man talked, pretended that everything had been cleared up for him, and said good-bye, watching the pickup continue down the road toward the gate.

  He walked back up the street feeling at once disturbed by what he'd seen and learned, and at the same time oddly disassociated from it. The fear he'd felt was real, and a vestige of it remained with him, but his concern for Stumpy's well-being was more intellectual, less emotional, and did not hit him at the same gut level.

  The Suburban was not in the driveway, so he knew Maureen was still gone, and Barry continued up the street, past his house and directly to Ray's. Liz was outside, weeding, and she told him to go on in, Ray was on the deck.

  He let himself in through the unlocked front door, walked through the entryway and into the living room. He could see through the windows that Ray was on a chaise lounge, reading a book.

  Barry opened the sliding glass door, and Ray looked up at the sound.

  "Hey," he said. He held up the copy of The Coming that Barry had given him. "I'm reading your book. It's pretty damn good. I'm impressed."

  "Thank you," Barry said awkwardly. He never knew how to handle compliments about his writing, and while he wanted people to like his work, praise made him uncomfortable.

  Ray sat up, put the book facedown on the small table next to him. "So what brings you up here to disturb my reading?"

  "Stumpy."

  The old man chuckled and stood. "So you heard about Stumpy, huh?"

  "Heard about him? I saw him. I was out walking on the east bridle trail, just taking a break from writing to stretch my legs a little, and all of a sudden I heard weird noises in the bushes. A minute later, this man with no arms or legs came squirming toward me, shrieking like a lunatic. Scared the hell out of me. I tried to talk to him, but he seemed retarded and he obviously couldn't speak. When I

  went back to get some help, I ran into Frank, who told me that it was just Stumpy, and that he lives out in the woods and, apparently, everyone knows about it."

  "Yeah," Ray confirmed. "Stumpy lives out there. I think he probably has a hutch or a lean-to or something, but for the most part he just crawls around wherever he wants to."

  "And the people who live here don't care? They just put up with it?"

  "Well... yeah."

  "You don't think that's a tad bit peculiar?"

  "Of course it is. But he doesn't live in Bonita Vista. He lives in the national forest next to it. We've sort of agreed to let him roam the trails. I mean, who's going to prosecute someone like that for trespassing? Even the homeowners' association isn't that hard-hearted.Stumpy's been around here longer than we have, and I

  think most of the people have a sort of live-and-let-live attitude toward him. We don't bother him and he doesn't bother us."

  "But isn't it sort of irresponsible to turn a blind eye to someone like that? I mean, he was wearing a bloody diaper, for Christ's sake.

  Shouldn't there be someone who at least makes sure that he's all right, tha
t he ... I don't know, has access to running water and a toilet, that he has at least the minimum necessities of life?"

  Ray smiled sadly. "I'm ashamed to say I never really thought about it that way." He sighed. "Live here long enough, you get hardened to anything."

  "So you think I should call someone? Social Services or whatever kind of indigent help the county has?"

  Ray thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "I'm not a knee-jerk, if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it guy, but in this case, maybe it would be best to let things be. Liz and I have been out here nine years now, and in all that time Stumpy hasn't needed any help, hasn't asked for any help--"

  "He was screaming though, crying out like he was trying to talk."

  "That's the way he does talk. He's always that way. I admit it's a little unnerving at first, but... well, like I said, you get used to it. I don't think he was upset or in pain or trying to enlist your help. More than likely, he wanted you to get off his trails and go somewhere else. He doesn't much like company, and he seems to be pretty possessive and territorial."

  "So there's nothing we can do?"

  "There's nothing to do. Stumpy may be handicapped, but other than that he's like any recluse or eccentric. If he had arms and legs and could talk, he'd still be living out in the woods, only you wouldn't think anything of it. You'd think he was some crazy survivalist and never give him another thought. Well, that's exactly how you should think of Stumpy."

  "What if sometime he really does need help?"

  Ray shrugged. "I guess he'd make his way to someone's house and try to get their attention somehow."

  Barry thought of that horrific shriek, of the way the limbless man had looked as he strained his thickly corded neck and opened his toothless mouth. A chill passed through him as he imagined waking up in the middle of the night to find such a sight waiting for him on his doorstep. Maybe it was just his line of work, the fact that he spent his days dreaming up horrors of the flesh and terrifying images of the supernatural, but he could not seem to summon the sort of understanding and acceptance that he knew he should have, and despite his well-intentioned sense of outrage, his real gut reaction to Stumpy was one of fear and disgust.

  Ray offered him a beer, but Barry said that he'd already been away from the word processor for too long and he'd have to take a rain check.

  He walked back down the hill toward home. The Suburban was back in the driveway, and Maureen was just clicking off the phone as he walked through the door.

  "Oh," she said. "That was for you. Where've you been?"

  "Out for a walk, Who was it?"

  "Your old pal Neil Campbell from the homeowners' association."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "Apparently, someone complained that you were playing music too loud this morning. Neil wanted to inform you that Bonita Vista does have noise restrictions and the rules state that music cannot be played so loud that it can be heard from someone else's lot."

  "Too loud? It was Ladies of the Canyon, for Christ's sake. And you could barely hear it downstairs, let alone outside of the house."

  "I guess sound carries here."

  "Is he calling back? Or does he want me to call him back?"

  She shook her head. "He'll send you a memo."

  "This is getting ridiculous." Barry looked at her. "They're your friends, couldn't you tell them that we like to listen to music, that it doesn't harm anyone, and, by the way, mind your own damn business?"

  "No one's trying to cramp your style, hon. They just want you to show a little more respect to your neighbors. It's not an unreasonable request."

  "It is if it infringes on my rights. I live here, too, you know. And I should be able to live my life in my own house and do what I want on my own property without someone else trying to dictate and regulate my behavior."

  "They're only infringing on your rights at the point where your rights begin to infringe on other people's."

  "What kind of double-talk crap is that?"

  "It means that, yeah, you live here, but you're not alone. Other people live here, too, and we have to take into account their feelings."

  "Shit." He looked at her disgustedly, and they probably would have gotten into it then and there, but at mat second the phone rang, and Maureen pressed the Talk button as she brought it to her ear.

  "Hello?"

  The expression on her face brightened instantly. "Hey, how are you?

  ... Yeah... It's great... Uh-huh... No, not at all... Yeah, hold on.

  He's right here." She handed Barry the phone. "It's Jeremy!"

  He took the telephone from her hand.

  "Dude!" Jeremy said. "Long time no hear!"

  Barry smiled as he heard his friend's voice, and for a brief second he was back in California, back in the real world, far away from Bonita Vista and deformed men and homeowners'

  associations and pending memos about excessive noise. "Jeremy, you loser! It's about time!" "Yeah. How goes it out there in the boonies?" He took a deep breath, and though he was still annoyed, still upset, he found himself chuckling at the absurdity of it all.

  "You're not going to believe it, bud. You're not going to believe it."

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

  Without limiting the generality of any of the foregoing provisions, no exterior speakers, horns, whistles, bells, or other offensive sound devices, except security devices used exclusively for security purposes, shall be located, used, or placed on any Lot. In addition, any noise generated from the interior of a home, including but not limited to the sound from television, radio, audio reproduction, or live instrumentation, must conform to agreed-upon noise levels. No sound that is determined by general consensus to be a nuisance or that is audible from the Lot of another Resident will be permitted to emanate from any Property during any time of day.

  "I don't know, Ray. I just don't know."

  The two of them sat on canvas butterfly chairs next to the barbecue on the Dysons’ deck, while the women remained inside talking. Past the town, past the hills, past the trees, the canyon lands were a brilliant orange, sandstone cliffs dyed bright pop-art colors by the setting sun.

  Barry looked over at his friend. "You'd think that in a place like this, out in the middle of nowhere, they wouldn't have rules and regulations and homeowners' associations. Tracts and subdivisions in southern California, yeah, I'd expect it. But out here?" He shook his head. "Whatever happened to living out in the country with broken washing machines on the back porch and cars on blocks and angry dogs tied up in the yard?"

  Ray stood and flipped over the burgers. "Yuppiedom's gone national.

  It's everywhere, from sea to shining sea. You can't escape it." He pointed with his spatula toward Corban . "You want your white-trash houses, your mean dogs and broken cars and junky appliances, buy a place in town. You want good views and big houses and cable TV, then you're stuck with Bonita Vista." He sat down again. "That's the problem. All these city people like us, longing for a rural lifestyle, all us retired people and tele commuters we want the comforts of home.

  We want fresh vegetables and gourmet food in the stores, we want fax machines and cellular phones. And we're willing to pay for it. But when we bring that shit out here, we bring the rest of it, too. The gated communities and homeowners' associations, the need for conformity and exclusivity. Turns out that we didn't really want to live the rural life at all. We wanted our city life with nicer scenery."

  "You really think so?"

  "Tell me," Ray said. "Why did you buy a house in Bonita Vista? You liked the homes, right? You liked the landscaping and the views. If this hadn't been here, if the only homes for sale in this area had been the ones in Corban , you would've moved on, found some other town to live in. You wouldn't've wanted one of those small dirty houses with dusty yards or one of those broken-down trailers in the pines. The thing t
hat attracted you to Bonita Vista is that it's clean and well-maintained. What you liked about this neighborhood is what the homeowners' association has made of it." He paused. "Me, too."

  "So we're hypocrites, huh?"

  "No. But we were lured here, trapped, misled." He motioned around him, at his house, at the other houses beyond. "We thought this was all natural and organic, we didn't think it was an artificially maintained environment. Now we're living in this safe little bubble that's completely cut off from the rest of the town."

  "I was talking to my friends back in California, and they were shocked when they found out we have so many restrictions here, so many do's and don'ts."

  "You were, too, weren't you?"

  Barry nodded.

  Ray sighed. "So was I," he said quietly. "So was I."

  They ate inside, but after dinner, all four of them retired to the deck. Liz lit citronella candles to keep away the bugs, and they sat on the wing chairs, staring out at the sky and the millions of stars visible on this new-moon night. One star seemed to be moving, heading straight across the heavens at an even pace, and Ray pointed it out.

  "That's a satellite," he said.

  "I didn't know you could see those with the naked eye," Maureen admitted.

  "You can out here. Back in New Jersey you couldn't. And probably not in California either. But out here, there's no light pollution, no air pollution, and if you stay out here long enough and your eyes get adjusted, you can see some pretty amazing things."

  They were silent for a moment, looking.

  "I wonder why we never went back to the moon," Barry said.

  Maureen groaned. "Not this again."

  "I'm serious. When I was little, we were supposed to have colonies up there by this time. What the hell happened?"

  "He was so brainwashed by all that NASA propaganda in the sixties,"