The Association

by Bentley Little

  "I'm not looking to buy anything," Barry told her. "I just want to rent."

  "That's what I'm talkin ' about, sugar. Bert from the coffee shop bought that property off Old Man Pruitt in case he ever wanted to expand or build a bigger parking lot or something. That little building's just been sitting there empty ever since, and I bet if we made him an offer he'd take it. He probably hasn't thought about it for years, and if he found out he could make a little cash on that shack just by doing nothing, he'd jump at the chance." She smiled, picked up her keys off the desk. "Come on. Let's go talk to Bert."

  The coffee shop was only a block away, but Doris still wanted to drive rather than walk, and Barry figured that for an old real estate trick, an effort to ensure the customer would remain in her clutches and at her mercy until she decided it was time to let him go. But he got into her Buick without complaint, and the two of them drove down a narrow dirt back road rather than the highway; a long cut it seemed to Barry, but one that allowed Doris the time to fill him in on Bert's eccentricities and convince him that it was smarter to stay silent and let her do all the talking.

  It was midmorning, after breakfast but well before lunch, and the only customer in the coffee shop was a sour looking old man eating eggs and toast at the counter. Doris waved to the teenage waitress. "Lurlene!

  Your daddy here?"

  "Just a sec!" The girl disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a moment later with a short, skinny man sporting a crew cut and wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

  "Bert!" Doris called out.

  The man nodded, no discernible expression on his face. "Doris."

  "I got a man here's interested in renting Pruitt's teapot museum from you."

  "What?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

  "I thought you were interested in making some extra money."

  "Always."

  "Well then. Mr. Welch here's a writer, lives up in Bonita Vista. The homeowners' association won't let him write at home, so he's looking for an office, someplace he can set up shop and work on his books. I

  knew you had that old museum sitting empty, and I thought the two of you might come to some agreement." She touched Barry's arm again in a way that seemed overly familiar.

  Barry looked at her, and she smiled at him. There was a flirtiness that had not been there in Maureen's presence and which made him slightly uncomfortable. He should have brought Mo with him, was not sure why he hadn't, and he glanced quickly away.

  "What're you thinking?" Bert asked. "Moneywise?" The question was addressed to Doris.

  They hadn't discussed amounts, hadn't even speculated on a range, and before Doris committed him to something he was not willing to pay, Barry spoke up. "Why don't we look at the place first?"

  "That's a fine idea," Doris agreed brightly. She turned her smile on Bert. "Want to let Lurlene hold down the fort for a few minutes while we go on back and check it out?"

  Bert grunted noncommittally but put down his dishtowel. "Don't worry, Daddy, "Lurlene said, smiling. She nodded toward the old man at the counter. "I can handle this crowd."

  They walked through the kitchen and out a back door.

  The building was indeed small, Barry saw. The size of their master bedroom. But it had windows, shelves, a built in counter and electrical outlets. Most importantly, there was an adjoining closet-sized bathroom. Neither the water nor the electricity were turned on, and Bert said that Barry would have to pay for both, but at least they were hooked up. A giant cottonwood tree provided ample shade, and on the side of the building opposite the coffee shop, a green grassy meadow stretched all the way to a hill and the tree line.

  "So how much would you say it was worth?" Bert asked.

  Barry was about to say he'd be willing to pay a hundred a month plus utilities when Doris quickly stated, "Fifty a month." It was an offer, not a beginning bargaining point, and the flatness of her voice made it sound as though this were a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. She walked slowly around the room. "Lot of work to be done here, and Mr. Welch'll only be using it to write in. It's not like he's a lawyer or doctor renting a first-class suite with all the fixings."

  Bert nodded. "Fifty a month's reasonable." Doris held out her hand for Bert to shake. "Thanks, Bert. We'll go back to my office and discuss it, and I'll call you back. If everything's jake , I'll get some papers drawn up and we'll seal this agreement."

  "I can kick you out anytime," Bert warned. "I bought that place because I want to expand, and if I need more parking lot or have to add on to the restaurant, I'll kick you out."

  Barry nodded. "I understand."

  "Okay then."

  In the car on the way back to the real estate office, Doris laughed.

  "Kick you out. That's a hoot. Old Bert probably forgot he even had that place until we showed up and mentioned it to him."

  "Thanks for stepping in there," Barry said. "I was about to offer a hundred a month."

  "I thought you might go high." She smiled. "Didn't want you to cheat yourself. Even if it would've upped my commission."

  "I can't commit to anything yet," he told her. "I have to call my wife first."

  "Call her? Bring her on down! Look at it, think about it, discuss it.

  That shack ain't goin ' anyplace. And no matter what Bert says, he has no other plans for that place. You're a godsend to him. Take all the time you need."

  "Thanks," Barry said.

  Doris winked at him. "Just doin ' my job, sugar. Just doin ' my job."

  In a way, the homeowners' association had done him a favor.

  As much as Barry hated to admit it, working out of an office had opened up both his life and his work. He found that he liked spending his day in town, liked the contact with local characters and the sense that he was part of Corban’s day-to-day life. His new novel had undergone a shift since he'd gotten out of the house, acquired depth and texture and a real-world sensibility. It was more mainstream now, more accessible, less insular and self-referential, and in an indirect way the homeowners' association was responsible.

  He smiled wryly. Maybe he should thank them on the acknowledgments page.

  Outside the window, a redheaded woodpecker swooped out of the cottonwood tree and disappeared into what looked like a microscopic hole in the eave of the coffee shop. It was a hot day, and the cicadas were out in force, their chirruping overpowering the fan hum of his computer and fading all other noise into background static. Inside, shaded by the massive cottonwood's thick foliage and giant branches, the ah- remained pleasant and temperate, but he could see shimmering heat waves distorting the air above the dirt road and knew that out in the open the temperature was anything but pleasant.

  Barry saved what he'd written, shut off his computer, leaned back in his chair, and swiveled around. It was pretty neat having an office.

  He liked it. Ray Bradbury had an office. A lot of famous writers did.

  And there was something official about it. He felt more professional, more successful, his writing suddenly seeming more like a vocation than an avocation.

  Besides, he and Maureen were getting along better now that they were out of each others' hair.

  And no longer had to share computers.

  He checked his watch. Nearly noon--although his stomach could have told him that. Grabbing his wallet from the desktop, he locked up and walked across the field to the coffee shop.

  He'd taken to eating lunch here each day rather than going home or bringing something he'd made himself. He was not the only one. The coffee shop seemed to be a favored hangout of many locals. And the food was not half bad. Besides, it couldn't hurt to patronize the business of his landlord. He might be able to stave off potential rent increases. Or get some free work done should the plumbing act up or the roof leak.

  Barry pulled open the smoked glass door and felt the welcome chill of air-conditioning. The place was already starting to fill up, but his usual table by the restroom was free and he waved to Lurlene , grabbed himself a menu off the counter
, and sat down.

  He'd felt awkward the first time he'd come in here. He was not one for eating alone, was not one of those people who was comfortable without companionship in social settings. Being by himself in restaurants or movie theaters always made him feel self-conscious, as though everyone were staring at him, and though intellectually he knew that was not the case, he'd been sorely tempted to get his food to go and eat it in the office. But he forced himself to sit down at the counter and order lunch, and while he was fidgety and ill-at-ease, he managed to get through the meal unscarred.

  He returned the next day. Barry was not good at meeting new people, at injecting himself into existing groups or conversations, but he was lucky enough this time to have Bert do it for him. He was seated at the counter, eating a cheeseburger, pretending to be proofreading a manuscript, and behind him, two old-timers were talking about Kingdom of the Spiders, a William Shatner horror movie that had been on one of the Salt Lake City stations the night before. The movie had been filmed in Camp Verde, Arizona, which was where one of the old-timers was from, and he was tearing apart the topography of the film, complaining that in one scene Shatner was driving away from the ranches he was supposedly heading toward, and that editing and selective shooting made the movie's downtown seem very different from what it was.

  "It wasn't that they just shot the flick at Camp Verde," the old man said. "I could understand that. But they claimed it was Camp Verde.

  It wasn't supposed to be no made-up town or nothing. They were pawning it off as a real place."

  "This guy here writes scary stories like that," Bert said from behind the counter, nodding toward Barry. "Maybe he knows why they do things like that."

  Barry hadn't attracted any attention in the coffee shop on his first visit, had been ignored by the other customers as though he wasn't there. But all of a sudden the old man and his cronies took an interest in him, and Barry found himself the subject of serious attention. One old-timer even reached into his shirt pocket and put his glasses on in order to see better.

  "I rent him the old museum out back," Bert went on. He sounded almost proud. "He writes his books back there."

  The old man who'd been complaining about the movie squinted at him.

  "You a famous writer?" he asked.

  Barry laughed. "I don't know how famous I am, but I make a living at it."

  "What's your name?" one of the other men asked.

  "Barry Welch."

  There was shaking of heads all around.

  "Never heard of him," someone said.

  The complainer pushed his chair back, walked over to the counter, held out his hand. "Name's Hank Johnson. Pleased to meet you."

  Barry smiled, shook the hand. "Likewise."

  "So, as a writer, would you do something like that? Put in false stuff about a town even if you knew it wasn't true?"

  "Writing is lying," Barry said. "We make things up, and if we put in real places or actual events, we change them to suit our story. We don't care about reality."

  Hank nodded. "Makes sense. Ticks me off. But it makes sense."

  "A helpful hint: don't watch Kingdom of the Spiders if you're looking for realism."

  The old man chuckled. "You're all right, son. Come off a that counter there and eat with us. I got a lot a questions and I don't like standin' here this close to Bert. It's disturbing."

  "Hey," Bert growled.

  Barry picked up his plate and glass and followed Hank back to his table.

  Ever since then, he'd been treated like one of the regulars, one of the gang, and that was another reason he was glad he'd been forced to rent the office. There was something gratifying about being a part of the workaday world rather than remaining apart and aloof, isolated in his hillside house in his gated community. It appealed to his egalitarian, democratic sense and made him feel as though he were a better person for it.

  Lurlene came over and took his order--barbecued chicken sandwich and a Coke--and he nodded to Lyle and Joe over at the next table. "Where's Hank?" he asked.

  "Can," Joe said simply.

  Hank emerged a moment later, wiping his hands on his pants. He nodded at Barry, smiled. "Howdy, son. Hot enough for you?"

  "Temperature's fine out in my little shack."

  "Lucky bastard." Hank sat down in his usual spot at the adjacent table, gestured to Lurlene for some more iced tea.

  At the next table over, Lyle cleared his throat. "Another dog got poisoned last night."

  "No shit?"

  "Bill Spencer's Lab, Go. They found him facedown in his bowl, tied up right in the front yard. Guzman's going to do an autopsy on him this morning."

  Hank shook his head. "Never liked Guzman. I take all my animals to Ryan. He's my pet and livestock vet."

  "Yeah, but Guzman'll be able to tell what killed him."

  "We already know what killed him. What's this make? Four dogs this year?"

  "Somewhere around that."

  "Six pets total if you throw in Abilene's cats," Joe offered.

  "I never even heard about this," Barry said.

  Hank nodded. "Been goin ' on for a while. It's not regular, not consistent, but every month or two some dog'll be poisoned. Always happens in the middle of the night. It's bad enough for a man to come out and find his animal dead, but when it's kids that find the body, like with the Williamson girls ..." Hank shook his head. "It just ain't right."

  "And that walking piece of crap Hitman won't do a damn thing about it."

  Hank snorted. "Hitman. There's a proper candidate for lynching."

  Barry chuckled, but stopped when he realized that he was laughing alone. Hank wasn't serious, he wasn't proposing murder, but the sentiments behind the statement were anything but joking, and he understood, looking around the room, just how different he was from these people. This was a whole other world, and while he might be friendly with Hank and Joe and Lyle and some of the other regulars, he was just a visitor here.

  A woman at one of the other tables spoke up. "Why don't the sheriff just arrest those bastards?"

  "That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question."

  Barry was incredulous. "You mean the sheriff knows who's doing this?"

  "Everyone knows."

  "Who is it?"

  Lyle looked at him as though he were a moron. "Your homeowners'

  association."

  The answer came as a complete shock, and Barry's first instinctive reaction was one of guilt by association--no pun intended. He was suddenly certain that everyone in the coffee shop held him at least partially to blame for the pet killings, but a quick look at the faces of his lunch buddies convinced him that such was not the case, that he was considered one of them--not one of them--and though he was filled with relief, he still felt at fault somehow, as if he had betrayed the people around him.

  "The homeowners' association," he said dumbly.

  Lyle nodded.

  Hank spoke up. "It's true."

  The expressions on the faces of the other men and women were grim.

  Barry wished he could dismiss such a charge out of hand, but it was too easy to believe, and he had no trouble picturing a pet-killing committee dressed all in black, spreading out through Corban in the middle of the night to do away with dogs.

  He thought of the dead cat in the mailbox, thought of Barney.

  "But why would they do that?" he said aloud. "What's the point?"

  Hank shrugged. "They're trying to extend their influence into town, trying to make us all into a part of their little kingdom. Corban's unincorporated, and they want to take over. We have no town council, so they figure they can call the shots."

  "But no one's buying into it," Lyle said. "Their Master Plan just won't fly here."

  Joe nodded. "So they're trying to force their lifestyle on us. They don't allow pets, so they start killing our pets."

  "Next they'll be painting our houses for us, cleaning up our yards."

  "Let 'em!" someone called from a booth near the
door. "I'd appreciate some free maintenance work!"

  There were scattered chuckles, even Lyle smiled, and the mood seemed to be broken. The tension that had been gathering over the coffee shop dissipated, and Lurlene brought over his Coke. "Sandwich's coming,"

  she said.

  "I'muna get me one of them motion detectors," Joe said. "Put it on in the backyard where I keep Luke tied' up. Anyone comes snoopin ' around in the middle of the night-Warn!--all the lights'll go on, and I'll come out with my shotgun, blasting."

  "Not a bad idea," Hank said. "Maybe everyone with a dog oughta do something like that."

  Lyle nodded. "Maybe they should."

  Barry walked back to his office after lunch feeling strangely unsettled, and though he immediately fired up the old computer and sat down before it, more than an hour passed before he finally started writing again.

  He closed up shop late, time-fooled by the summer sun, but when he got home, Maureen was still down in her office, knee-deep in calculations.

  She was auditing the pay roll expenses for Corban Title and Mortgage, and she informed him that she didn't have time to cook dinner and wasn't in the mood for any of the limited number of dishes he knew how to cook, so he was on his own tonight.

  "No problem," Barry said. He went upstairs, micro waved a frozen pizza, and sat on the deck eating, watching the sun start its slow descent toward the canyons.

  After depositing his plate and glass in the dishwasher, he told Maureen that he was going to go for a walk, get a little exercise, maybe step by Ray's for a minute.

  "Say hi to Liz for me," she said.

  "Will do."

  Barry hiked up the road to the top of the hill. It was still light out, but the world was suffused in an orange glow, and from this angle the Dysons’ house looked like it was on fire, so bright was the reflection of the setting sun in the home's windows. Ray must have seen him walking up, because his friend was on the porch steps drinking a beer and waiting to greet him as Barry trudged across the gravel driveway.