The Association

by Bentley Little

  Laura Lynn looked out the dusty glass of the kitchen window, but the yard was empty: the swing set deserted, the tree house vacant. The boy had been gone since just after breakfast, off with that no-good Tarley Spooner no doubt, and she wasn't too surprised that he was late.

  She was angry.

  But not surprised.

  She turned off the oven, stirred the string beans on the stove. Weston knew everyone was coming over for dinner today. She'd made it very clear to him that he could only play outside if he promised to be back well before noon, and he'd assured her that this time he would not forget. She'd believed him, so sincere were his promises, and she thought now that she should have been firmer with him, less trusting, less lenient.

  Claude walked into the kitchen, looking for a preview of the meal as always. "Somethin' sure smells good!" he said.

  She hit his hand before he could dip a finger in the mashed potatoes.

  "I swear, you're worse than the kids!"

  He tried to steal a roll from the plate on the countertop, and she pulled the plate out of his way.

  "Speaking of kids," he said, "have you seen Wes?"

  "I was just going to talk to you about that."

  "Don't worry. I'll find him." Claude quickly grabbed a spoon and took a bit of Jell-O from the bowl on the sideboard before walking over to the screen door.

  "Claude Richards!"

  "I'm starving!" He opened the screen and yelled into the backyard:

  "Wes!"

  No answer. He waited a moment, called out again. "Weston! It's time to eat!"

  "Go find him," Laura Lynn said.

  "I'll find him all right." Claude pushed open the screen, let it slam shut behind him.

  She watched through the window as he checked the tree house, the storage shed, all of the boy's usual haunts.

  Haunts.

  Claude disappeared around the side of the house, and Laura Lynn suddenly had a bad feeling about where this was heading. It wasn't like Weston to lie, to disobey her once he'd specifically promised not to do so. He might be a little rambunctious, a little headstrong, but he was basically a good kid, and the feeling in her gut told her that he had promised her he'd be back in time for lunch and he would have been back in time for lunch--if he could have.

  She wiped her hands on a dishrag, hurried outside after Claude.

  "Weston!" she called. "Weston Richards!"

  They were in the front yard now, and the rest of the family was filing onto the porch, having heard the commotion. "What is it?" Grandma Mary asked.

  "We can't find Weston!"

  Claude turned to look at her, frowning. "What are you overreacting for? He's probably playing with Tarley somewhere."

  "No." Laura Lynn shook her head firmly, afraid that by giving voice to her fear she was ensuring its inevitability, but unable to keep from speaking her mind. "Something's happened to him. I know it."

  Ford, Charley, and Emma came immediately down off the porch, while Grandma Mary herded Rachel and the little ones inside.

  "Weston!" Ford called out.

  "Weston!"

  "Weston!"

  "I'm going to check Tarley's house," Claude announced.

  Laura Lynn looked around, and her gaze was drawn to the empty field on the east side of their property. She started walking in that direction. "Weston!" she yelled, quickening her stride. "Weston Richards!"

  Then she saw it.

  A small, unmoving form lying in the dead weeds next to a scraggly black oak tree.

  Laura Lynn sucked in her breath. "Weston?" She was running before the whisper was completely out of her mouth, her legs pumping with a fury and purpose that they had never known before. She was dimly aware that the others were following her--Claude and Ford and Charley and Emma--but her focus was on the still, small body in the weeds ahead of her. She knew even before she reached it that it was Wes, and she prayed to God and the Lord Jesus Christ that he was only sleeping or only injured or only knocked out, that he was not dead.

  Her prayers went unanswered.

  It was indeed Weston. His head was crushed. Blood, some dried, most still wet, puddled in the broken indentation that had been the side of his skull. She could see a cockeyed ear dangling at the edge of the break, and in the midst of the liquid red were fatty flashes of white that could only be brain.

  But that was not all of it.

  For there was foam coming out of his mouth, a thick peachy froth that looked like bubble bath suds or shaving cream.

  She looked up, looked away. Something sparkled, and on the hills north of town, she saw the noonday sun reflected off the windows of the big houses in Bonita Vista, like flecks of mica on a granite rock.

  She looked back down at her son's still form and fell to her knees, registering but not really feeling the pain as her kneecap hit a jagged pebble. She touched the blood, touched the foam.

  Claude grabbed her from behind. "Laura Lynn! Laura Lynn!"

  And she started to wail.

  There was something wrong, and Maureen sensed it the second she walked through the door of the title company. It was nothing she could put her finger on--they weren't all staring at her, conversations were still being conducted at normal levels--but she was suddenly uncomfortable, the warm acceptance she'd experienced in previous visits nowhere in evidence now. She passed the secretary, made her way past the agents' desks. She was an intruder here, an outsider, and though there were no overt gestures, though nothing was said, the fact was brought home to her in subtle, almost imperceptible ways as she walked through the office: the slight turning away of a chair, a quickly averted glance, an overemphasis on busywork.

  She'd been assigned a temporary cubicle in the far corner, a desk surrounded by three modular walls, and she headed toward it, nodding hello and smiling at the people she saw, pretending not to notice that the return nods were nearly nonexistent and that there were no smiles for her. She was intercepted on the way to her desk by Harland Souther, the title company's manager, and he asked her if she would step into his office, prefacing his request with a nervous cough that she knew did not bode well.

  He closed the door behind them after they'd stepped into the room. "Have a seat," he offered, moving behind his desk.

  Maureen sat down warily. "What is it?" she asked. "What's the matter?"

  "I'm sorry," he said, "but we will not be able to use your services."

  "You're contracted to have me audit your payroll records."

  "I understand that. And, as you know, there is an out clause that enables us to rescind the contract and pay you a kill fee. We will be exercising that option."

  She faced him squarely. "May I ask why?"

  Harland shifted uneasily in his seat. "It's this whole controversy.

  We've decided not to do business with anyone from Bonita Vista. It's nothing against you personally," he added quickly. "You seem like a nice woman, and I know you're good at what you do. You're new here, and it's not really fair that you've gotten caught in the middle of all this, but..." He shrugged helplessly.

  "I don't understand."

  "You know ..."

  She shook her head. "What?"

  "Oh." An expression like surprise crossed his features, and it was replaced" almost instantly by a sheepish, embarrassed look.

  "There's..." He trailed off, coughed nervously, obviously unsure of how to begin. "There have been some poisonings in town. Of pets. No one knows who's behind it, but a lot of people seem to think it's the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association because ... well, for a lot of reasons. Last week, a little boy accidentally ate some poisoned dog food and now he's in a coma in the hospital in Cedar City. Yesterday ..." He looked away, sighed heavily. "Yesterday, another little boy's body was found in the vacant lot next to his house. He was poisoned and his head was bashed in. Now I'm not saying who did it, and for all I know the sheriff already caught someone who's in custody right now. But because of all this, the decision's been made to cut off all business with Bonita
Vista. There's nothing I can do about it. My hands are tied." This last was said quickly, without pause, almost as though he feared her reaction and was trying to stave off a return assault.

  Maureen sat there, stunned. She was tempted to argue with him, to point out that such a policy was discriminatory and probably illegal, but she understood the feelings of the people in town, and to a large extent shared them herself.

  She thought of the gate, thought of Ray, thought of all the reasons she and Barry distrusted the homeowners' association, and she could not fault the people of Corban for hating and fearing Bonita Vista.

  "I know you're caught in the middle of this," Harland repeated, "and, like I said, this really has nothing to do with you--"

  Maureen stood, nodded tiredly. "I understand."

  "We'll pay you your kill fee--"

  "I understand."

  Back at home, she checked her E-mail, scrolling down to view the list of messages she'd received that morning. The subject headings were all over the map, but though the specific names were different, the substance of each was the same.

  All of her local clients had dropped her.

  It was not totally unexpected, not after what had happened at the title company, but it was still overwhelming to see it laid out like this, to witness in cold, flat type such complete rejection.

  She didn't even have Frank and Audrey anymore.

  She would have laughed if it wasn't so sad, would have cried if it wasn't so infuriating, but instead she just sat there blankly staring at her screen.

  He hadn't eaten at the coffee shop for over a week. Barry told himself that it wasn't intentional, that he wasn't avoiding the place, that he'd simply had errands to run and leftovers to get rid of and that a legitimate series of circumstances had led to him eating at home or in his office or even skipping lunch entirely.

  But he knew that wasn't the truth.

  Today, though, he was determined to return. Things had to have cooled off since last time, and he doubted that there'd be the same tension.

  There was no way Hank could stay angry for this long. Joe maybe. Or Lyle. But Hank was more reasonable, more sensible, and since he was their ringleader, Barry knew that the old man would exert a tempering influence and calm everyone down, remind them that Barry was on their side and was one of the good guys.

  But he was wrong.

  He sensed it the second he walked through the door. A coldness that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning hit him the instant he stepped into the coffee shop, and he didn't need to look around to know that all eyes were upon him. The only noise was the muted sizzling of the grill back in the kitchen and the pl inking of fork on plate as someone at one of the tables continued eating.

  He walked self-consciously over to his usual table and sat down, trying not to notice the complete lack of conversation, the air of hostility that overhung the eatery. Lurlene looked over at her father first, getting his okay before angrily slamming down a menu and a glass of water. The water splashed over the table and onto Barry's lap, but he forced himself to smile and keep his voice calm as he picked up the menu and handed it back to the waitress. "I don't need this, Lurlene .

  I'll just have the usual."

  She grabbed the laminated menu from his hand and stormed off without saying a word.

  Something had happened since the last time he'd been here. He had no idea what it was, but it had to have been big to engender this kind of anger, and he only wished he knew so he could fight against it.

  He used his napkin to wipe up the spilled water and took a sip from the half-filled glass. He was thinking about approaching Hank, just walking over to the old man's table, coming right out and asking what was the matter, when Joe stood up from his place near the counter and strode purposefully over to Barry's table.

  Barry wasn't sure how to react, so he just remained where he was, took another sip of water, and watched the other man coming.

  Joe faced him squarely. "Didn't think you'd have the nerve to show your face in here."

  There was anger in his voice. No. Not just anger. Rage.

  Barry's heart was pounding. He could not remember the last time he'd gotten into any sort of physical altercation, but he had the feeling that Joe was going to try and goad him into one right here, right now, although he still had no idea why.

  He stood but tried to remain relaxed and friendly, though that was getting increasingly hard to do. "I don't know what you're talking about, Joe. Whatever's happened ..." He spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "... I'm out of the loop. You're going to have to clue me in."

  "Weston Richards," Joe said, practically spitting out the name.

  The man stared at him for a long moment, and Barry shook his head, still unaware of the intended meaning.

  "I don't know what this Weston's done," he said, "but--"

  "Weston didn't do nuthin '!" Lyle shouted from his table near the door.

  "He was killed. You guys poisoned him!"

  Barry looked toward Hank. "There was another accident?"

  "This weren't no accident," Hank said, and Barry could see the fury in the old man's eyes. "They killed that boy on purpose. The Richardses didn't have no dog."

  "And his head was bashed in!" Lurlene glared at him.

  There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Barry's stomach. "I don't know anything about this. This is the first I've heard about it."

  Hank nodded. "That's the problem. No one knows anything about it."

  "But we know who's responsible," Ralph said from his seat at Lyle's table.

  "Look--" Barry tried to be reasonable. "--I hate that stupid homeowners' association as much as you do. More probably because I

  have to put up with their shit and abide by their damn rules."

  "But you're still a part of it," Lyle pointed out. "You're still a member."

  "I have no choice! If I live there, I have to pay dues!"

  "You have a snowplow!" a woman near the window shouted.

  Barry looked over at her. She was someone he had not seen before, an overweight woman with an over bite and too-large breasts, and he didn't understand either her reference to the snowplow or the anger he saw in her eyes. "What?" he asked her.

  "In the winter. You have a snowplow up there. But it's only for Bonita Vista. Our plow broke down last year and we were snowed in for nearly a week. Snowed in! But you wouldn't help us, wouldn't let us use your plow, wouldn't clear off any of our roads!"

  "What about the water?" Ralph said quietly.

  There were nods all around.

  "Look, I wasn't even living here last winter. I'm not involved with the water. I have nothing to do with this Weston thing--"

  "Our utility rates went up in town because of all the electricity you use!"

  "The runoff from your carved-up hills is contaminating thecrik !"

  "I just live there," Barry said defensively. "I don't--"

  "Weston's head was bashed in," Lurlene repeated. "He was poisoned and frothing at the mouth and the top of his head was bashed in. I knew that little boy."

  "I didn't do it!" Barry said.

  "No," Hank said, and his voice was loud enough and grave enough to silence all the others. "But you didn't do nothin ' to stop it neither."

  They stared at each other, and Barry realized that there was no way he was going to ever win here, no way he was going to change any opinions or convince anyone that he should not be tarred with the same brush as his neighbors.

  "They're trying to kill off our kids," the woman near the window said.

  "They're mad that we won't go along with their plans, and now they're trying to kill off our kids."

  Joe's voice was seething. "Pets ... kids ... Who knows what's next."

  Barry wanted to be able to argue with this, wanted to be able to fight back, but he couldn't. Such an idea might seem ludicrous, but he couldn't dismiss it out of hand, and there was no way he would stoop to defending the homeowners' association.

 
"I think you'd best get your food to go," Bert said to him from behind the counter, and it was clear from his tone of voice that this was an order, not a suggestion.

  Barry's eyes focused on the small white sign propped up on top of the cash register: we reserve the right to refuse SERVICE TO ANYONE.

  He had the feeling that this was going to be the last meal he would ever order from this place. Or be allowed to order.

  He stood, finished off the last of his water, and walked over to the cash register.

  He would not be surprised if Bert kicked him out of the office as well.

  And if the sentiment of the coffee shop regulars was any indication of the local attitude toward Bonita Vista, he doubted he'd be able to find another office very soon.

  With the association banning him from writing in his own house, it'd be the old rock and a hard place dilemma.

  Maybe he'd just stake out a campsite in the forest, get himself a generator to power the computer, and write out there.

  With a frown, Bert handed him the greasy bag of food and took his money, silently proffering change. Barry did not look at anyone as he walked straight through the center of the coffee shop to the door. His footsteps sounded embarrassingly loud in the stillness.

  Once outside, he breathed a little easier. The claustrophobic tension that had been pressing in on him dissipated in the open air, and he walked back to his office across the open field, feeling as though he'd awakened from a paranoid dream and was back in the real world.

  Fifteen minutes later, he had finished his lunch, abandoned the real world, and was in the realm of death and supernatural horror, the unpleasantness at the coffee shop pushed to the back of his brain, existing for the moment only as a possible element he could add to his new novel.

  He was in the middle of a monster-POV chapter, flying along, his fingers barely able to keep up with his mind, when the silence of the office was suddenly shattered by the crash of glass. A baseball flew through the window next to his desk, sending shards flying inward, and Barry instinctively ducked. It could have been kids, a foul ball hit in the wrong direction during a pickup game, but somehow he knew that it wasn't. When there was no follow-up, he quickly sprang to his feet and sprinted the three steps to the front of the office. He yanked open the door, saw a man running across the field back toward the coffee shop, but could not tell who it was.