Barry walked out of the house, sipping Dr. Pepper from the battered plastic Batman cup that had been his sole contribution to their kitchen supplies. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Watering."
"No, I mean after that. Are you busy?"
"Not really. Why?"
"I thought we could check out the tennis courts, get in a little exercise. We're paying for those courts with our association dues. We should at least get our money's worth."
It had been a long time since they'd played tennis. In the early days, when they were dating, when they were poor, they spent many a Saturday afternoon on the courts of the high school next to her old apartment.
Neither of them were particularly athletic, however, and time and inclination had led them away from outdoor recreation. But playing tennis again sounded like fun, and she nodded enthusiastically. "Let's do it."
"All right, then."
"Do you know where the rackets are?"
"I put them in one of the garage boxes we have in storage. I'll cruise down and pick them up while you finish your watering."
"Okay." She smiled and pulled on the hose as she moved to the next group of plants. "Prepare to meet your doom."
"You never beat me once," he reminded her. "And I don't think ten years of inactivity have improved your tennis skills."
"Famous last words," she said. "Famous last words."
She finished watering, and after Barry returned with the rackets and a can of balls, they walked down to the tennis courts. Located near the entrance of Bonita Vista, the better to impress outsiders and passersby, the twin courts were perfectly maintained and surrounded by a high green chain-link fence meant to prevent balls from flying into the forest and to keep out nonresidents. Inappropriately large stadium lights were mounted on streetlamp-sized poles in order to illuminate the courts at night and allow evening play.
They stepped up to the gate. An electronic lock with a small keypad was mounted above the latch.
"Guess we should've read our handbook before coming down here," Barry said derisively. He handed Maureen the can of balls and bent forward to look at the metal square. "There aren't any instructions." He punched in the entry code for the community gate, but there was no response.
"Try our address," Maureen suggested. "Or our lot number."
The lot number did the trick, and the framed chain-link rectangle swung smoothly open.
"Keeping track of who uses it," Barry said. "Nice."
Maureen laughed. "You're as paranoid as Ray." She walked onto the green court, felt a slight give beneath her feet as she headed toward the net. It was a far cry from the faded lines on concrete that had defined the school court on which they used to play, and she was impressed that Bonita Vista had such a professional, state-of-the-art facility.
She touched the taut net and walked around it to the other side.
"Didn't Mike and Tina say that they played tennis?"
Barry nodded. "Yeah."
"Maybe if we practice up a bit, we could play doubles with them."
"Sure. In a year or two."
"Speak for yourself." Maureen threw up a ball and hit it over the net to him. He returned the ball, but that was the end of their volley.
She missed, swinging against air, and the ball bounced harmlessly, dead ending at the fence. For the next several minutes, they took turns serving and missing, managing only an occasional return.
"Still think we're good enough to play the Stewarts?" Barry called.
"Let's get into it, writer boy. Four out of seven. You serve first."
They started playing. An actual game, not just random volleys. She noticed that he kept looking away from the court, out into the forest behind them, that he kept peering through the chain-link fence into the underbrush each time he picked up a ball. "Looking for Stumpy?" she teased him.
He glanced up quickly, guiltily, as though she'd read his mind, and it was obvious that she'd hit the nail on the head.
She'd been joking, of course, but she should've known better. Although he hadn't said much about Stumpy since that first day, she should have figured out that he'd be ohses sing about it. A deformed man living in the wilds? That was right up his alley, and no doubt he'd conjured up some outrageous scenarios involving under house crawl spaces and perverse voyeurism, and pets that had been stolen and eaten.
The truth, as she understood it, was not nearly so melodramatic. The limbless man was not malevolent but harmless. Almost everyone seemed to have a Stumpy story, and most of them were pretty damn funny. Barry was right; it was sad that someone actually lived like that in this day and age. But on the other hand, from everything she'd heard, it was his own choice, he preferred to live that way, and apparently it made him happy.
Barry picked up the tennis ball, and moved back into place.
"You think he's spying on us? Is that it?"
"I think he watches" Barry said. "And I think he knows a lot. Stumpy has access to everything. He can go where he wants when he wants. If he could talk, I bet he'd have quite a story to tell."
Maureen shook her head. "Just serve," she told him.
He beat her three games to one, and despite the fact that they were only playing for fun, her natural competitiveness would not allow her to go down without a fight. She walked forward. "Switch. The sun's in my eyes."
"A likely story."
Still, he let her trade sides, and she actually won the next game despite the fact that he was serving.
Then it was her turn and she let fly a not particularly effective serve, but Barry did not even try to return the ball. Instead, he let it bounce behind him and moved toward the net, motioning for her to do the same. They met in the middle of the court. "Don't be too obvious, but look across the street. There's an old lady spying on us."
She turned. On the other side of the road from the tennis courts was a house, a two-story residence of wood and glass with twin front windows facing the road. She saw the curtains move, saw an elderly face peer out.
"So? Old people are always nosy. It gives them something to do:
gossip about their neighbors."
"It's not just that. She's been watching us intently, keeping track."
"Maybe she's a tennis fan."
Maureen turned back, saw the curtains move once more. On the road in front of the house, an equally old couple was walking by, taking a stroll. The woman smiled, waved at them, but the man spent too long looking, did not turn away, and it was clear that he was watching them, studying them.
"See?" Barry said. "There's something weird going on."
"What? Face it, hon , this place isn't exactly a hotbed of activity in the middle of the week. We're probably the day's excitement."
"It's not just that." He glanced around, as though searching for something. "I feel like we're under surveillance." His gaze traveled upward to the top of the fence, to the light pole. He frowned, moved around the pole, looking up. "Check that out," he said.
"What?"
"Up there. Look."
She followed his pointing finger. Mounted atop the light pole, aimed down, was what appeared to be a video camera, the type of security device found in banks and convenience stores.
"See?"
"See what? It's obviously an anti vandalism measure. A perfectly appropriate one considering what happened to my flowers."
He walked around the pole again. "Where does it go?" he wondered.
"Where's the monitor that it's attached to?"
"There probably isn't one. It's probably just a VCR."
"But where? In the president's house?" He glanced up at the camera. "You telling me that thing doesn't have a zoom on it, that whoever's monitoring it doesn't use it to peek down babes' tennis blouses?"
"Now you're just being crazy." She looked at him. "Or is this some story idea you're trying out on me?"