The white-haired man returned to his own vehicle. He looked up at Barry as he walked, scowling, as if aware that his conversation had been overheard, and Barry quickly looked away, moving out of the man's line of sight, nervous for some reason, not wanting to acknowledge that he'd been listening.
The man got in his pickup and drove away.
"Did you hear that?" Barry asked Maureen.
She sipped her iced tea, nodded. "There are racist assholes everywhere."
That was not what Barry had gotten from the exchange, although it was undoubtedly true.
He had the distinct impression that any worker, regardless of his ethnicity, would have been questioned. It was not a race thing ... it was an association thing. He looked out once again at the approaching storm, but the pettiness of the people on the ground had drained the majesty from the sky, and he was no longer able to enjoy the view the way he had before.
They sat there the rest of the afternoon, as the rain approached and overtook them, whip crack thunder that sounded simultaneously with the flash of paparazzi lightning shaking the house and raiding the windows as though they were in an earthquake. They bore the brunt of the storm for a good half hour before it finally broke, and Maureen went back inside to start dinner.
Barry remained on the deck as dusk approached, ignoring the book he'd brought out to read, simply staring at the scenery. The sunset was dazzling. A section of the butte that stood like a sentinel at the far-off end of the forest where it segued into desert canyon was illuminated by a swath of light that lent the tan rock a brilliant fiery orange hue. The remnants of the afternoon's monsoon clouds dispersing across the western sky were transformed into what looked like puffy strings of cotton candy by the gradations of pink generated by the setting sun.
It was impressive, it was awe-inspiring.
But as hard as he tried to enjoy the view, he could not stop thinking about the cowboy and the Mexican worker and the homeowners'
association.
The next day was the fourth.
The Fourth of July had never been one of their big holidays, and although they slept in, waking up over an hour later than usual, they made no special plans to celebrate. Maureen allowed him to barbecue fat-free hot dogs for dinner in a modified concession to tradition, but the remainder of their plans consisted of doing yard work during the day and watching TV at night.
The day passed uneventfully, and they stopped working when the rains came, Maureen grabbing the rake, clippers, and broom, with Barry taking the shovel and the half-filled Hefty bag, both of them running for the shelter of the lower deck. The storm quit in time for him to barbecue, and they ate in front of the television, watching the two Flint movies back-to-back on AMC. Afterward, they showered together, made love, and went to sleep early.
They were startled awake by a loud boom that sounded like a bomb going off in the air above the house but that Barry recognized instantly as the sound of fireworks.
Despite the recent rains, it had been an exceptionally dry spring, and the national forest sign at the edge of town still had Smokey the Bear pointing to a red flag, warning of high fire danger. Barry's first thought was to wonder who was stupid enough to set off fireworks under such conditions. He got out of bed, slipped on a robe, and walked over to the sliding glass door. He pulled aside the curtain and watched a fat raccoon scramble off the lower deck and down an adjacent tree.
Maureen, still naked, moved up behind him and leaned on his shoulder, yawning in his ear. "Were those fireworks?"
"Sounded like it. But I don't see--"
Another one went off, the trace appearing to originate from the bottom of the hill near the tennis courts. A weak blue burst temporarily lit up a close section of sky, sparkles falling onto the pines.
"Isn't that a fire hazard?" Maureen asked, suddenly more awake.
"It seems like it to me."
"You think someone's setting them off illegally? Maybe kids are--"
Barry shook his head. "These are professional fireworks. Kids don't have the equipment to shoot off skyrockets like this. You need launchers. Besides, these kinds of fireworks are expensive."
They waited for several moments but nothing else went up.
"Maybe they were illegal," he conceded.
"Maybe the police or the rangers or the firemen got to them already and put a stop to it."
"No." Barry pointed. Another trace went up, and an anemic burst of red exploded above the trees.
Maureen smiled. "If this is supposed to be professional, it's pretty pathetic."
"We're spoiled." In southern California, spectacular fireworks could be viewed every weekend at various tourist attractions, along with the ubiquitous nightly displays at Disneyland: consistently impressive shows that could be seen from the beach to the Fullerton hills.
They stood, waited, and a few minutes later another skyrocket went off.
"I'm going to bed," Maureen said, yawning. "This isn't worth staying up for."
Barry agreed, and they both went back to bed, falling asleep to the intermittent sounds of exploding gunpowder.
Barry awoke late. Maureen was already out of bed, and the smell of eggs and hash browns wafted down from upstairs. He dressed quickly, ran a hand through his hair, and headed up to the kitchen. It was a beautiful day. Maureen had opened all the drapes and windows, and morning sunlight streamed in from a cloudless blue sky.
"Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes." Maureen pointed her spatula at a folded newspaper lying atop the dining table. "Check out the paper. Top story."
"Got any coffee?"
"Check out the paper first."
Barry walked over to the table, unfolded the newspaper, and stared down at the banner headline.
Bonita Vista to Set Off Fireworks Despite Fire Danger He started reading.
The Corban Weekly Standard came out every Tuesday, its stories written the week or weekend before, so there was no reporting on last night's display, only a pre-event article that addressed the situation from the vantage point of a few days prior. But there was no mistaking the tone of the piece or the anger that quoted Corbanites seemed to feel toward the arrogance of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association, sponsors of the display.
Apparently, Corban was running short on water this summer due to the extended drought conditions of the previous winter, something of which Barry had not been aware. Several years before, a similar situation had arisen, and for two weeks in mid-July, before late monsoons once again raised the water table, tanker trucks from Salt Lake City had brought water to the town and people had been forced to line up with plastic containers in order to get drinking water. Such an extreme situation was not expected this year, but voluntary rationing was currently in place, and it was suggested that people with lawns not water them and that no one wash their cars.
The article went on to say that Bonita Vista had its own wells, so it was not tied to the Corban water supply and was not suffering the same shortage. But water district officials said that it was still callous, insensitive, and potentially devastating to the surrounding forest to put on the display. "Those fireworks could cause a fire that would require digging into our reserves and could completely deplete our water resources," the superintendent said. A representative of the Forest Service concurred, adding that it would take several weeks of consistent monsoons before the trees and brush were no longer dried out and the area was no longer considered at risk. The chief of the volunteer fire department said bluntly that his men should not have to bail out Bonita Vista because of their shortsightedness and stupidity but that they would have to, since a blaze would endanger the town and surrounding countryside.