Free The Man on the Washing Machine by Susan Cox

antiques—carved tables; silk rugs and rosewood chairs with no cushions; and souvenirs of her husband’s African travels—Masai warrior spears, vicious-looking clubs carved to look like fists, and odd little stools. It’s difficult to find somewhere comfortable to sit. If it weren’t Fabian Gardens tradition to meet in the home of the president, I think we’d all welcome a change.
    After the meetings, the secretary—me this year—sends notes to people telling them when they’ve been assigned in absentia to a committee. For that reason alone, I’ve always felt, the meetings are pretty well attended. It’s easier to fight off the nominations in person. Anyone who lives or works in Fabian Gardens is a de facto member of the association, so we’re an interesting mix of well-to-do property owners, professional people, merchants, and the waifs and strays who tend to inhabit the tiny studio apartments.
    I arrived as we were called to order, so I had no chance to talk to anyone before things got lively. Nat was perched on an African milking stool in the bay window with his arms clasped around one knee, watching everyone with an engaged and interested expression. He winked at me and I rolled my eyes. Part of the meeting’s entertainment value was the bare-knuckle jockeying between the president and her vice president. Both women were forced to make polite noises to each other in public while bitterly complaining later, and in deepest confidence, to their cronies who of course spread it all over the place. Nat loved every moment of every meeting and forwarded the latest e-mails to me with vulgar comments appended.
    The first item on the agenda was Sunday’s Open Garden, our annual show for the neighborhood. People bring their mothers in from Benicia and Concord to see the little townie miracle as if they didn’t have gardens out in the country. I allowed myself to hope that it would occupy us all evening.
    Someone meekly proposed that we delay the Open Garden this year because of Tim Callahan’s death.
    â€œWhy?” Kurt snapped. “He had nothing to do with us.”
    Maybe doctors develop a shell to protect themselves from emotional involvement, but Kurt was overdoing it. Several people agreed with him and two or three others lined up on the side of a postponement. They were voted down and we determined that the Open Garden would go ahead. However, in a sop to our finer feelings, we decided to print the information about Tim’s funeral in our e-newsletter so anyone who wanted to could go to pay their respects. Haruto, resident compost fanatic, made a hot-tempered remark about dogs digging up the compost pile. A dog-owning resident took exception and they nearly came to blows. Haruto and his champions threw out random remarks about leash laws, while the pet owners muttered darkly about Nazis.
    I swallowed hard and told them that the women’s group home was a fait accompli. Suddenly the factions united—Fabian Gardens was Poland and the shelter was a Panzer Division. I’m surprised a single soul in the room had any vocal cords left at the end of an exhausting and ultimately pointless shouting match. Our vice president tossed her stiff blond ponytail and said we should hire her cousin the attorney to put the fear of God into the owner of the building and the shelter people. Somebody mentioned that the Catholic Church was backing the shelter. “Screw the Catholic Church,” she snarled. “We need to do something; if it isn’t already too late,” she added with a toothy smile. Her cousin charged $600 an hour, she said, but he was worth every penny.
    It was clear from the immediate lack of eye contact around the room that, while no one wanted to admit to putting their personal finances ahead of the association’s best interests, no one was rushing to pick up that particular torch, either. In the pause that followed, Kurt suddenly