The birth of a HOA squad

Opening scene

Karen stands on the curb of Maple Ridge Court at seven in the morning, sunglasses on despite the overcast, surveying her new kingdom of problems. Her long sleeve black v-neck, cream khakis, open toed sandals outfit. The Hendersons' hedge is four inches over the property line. The mailman parked on the wrong side of the street. A child's bike — a bike! — lies abandoned on the sidewalk, and no one has been held accountable.

She adjusts her sunglasses, pulls the laminated grievance list from her canvas tote, and sips her gas-station coffee, finds it two degrees too cold, and feels a complaint rising in her throat like a hymn. The neighborhood does not know what has arrived on its cul-de-sac.

Turn 1 of 5

March to the HOA president and file my first formal complaint

The Hendersons' hedge can wait. Karen crosses Maple Ridge Court with her tote on her shoulder and the laminated list in hand, sandals slapping the fresh asphalt, straight toward the house with the tasteful bronze plaque by the door: MAPLE RIDGE HOMEOWNERS ASSOCIATION — PRESIDENT: DIANE PEMBERTON. Of course she works from home. They all do, the ones who let a neighborhood slide like this.

Diane Pemberton answers the door in a cardigan the color of oatmeal, mid-fifties, mousy brown hair pulled back in a clip. Her smile is the practiced kind that has survived many committee meetings.

"Good morning! Can I help—"

"You can," Karen says, and holds up the list. "Four-inch hedge encroachment, 114 Maple Ridge. Mail truck parked against traffic. A child's bicycle abandoned on public sidewalk since at least seven-oh-two a.m. None of it is in the covenants, because I checked, which means the covenants are insufficient. I'd like to file a formal complaint. I'd like to see the complaint form."

Something moves across Diane's face — not annoyance. Something more like recognition, the way one dog recognizes another.

"You know what?" she says slowly, and her hand drifts up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You know what, that is a really good point about the covenants." Her voice has shifted half a tone higher, sharper, and there is — Karen notices it and files it away — a faint lightening at Diane's roots, as though the sun has decided to follow her indoors.

"Because last spring I asked for a fence height review and nobody, nobody, even responded. Do you have time for coffee? I have a binder."

She already sounds like a woman who says the word nobody the way Karen says it. Diane turns to fetch the binder, and in the hall mirror behind her, her clip is coming loose, and the hair beneath is coming in blonder than it was.