Red Envelopes

The warmth of the sand at my toes and the sunshine on my face put my mind at ease. The waves of the ocean rocked gently on the salted sea shore, every now and then, some sea weed or fragments of fossilized sea creatures washed up on shore. My wife lie beside me, clad in a white bikini and reading some trashy romance novel. I wrote trash myself. Horror junk, but I liked to think that my trash was be$er than the trash my wife read. Perhaps the two of us could be characters in some novel. I, a man of thirty &ve, pudgy white belly, wearing red swim trunks. My wife Anita’s abdominal muscles tensed as she periodically applied generous amounts of suntan oil to the muscles. I was deaf to the world, wearing my headphones and reading my own li$le horror novel and periodically I would scribble down some notes on my yellow legal pad. My wife was a Florida na*ve. I was a Midwestern boy. Ini*ally from Ohio. Before I moved to Florida, the only beaches I had ever seen was on the television. I was on a book tour promo*ng my &rst book when I met Anita. She had come to hear me speak at Walmart and from the moment I &rst saw her, I said there is nothing for me in Ohio and I did not even bother going home or packing. I learned she loved the beach, but had never owned beachfront property before. Bought a beachside house and we were married in a year. We had been married eight y ears. I had wri$en four books since then and had acquired a net worth of about sixty million dollars. A seagull landed next to me and snapped at me.

Ow,’’ I cursed. ‘’Li$le fucker.’’He walked away, no doubt feeling triumphant. I’m sure in the bird’s mind, he had proved he was the alpha male. Felt like I was in high school again. Not teaching as I had been, before the wri*ng books for a living thing took o3, but a student. I could recall one incident when I was a freshman and I had a run in with the star Linebacker Chip Maitland. I was some pudgy lineman on the junior varsity.He had accused me of making googly eyes at his girlfriend Debra Bush. She was the head cheerleader at Rover High and *ed at the hip to Chip Maitland. In the cafeteria, I had stared open mouthed at this Goddess who wore *ght sweaters and *ghter blue jeans and could give Dolly Parton a run for her money. I had never spoken two words to her. He slammed me into a locker and scared me so bad that I eventually pissed my pants and quit the team two days later. Never told my parents why I quit the team, just told them it was not fun anymore. Which was a lie. It had never really been fun for me. My dad loved football. He could have had a chance to play pro ball before hur*ng his knee in college. Had this trophy my brother Ma$ and I were never allowed to go into when we were li$le. Dad was afraid we might knock over one of his trophies. My brother died of a rare type of lung disease when he was &6een and I was thirteen. There had been certain nights; when I would lie alone in my bed, in u$er darkness and gently whisper, ‘’Ma$? Can you hear me?’’ When we were younger, Ma$ saved me a lot from dad’s anger. Never got to really experience my dad’s true wrath &rst hand for myself, un*l a6er Ma$ died. I remember a couple days a6er

Ma$’s funeral, sneaking into dad’s trophy room. I think he had kept a book in there that I had wanted to read. I think it was about the Cleveland Indians or something, and I snuck in there and accidentally knocked over one of my dad’s football trophies. I remember being 9ung into the wall and waking up with a cast on my arm in the hospital. My dad told me to tell anyone who asked about the arm that I had hurt it in a tackle football game with my cousins. Never understood why my brother would usually try to take the blame for a lot of my mistakes. It seemed my brother would wind up with mysterious injuries, or at least that was what I had thought at the *me. From my own experience, I knew be$er and it made me feel queasy whenever I would think of my brother lying to cover our dad’s ass and save me from the awful wrath our father must have in9icted on him throughout most of his childhood. I watched my wife race toward the water and dive swan like into that salty, blue mysterious thing and I watched her swim and it made me smile. A6er her aerobics class, Anita and I sat down to a lovely dinner I had prepared. Red wine and salmon. We clinked our glasses and toasted to our everlas*ng love. I fell asleep cradling her in my arms. She had run into some town to do an errand the next day, and that le6 me alone to get some wri*ng done. A6er two hours of wri*ng, I needed a break. There was no baseball on the tube, so I checked the mail. Inside was a red envelope housing a le$er. I opened it in my study. The le$er read as such. Dear Bradley,I am a great admirer of you and your work and would like to have dinner with you this aernoon at the Grease Pit Diner. Noon today.

Sincerely,Rose Cutlip.I took a shower, combed my hair, got dressed and headed over to the Grease Pit Diner. Waited about forty &ve minutes and Rose never showed. Got another le$er from Rose the next day. This *me I never bothered going inside, I read the thing right there at the mailbox. Dear Bradley.Sorry I stood you up. I got cold feet, as they say. Tonight, I will de$nitely be at your house at midnight tonight.Love,Rose.The hours seemed to melt away slowly. His wife turned in at about ten o’clock. At about 11:55 p.m., he sat out on the pa*o and waited for his alleged biggest fan. Midnight came and nothing happened. ‘’She did it to me again,’’ mu$ered Bradley.At 12:01 a.m., the sea began to burble and a creature rose from the deep. I watched in astonishment as the &gure ambled its way toward my home. The thing crawled up my pa*o steps, and by now I could see the creature wore torn clothing, heavy with water, tangled up in shredded bits of hanging seaweed. I could see bone poking through her ta$ered red dress.