The Man in Red

The cul-de-sac had all the hallmarks of life and prosperity. Trees swayed in their green finery, their leaves twisting and catching the shimmering rays of a sun that had nearly reached its peak over the idyllic subdivision on the east side of town. A cool spring wind caught itself in the branches, and pushed along an armada of clouds like plump ships sailing through a sky as blue as Caribbean waters. Bob white quails whistled questioningly from their perches, and the occasional grackle trilled and chirped right alongside them. Squirrels tittered in a manic rush, as they fought each other for acorns, or sweet tree sap, or the swelling buds of trees. It was that perfect, lotus-eater time of day, when the elderly napped, and perhaps the dreamy drone of a lawnmower somewhere in the distance was the only evidence that people were present.

Why, were it not for Mr. Marinette rolling slowly down the street in a brown box truck, one could imagine no one was really here at all. But Mr. Marinette knew he was far from alone. He drove slowly into the cul-de-sac, and wound his way around until he was pointed back in the direction he came. He parked the truck in front of the lone empty lot in the block, which harbored a well-kept picnic area of benches among a grove of bald cypress trees. He turned off the engine and leaned over to open a red and white cooler in the passenger seat, and pulled out a glass bottle of milk. He opened it and drank it as though it were a fresh cold beer. Then he looked around him, and smiled. Each yard was manicured to perfection, like tiny shimmering meadows. Even the air was sweet with lavender and honey, except for the faintest scent of acrid smoke emanating across the street from the front porch of 3770 Green Way.

Mr. Marinette glanced at the squat white ranch house. A mailbox shaped like a red barn sat at the end of a meandering white concrete path that cut through a well-manicured lawn. The covered porch was surrounded by a tightly curated hedge of white rose bushes in full bloom. From one of the support posts on either side of the steps, the remnants of an American flag hung loosely, as though unaffected by the breeze. Most of the flag was burned away, charred black around its edges. A smokey ring of ash lay on the porch steps beneath it; it was all that remained of the rest of the cremated banner.

Mr. Marinette drank the last of his milk, then opened the door, and climbed out of the truck. He took his red jacket from the back of the seat, and slid it on. Then he took a short stovepipe hat from the dash and plopped it on his head. He took a deep breath, and let it out with a soft ahhhh. Were it any other time of day, he would have felt conspicuous in his tailored burgundy suit and top-hat, but as it stood now, he had nothing to worry about. He had timed it perfectly. He had a knack for such things. Always did. Besides, he would have felt uncomfortable in the delivery man's uniform. He had been short and squat, and Mr. Marinette was tall and lanky.

Mr. Marinette walked to the back of the truck, pausing to admire himself in the reflective surface. Thin as a broomstick, he thought to himself. That's what some had said of him before, and he found it an apt comparison. He swung open the back doors of the truck and climbed inside, stepping over the body of the delivery driver sprawled between the racks of boxes still waiting to be delivered. He cautiously avoided the pooling ruby red puddle of blood that had oozed across the floor, and unhooked a dolly from its perch against the side of the truck. He began to load boxes onto it. He stacked them neatly, the largest on bottom, then wheeled the dolly back to the doors. He stepped down, and deftly pulled the dolly and boxes from the truck, setting them onto the street as though they were made of papier mache.

Mr. Marinette walked down the sidewalk, pushing the dolly. His shoes clicked on the concrete in a lively rhythm, as though someone were playing a ti baka drum. The squirrels still frantically sparring for leftover acorns on the ground now fled helter-skelter up trees and into bushes. The grackles and bob whites ceased their chorus, and that dreamlike quality that had once hung heavy in the air, now turned prickly and cold.

House by house, one by one, Mr. Marinette dropped off boxes on the front porches of each home. Here was Mr. Bradley's books on circular productivity. Here was Mr. and Mrs. McCormack's new set of fine cutlery. Ms. Rubio must have ordered a telescope. His red coat flapping in the warm breeze, Mr. Marinette delivered every package on the dolly. He had timed it perfectly, but there was still a chance (albeit, slimmer than the cutting edge of the McCormack's new carving knife) that someone would come home. Perhaps all of them would, one by one, a circus train of domesticated beasts. He was confident, still, he would have no problem. When people already had their boxes delivered, they did not question the presence of a delivery truck. It was only when they were left wondering why they still had not received their packages that they came, asking their questions, fighting for their seat at the table of the social order.

Mr. Marinette stood facing the white ranch house at 3770 Green Way. The dolly was empty. So was Mr. Marinette's smile. He returned to the truck, and pulled the dolly into the back. Flies were buzzing at the pool of blood around the delivery man's corpse. Mr. Marinette turned his attention to the very back of the truck, where the sun couldn't quite reach beyond the doors. He reached down, and grabbed something, pulled it away from the wall.

It was another corpse. This one had been considerably older when it was killed. The legs were covered in therapeutic stockings. Blue veins could still be faintly seen through the thin material. It was dressed in a white nightgown, frilly and flower-printed. The nails were long, dirty, and white, and they led to curled fingers with enlarged knuckles, swollen wrists, and wrinkled forearms with bruises up and down the length of them.

There was no head. At least, not here.

Mr. Marinette pulled the body away from the wall, so he could reach the low shelf beyond it. He grabbed a brown paper box and twine from the shelf, then left the back of the truck and closed the doors behind him. He walked to the passenger side of the cab, opened the door, and rifled through the glove-box. He found a pen there, and the card he had slipped into his jacket at the stationary store on FM 49 that morning. He used the brown paper box as a surface, and in a flowing, precise example of excellent penmanship that was not his own, he wrote in the card:

To my dearest sister, Clara

May these good tidings last you the rest of your life. Together, all of our dreams come true!

Mr. Marinette read the card twice, and satisfied with it, he set it aside and opened the box. Then he pulled the head of Clara's dear sister from the milk cooler in his passenger seat, and a Bowie knife he had tucked in the glovebox, and carefully peeled the face off. He was meticulous, professional, experienced, and spilled not one drop on his crisp white shirt sleeves. He could have been peeling a tomato.

When he was finished, he laid the mask-like face inside the box, closed it, taped the brown paper back in place, and tied the whole package in rough twine.

Whistling a merry tune, and playing his footsteps like a tribal dance, he practically skipped across the street and laid the box on the doorstep of sweet, old Clara, the lady who gave the best candy to the neighborhood kids every Halloween, and who always waved at her neighbors in their tidy, neat little meadows.

He rang the doorbell, then walked back to the truck, climbed inside, and waited. Clara was asleep, this he knew for sure; but she would rouse and come to the door nonetheless. It was nearly one, and she always took her tea at one. He had planned it to perfection. He always did.

The door to 3770 opened, and a small, fragile little thing poked her gray cloud tuft of hair outside. She saw the package. She picked it up. She opened the card, and read it for a moment. She looked across the street, saw the delivery truck. Mr. Marinette did not move. He knew the sun, at this time of day, from this spot, would be reflecting off the passenger window, making it impossible to see inside. Clara stepped gingerly outside the door, looked up and down the street. There would be no delivery man today. Perfect planning. A little slice of time when there would be no interference – a slice of time thinner than a broomstick.

Clara walked back into the house, and closed the door. Mr. Marinette got out of the truck. He whistled again as he made his way past the red barn mailbox, along the meandering walkway, past the ashes of the flag, and up the creaky old steps. He stopped at the door, took off his stovepipe hat, and wiped his brow. Then he laid his hat gently on the welcome mat, adjusted his hair, and pulled the Bowie knife from his jacket once again. He reached out, touched the deadbolt lock with his prickly finger, and it fell out of the door with a muted clatter. The door slowly creaked open.

Mr. Marinette smiled, and as an anguished scream of horror began to sound from somewhere within the depths of the house, he stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, a lawnmower fired up. It was a perfect time of day.