Chain Letter

Chain Letter - Chapter One

Alison Parker saw the letter first. Normally, she wouldn't have checked her mail, but the mailbox was slightly ajar, and she couldn't help noticing the off-purple envelope addressed to Fran Darey. It was a peculiar letter, taller than it was long, with no return address. Alison wondered if it was a love letter. Whatever it was, whoever had sent it had lousy taste in color. The off-purple envelope reminded her of spoiled meat.

"Do you need any help?" Alison called. She was standing on Fran's porch, holding an assortment of books and bags: enough for three girls' homework and personal items. Fran Darey and Brenda Paxson were unloading a half-painted set from the back of Alison's station wagon, trying to maneuver it into the garage with a minimum of damage. The prop was for a play the three of them were involved in at school: You Can't Take It with You. Fran was in charge of special effects. Brenda had a small, wacky role. Alison was the star.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Brenda gasped, swiping at her overly long bangs and losing her grip on a portion of thier character's living room. It hit the concrete driveway at an unfavorable angle, and a strip of wallpaper bent back.
"I took this home to finish it, not destroy it," Fran complained in her quick, nervous voice. Fran fretted over everything; it was a quality that made her excel at detail work. Brenda professed to the opposite. She worried only about "things of importance." Still, on bad days, it was hard to tell the two of them apart. They were always arguing. They were Alison's best friends.

"I'm coming," Alison said, setting aside her gear and hurrying down the steps. It was hot and smoggy, not the best of days for heavy labor. Yet Alison didn't mind the weather. It reminded her of summer --only a few weeks away--and of their quickly approaching graduation. Lately, she had been anxious to finish with high school, to begin her real life. Her game plan called for four years in UCLA's drama department, followed by forty years starring in Hollywood feature films. Her chances were one in a million, so her parents often said, but she liked a challenge and she loved acting. Besides, when had she ever listened to her parents?

"Grab here," Brenda said, wanting help with her end.

"No, Ali, come over here," Fran said.

"Why would she help you?" Brenda asked. "This is your project. I'm just a volunteer. I'm not even getting union scale."

"But you're stronger than me," Fran said, straining.

"I'll get in the middle," Alison said, her usual position when the three of them were together. With a fair quota of groans and curses, they got the makeshift wall into the garage. If the truth be known and Brenda was quick to point it out, there was absolutely no reason for Fran to have brought the set home. You Can't Take It with You's opening night was not for over a month.

Because they entered the empty house through the garage, Fran didn't immediately check on her mail. Only when they were seated at the kitchen table drinking milk and eating Hostess Twinkies and complaining about how many miserable calories were in each bite did Alison remember the books and bags she had left on the porch. While fetching them, standing just outside the kitchen window, she called to Fran, "Do you want me to bring in your mail?"

"She doesn't care," Brenda said. "No one sends real mail these days."

"Ain't that the truth," Fran said. "Sure Ali."

Alison waited expectantly while Fran dawdled over the front cover of a Glamour magazine that promised an exciting exclusive on Princess Kate's tastes in sweaters and an in-depth article by a prominent psychiatrist on why women didn't trust their husbands. Finally Alison got fed up and, clearing her throat, pointed out the purple envelope to Fran.

"That letter has your name on it," she said.

"Are you serious?" Brenda asked between mouthfuls of cream and cake. "Who's it from?"