Mysterious Messages

Lwruoetnyto e n e hnkw g lWsoetnhyotaedf hoeo hsda.

What’s a person to think when you find this on a sheet of folded paper, you know the type of paper that comes on those old adding machines, shoved beneath the front door mat except for one curled up corner? 

However, when I found a second coded message in the mail, I was, lets be honest, freaked out.

Hyehor e iaoaek Wsmnvud tedege bfhdae rtooenyt

So, I did what any sensible, independent, freaked out person would do, I filled a glass with wine and sat at the dining room table to analyze the messages, looking for similarities, /e/, and the paper was the same type. 

By the third note, sent to my email from an unknown person, I was a rattled as an old house in a storm. 

Iltoodamnabwrk’ohornyegno ?vsek e'e. ryb et Wsst Iroo bfed iC ouo

Wednesday, but a few days away, and I was leading and hosting the bookclub folks, double duty, triple stress, and, and, I hadn’t even finished the novel. Shoving the encryptions into a drawer, psychologically and in actuality. I ensconced myself in the cozy cushions of the couch, opened the book to the last page I’d read, one hundred of three hundred fifty, yikes, and willed my eyes to see and my brain to read and comprehend. 

Surrealism. Not my usual type of read. Weird. Wonky. Winsome. A kind of adult fairy tale. I was engaged, caught in the web of the plot like a fish in a net. On, and on, and on I read, until, forced to look up due to the dimming light, my doorbell drew me to the front door. 

Opening the door, I came face-to-face with a courier delivery woman, Norma, read her name tag,

“Hey there,” Norma said, “I’ve got a delivery that needs a signature.”

I stared at the envelope in her hand, trying to decipher who had sent the letter.

“Can you print your name and then sign on the dotted line?” Norma pointed to the far right of the page where indeed, there was the proverbial dotted line. 

Silence surrounded us as I applied my primary printing skills to printing my name and my cursive finesses to signing my signature. 

Handing back the clipboard, Norma held out the letter. I hesitated. 

“You okay?” Norma asked. I could hear the concern in her voice.

“Mmm.” I responded, “there’s been some unusual things happening lately, relating to mail, notes …” I stopped talking, feeling embarrassed by my wordiness. I do not usually share my concerns, my life with unknown people such as Norma.

“Gosh,” Norma began, “that sucks the big one, don’t it.”

I nodded, accepting the proffered envelope and with Norma’s words echoing in my ears, I carried the letter, flat palm, down the hall to the dining room, where I pupped on the lights, pulled out a chair and sat, staring at the white, legal-sized envelope on the table cloth. It stood out, almost fluorescent against the deep navy of the damask fabric. My eyes scanned the surface, seeking any clues as to the sender. With a deep breath, I turned over the envelope, ripped open the top and tipped out the folded paper, smoothing out the folds until it was laid, bare, in front of me.

If of .l Ws 'omp b yedvuyytoIsodaen ho'euny dcoekle e.

As I contemplated this latest letter, I smiled. This whole situation was absolutely surreal, just like this month’s novel. Talk about life imitating art. This train of thought got my wondering if the author or these coded notes was a member of our bookclub. 

There were six members, counting me, in bookclub. 

Tate, identifying as non binary and gay, wearing bright coloured clothing and possessing fierce ideas about life and literature.

Hartigan, but we all called him Arthur, quintessentially Irish — he had’t met a rule he liked while everything he said had a deeper meaning. Hmm, maybe, perhaps, oh I don’t think so.

Zane, interestingly called John in our group, was the epitome of empathy and tactfulness, the antithesis of whomever was sending me these notes.

Noralie, our oldest bookclub member, the mother-figure for us all, would not, could not, send me such missives. 

And, last but not least, Cole: swarthy in colouring and personality. Maybe, perhaps, the author of the notes might be him.

The next day another communication arrived, this time, at work. I uncovered it beneath my phone’s receiver. 

Ie fiotwneo sIe.eo nrnu rgstIh  thIoeg bi ee'ylyLa.o'ta oytt sm,ioi pm kyu ihn. kukl

This was much longer, I noticed, than the other notes, almost playful in its tone, although what I said exactly, continued to evade my understanding. 

I knew that Wednesday, answers would appear. Instead of dreading bookclub, with the additional duties of hosting and leading, I wanted Wednesday to be now. 

Wednesday dragged like a dog with a broken hind leg — painfully slow. By six o’clock I had refreshened the dining table cloth, laid out three trays of sweet and savoury treats, pre-boiled the kettle for tea, THE preferred beverage of both Noralie and Zane, had a bottle of chardonnay cooling and had decanted a Cabernet Sauvignon for Cole. If he continued to his past patterns, I’d. Need to drive him to his home and get a taxi back. 

At half past six, on the dot, nothing more or less than I’d expected, Noralie rang my doorbell, followed in short shift by Tate, Zane, Arthur, and pulling in last, Cole in his purring Corvette Stingray. 

I had decided to take a frontal assault on whomever had written all of the cryptic notes; laying them out, in order, face-up, on the dining room table, right by the trays of treats, where everyone would venture, sooner than later. 

It was Noralie who gathered up the notes, carrying them with her cup of tea, into my living room, where she swished them to and fro with frenetic energy. 

“What in the world,” Noralie stated, “is the story behind this cryptography?”

“That is what I would like to learn.” I concluded, my eyes staring into each bookclub member’s eyes as if to discern the sender to these notes. No one blinked. Only my granddad’s clocked click-clocked in the silence. 

Until

Cole smiled, colour diffusing his cheeks, confirmed that he, indeed was the author. At that point he handed me the final note:

Wyo hr anio wmiif kluoiesdod?l ut arr gthtFy I

“Are you asking me out?” I ventured.

He nodded.

“Of course I will.” With a smile, I started our bookclub meeting.