So I’d go out and get it. What the hell, it was no big emotional experience to me. Just a piece of mail. That didn’t mean I didn’t know what it meant to her. I knew it hurt her to have her stuff come back. But Playboy is never going to publish something like “The Hunchwoman of Cincinnati.” Never. Ever. Not in a million years. I’d bring it in, and she’d be sitting there. She wouldn’t look at me. She would have turned on the TV by then. She’d be looking at it like she was really interested in it. We had this routine we’d go through. It was always the same thing.

“You want to open it?” I’d say.

She’d shake her head quickly, violently almost.

“No! You open it.”

I’d always tear the damned thing opening it, and she’d scream, “Be careful! There might he a note in it!” She meant like a note from an editor.

Of course there never was. There was never a note from Playboy inside the envelope. Big Daddy Hugh had never taken the time to tell her he was dying to see something else she’d written.

“Open it slow,” she’d say. “Look in.”

I’d open it slow. I’d look in.

“Do you see anything?” she’d say.

I always said the same thing: “Yeah, I see something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it a note?”

“I don’t know.”

Then there’d be this small period of silence. She’d lean forward and turn down the volume on the TV. She’d look over at me like we were about to be gassed and only had a few remaining moments between us.

“Look,” she’d say.

I’d reach in and pull it out. “The material enclosed has been given careful consideration and is not suitable for use in our publication at this time. Due to the volume of submissions received, we regret that we cannot offer individual criticisms. All submissions should be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope if their return is desired. Your interest in blah blah blah is most warmly appreciated. The editors.”