The beach, an itchy black suit and a dead woman shaped Jacob's morning. Now his cap-toed leather oxfords functioned like spades, digging up sand as he followed the funeral director from the empty chapel into the dunes separating the town and the gulf.
       That damned note, he thought. The mysterious envelope arrived without any return address.
       "We wanted you to know your mother's distant aunt, Harriet Seale, was released from life this past Saturday, April 16. Harriet finished her seventy-eight years surrounded by her loving community. Please join us as we celebrate Harriet's life and her triumphant return on April 21 at 2:00 pm at DeSoto Memorial Chapel. Although you never met Harriet, we hope you will consider attending as we have something for you."
       He tossed the note without thought.
       "Wait!" his girlfriend, Ashley, said. She fished the paper out of the trash and read it herself. "Don't you want to know what they have for you?"
       "Nope. Not interested in anything having to do with my family."
       "But what if you were in Harriet's will or something?"
       "We never met. Why would she do that?"
       Ashley shrugged. "The note doesn't say anything about a husband or kids. Maybe you're the only family she has left."
       Jacob rolled his eyes.
       "All I'm saying is you should think about going." She touched his face and kissed him. "I love the way you are, and if you give them a chance, they will too." She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and added, "Besides, I think you've drifted too far from your family. It isn't good to be so unconnected in this world."
       These southern girls and their fascination with family ties. I don't get it, but if it keeps her happy, I'll go--small price to pay.
       Anticipation of getting big "lovey-dovey points" for taking their relationship seriously made the drive down to the coast fleeting, though now he wondered if he had taken his effort to impress too far. But everything about their romance had been extreme. The adrenaline rush from moving in together after only a few weeks still made his body tingle.
       [Made it safely!] he texted Ashley, and then typed, [Just checking in.] Send. [This place is weird.] Send. He scrolled through his other texts until his attention was swept away by a breeze rustling between the sea oats. The effect sounded like breathing, causing his scalp to prickle. The interruption brought awareness the funeral director had outpaced him over the sand drifts.
       "Where are we going?" Jacob asked, stopping to pull a sandspur from the heel of his sock. The silver hands of his watch pointed out the time was 1:15. A flash of unease grew over the absence of others, triggering his instincts--and those instincts said go home now.
       "The ceremony's lacking one important ingredient." the old man said while shuffling ahead.
       People? Jacob mused to himself.
       A network of wrinkles scoring the skin on the back of the old man's neck made Jacob regret leaving his sunblock at home. His eyes stung and watered in the bright light. Seagulls screeched somewhere overhead, but harsh sunshine kept the birds' whereabouts a secret. He shielded his eyes from the glare reflecting off the white sand-- leaving him to imagine what was hiding right out in the open.
       The elderly man dropped to one knee, removed a pocketknife, and severed a few stalks of sea oats.
       Jacob sighed, "So grass is the absent component?"
       "I tell you, Russ, it's symbolic for our community."
       "My name's Jacob." Poor old, sunbaked coot, he thought as a grin lifted his features, can't keep my name straight.
       "Of course. Like I was saying--Jacob--it has a huge root system that supports all this sand."
       "Umm hmm," Jacob answered while texting Ashley, [You'll never guess where I am right now!] Send.
       "I like to think of this little grass as the keeper of our community," the man said. "By holding the dune together, other plants can take root, which draws more life to the area."
       "So, when does the service start?" Jacob interrupted, pausing long enough to take pictures before curiosity pulled his focus toward the water.
       The funeral director pocketed the knife and rose to his feet. "My point is, every person at the service has a connection of some sort to Harriet and this neighborhood, so these," he said, shaking the handful of the grass plumes, "serve as a reminder of that support. Little offerings like this help smooth Harriet's transition."
       "Look, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I was sent a note saying there was something for me. Where can I pick it up? I'm not going to be able to stay."
       The man brushed sand from his hands before smoothing back his sun-frizzled hair. "The community considers funerals their responsibility. We believe our gifts turn the ceremony into something beautiful and constructive--not so sad, you understand?" He cocked his head to one side as if studying Jacob and then asked, "How would you feel about contributing?"
       Oh, I get it. Donate and then they'll give me a small token of appreciation. No thanks.
       This time, his instinct spoke up, "Oh, I really didn't know Harriet. Besides, like I said, I can't stay long. Just wanted to swing by and pay my respects." His watch now read 1:50 pm. The thought of lingering beyond what was considered respectful made him sweat. He imagined being on the road no later than 2:30. Jacob's expression relaxed as he reconsidered his purpose for being there. "I guess I can call a florist . . ."
       "No," the elder reached out, lowering Jacob's phone--his voice deeper and more forceful. "These things must come from you. That's what makes them meaningful. Our members don't purchase grave goods." Then, gripping Jacob's arm, he said, "This is very important for our community."
       Jacob puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. "I'm afraid I don't have anything." But paper crimpled in the inside pocket when he patted down his jacket, leading to the discovery of a bent valet ticket. He laughed at the find. "All I've got on me is this."
       "What does it represent to you?"
       Jacob looked at the ticket with confusion. "Well. . ." he stammered, "It's convenience. . . I guess. Cleanliness. Maybe security and even a bit of status?"
       "Well, that sounds wonderful. Those are the kinds of characteristics we like to include with our gifts. Now come. It's time."
       "Isn't the funeral home that way?" Jacob gestured, but the man climbed the rising mound of sand toward the water without looking back. When they crested the dune, opening a view to the water, a salty breeze rushed them. The movement of the grasses now sounded like whispers, making Jacob's skin erupt in goosebumps.
       Jacob's gut clenched. He tried to convince himself it was because he was approaching a dead person, but something in that wind repelled him like hands pushing him back. He didn't care if these people liked him or not, but thoughts of mindless chitchat with unfamiliar relatives caused his palms to sweat.
       Why did I let Ashley talk me into coming here?
       The soft scritch of their feet in the sand nudged Jacob's thoughts. This reminds me of something, I just can't recall exactly what.
       Sweat ran down his back, but he was cold. He told himself everything was fine, but he struggled with his inner voice telling him to go back to his car and leave.
       In his thirty-one years, this was Jacob's first funeral, so he wasn't prepared for the scene that met him when they crested the dune. It conjured up images of sandcastles, cookouts, volleyball and homemade ice cream rather than death. A group of about a hundred people gathered near the shore just beyond isolated pockets of water left behind by an earlier high tide. They were dressed in bright tee shirts, shorts, flip-flops--a few even barefoot. He thrust his shoulders back, adjusting his tie and jacket as he approached them with a steady stride.
       Laughter and voices were boisterous, causing him to notice there were no children in sight. Maybe they're in school. . . But still, Jacob thought.
       Circles of people formed, greeting each other with conversations of fishing, the weather, the bridge repair schedule, lawn care and burger grilling techniques.
       There were no pallbearers, no weepers, and no clergy. About fifty feet from his path sat the only items indicating this was a memorial service--a dark box with two chest-high pillars holding candles on either side of it. The box tilted at an angle in the sand near the shore. It was too small to be a casket. Aunt Harriet's ashes, he assumed.
       Music rattled some unseen speaker, shattering the tranquility the dunes promised.
       "I imagined, I don't know, organ music or hymns playing," Jacob mumbled to the director. "Was this Harriet's favorite or something?" he asked, trying to make sense of how a song about getting drunk fit the ceremony.
       "Jimmy Buffett is the community's favorite. Which of his songs do you like best?"
       "Uh, . . . I... I listen to jazz mostly."
       [They're playing country music alcohol anthems at the service! Strange, but OK. Doing their thing, I guess.] He hit send and followed with another text, [Where are you?]
       "Sharp suit, Russ," a man wearing a red T-shirt called out while giving the thumbs-up sign. "For our community!"
       Russ? Who the hell's Russ? Jacob wondered but waved at the man.
       [Working on an alias, apparently. Any thoughts on the name Russ?] he texted Ashley, adding a laughing emoji.
       At the edge of the tide line, he stood along the border where crushed shells imitated the contour of the shore. The pattern it created on the beach revealed the landscape was restless, shifting in the gulf winds and reshaping itself through the ebb and flow of waves. That same sensation of a stuck memory he experienced in the dunes plagued him again.
       His foot pointed at a dark, triangular-shaped object half buried in the sand. Between his fingers, he wiped it clean before dropping it into his pocket.
       [Found a shark tooth], he texted. [Funeral souvenir! LOL.]
       Little by little, the mourners quieted and faced the director.
       "Of course, death is always nearby, but this," the patriarch said, sweeping his free hand before the crowd, "this is humanity, and it brings us together. We've learned to choose with caution what we give. Because of planning, we've managed to keep poverty, racism, violence, and drugs out of our little society. Today, I give sea oats to remind her of community." The old man stepped up to Harriet's memorial. "For our community." He placed his clipped sea oats inside the box.
       One by one, each of the mourners paraded past the deceased woman's remains. A man at the front of the procession commented, "I'm giving these roses--they symbolize courage. Our bush is bursting with them!" and then he deposited the blooms inside the container. "For our community."
       A middle-aged woman clutching paintbrushes approached next, "Because Harriet always wanted talent." She dropped them inside. "For our community."
       [This is getting weirder], Jacob texted with a photo of the group lined up, facing the box. The time was 2:40 pm.
       With each item given, the presenters murmured, "For our community." Upon rejoining the group, they repeated the phrase in unison, creating a buzzing effect. The repeated words became a low chant.
       The director joined hands with the woman next to him, initiating a chain reaction. He raised his voice and addressed the group. "Everything our community contributes to a funeral becomes something that makes a better version of our beloved's former self."
       Oh, brother, here we go, Jacob thought, looking over his shoulder for a way to escape.
        "We don't know how the gifts will be used. Of course, we just give with love and trust the rest to fate."
       Yeah, yeah, yeah. Land the plane, ol' coot. Some of us want to get home tonight. Jacob leaned away.
       "The tide will bring her back to our devoted community as a new woman. Just as alive and vital as any of us, as it has been since our ancestors settled the area."
       I forgot about whacko religious sects out here. Next, they'll be looking for Jesus, Bear Bryant, Elvis, and some aliens skipping across the waves to join us.
       Personal possessions accumulated inside the box--pottery, flowers, tools, jewelry, and even a tin of sugar cookies. The items pieced together a collage of the dead woman's life.
       [Fake emergency call me], he texted Ashley. [I need an excuse to leave this nut club.]
       Standing so close to death amplified Jacob's desire to escape--this place and these people. He fought the urge to flee.
       You're almost done. Suck it up and get through the next few minutes. Pick up whatever they have for you and go!
       Composing himself, he simply backed away, but the director moved behind him and nudged him forward.
       "Go ahead."
       Unsure of what to do, Jacob patted the lid of the burial box. "Well, circle of life, I suppose. It was your time." As the words left his mouth, he realized how much better they sounded in the movies.
       There, he thought, I've paid my respects. Now time to grab my Cracker Jack prize and then get the hell out of here. He pulled out his phone, preparing to let Ashley know he was on his way home when he locked eyes with the elder. The man smiled, indicating with a gesture he return to the box and give something. The chanting persisted as Jacob cleared his throat and stepped back up. Heat rose in his face.
       "This is ridiculous," he muttered, searching for the valet ticket, but his fingers fumbled across the tooth he found in the tide line first. He tilted open the lid of the box and placed it inside instead. When withdrawing his hand from the collection of items, a thorn from the rose stems caught him. The barb tore into his finger, producing blood. A droplet of red oozed from the puncture. He pulled away, but not before it dripped inside.
       His eyes jumped to the crowd. They had broken into small groups that drifted over the dunes and back towards the town. No one noticed Jacob's trickling blood concealed inside a clenched fist.
       He stepped away from the box and the shoreline. Without making eye contact with anyone, he edged the tide pools and headed straight for the path leading to his car. To draw as little attention with noise as possible, he reached into his pocket and gripped his keys. When he withdrew his hand, his phone came along, tumbling into the tide pool beside him.
       Jacob dropped to his knees, pulled off his jacket and drove his arm into the water up to his elbow to retrieve the device. The phone didn't switch on.
       "Russ. . . I mean Jacob. . ." The funeral director approached.
       "Stop calling me that!"
       "Pardon me. I guess you just remind us of someone with that name. I'm as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth, so I've had the opportunity to meet a lot of folks. The names are bound to get jumbled sometimes."
       Jacob shook water from the phone, but it didn't switch on.
       "I've got one of those desiccant kits that'll help dry it out. I always try to have one on hand. Don't know much about all the new computers and gadgets, but I try to keep up--for our community. I'm more or less our fix-it guy, so with all the water around here, those kits have saved many of us from having to buy a new phone." Without asking, the old man took Jacob's phone.
       "How long do you think? The phone drying, how long will it take?" At this point, the beach was empty of the funeral party. Based on the position of the sun, he figured the time to be around 3:30. He had stayed longer than he planned and was more than ready to go.
       "Here, have a seat. Try Diane's rum punch, and I'll be back with the kit in a minute." He held out a red Solo cup.
       Jacob's eyebrows arched. "Going to make me drink alone?"
       "Oh, I never partake in alcohol. You heard that ol' wives' tale about dogs? Something like, don't let your dog get anywhere near fresh blood, or else he'll develop a taste for it, and then you can never trust him again. Well, that's pretty much my way of thinking when it comes to drink. But you enjoy. Diane made this especially for you--with extra pineapple juice, the way you like."
       The fruity sweetness of his first swig of the punch erased any rum flavor he expected, making him grimace. "Wait. How do you know what I like?"
       The funeral director chuckled. "We all love pineapple juice. Now be careful with it, though. That concoction is like one of those hurricane drinks they have in New Orleans. They might seem harmless. . . for the first one. . . but they can sneak up on you."
       "No. This is it for me. I've got a decent drive ahead, and I want to get back home tonight."
       "To Ashley?" the elder asked. "She isn't expecting you tonight."
       "What? Wait, how do you know about Ashley?"
       "She's the one who brought you back to us." The old man's brow furrowed as his eyes curved inward. "Don't worry, though. You'll see her soon. Of course, we don't permit coupling here, but she can still be a part of your life. It's all best for our community, of course."
       Jacob sprang to his feet. "You never had anything for me. That was just a lie to get me here. Why? What's going on?" his voice rising.
       "Settle down. We do have something for you. An opportunity to reconnect. Right now, everyone's over at Ron's for a meal to honor Harriet. Ron's our chef, you know. His ribs are the best. But they'll be back to wait for Harriet's transition and return to the community. It'll all be clear then."
       "You've got to be kidding."
       "See?" The man pointed to where the box had been. "The tide already claimed her remains."
       "You all think the dead woman is coming back?" Jacob's mouth was so dry. He took another gulp of the punch. "I'm not waiting. Keep the phone." With the back of his hand, he wiped away a string of drool streaming from his chin and headed toward the dunes from where they had come--except it was the wrong direction. He scrambled the other way, but that wasn't familiar either.
       "You put something in that drink." A painful, swelling tongue caused Jacob's voice to tangle the words.
       "Sit down for a minute."
       Jacob raised his hand for the man to back away.
       "You still don't remember, do you?" The elder smiled, putting the phone away. "The tide comes in and takes her remains out, only to return her to us--reformed, using the grave goods. Ringing any bells?"
       Jacob spat out a mouthful of saliva. His stomach cramped, causing him to lurch forward and fall to the sand. "So, you believe you resurrect the dead with your little ceremony of offerings?"
       The man tilted his head. "You don't escape community. It's a part of who you are--Russ," he said with emphasis. "It is our responsibility to do anything we must to maintain the strength and well-being of our society."
       "Sounds like a bunch of people doomed to repeat life over and over, never thinking for themselves." He twisted to one side, unsure if he was going to be sick.
        "When we brought you back last time, I admit, something was wrong. Must have been some unfavorable gift that caused you to step away from our community like you did. It would weaken our society to lose a soul, so we sent Ashley to bring you back. We knew you'd still be drawn to someone familiar. Anyway," a smile brightened his voice, "We're here to fix all that. The community takes care of itself. Going to help you evolve--for our community."
       Jacob's mouth foamed, and his heart raced.
       The man frowned. "The community wasn't too keen on the idea of you contributing today. We hoped you'd remember a bit more. But I convinced them that it would be good for all of us for you to participate again."
       With a grunt, the man plunked down in the sand next to Jacob. "Tomorrow, your time will come. You'll have your opportunity to begin again." His eyes squinted as he scanned the horizon over Jacob's shoulder and locked onto something washing ashore in the distance. "Did you know it's said that the sea is the mother of all life?"
       Jacob shifted and followed the man's eyes to a large shape about fifty yards away. Foam and seaweed mounded over the form, conveying the look of something disgorged.
       Without breaking his focus, the man continued. "Harriet was quite the force. We're looking forward to seeing what she'll bring to us this time around."
       The lump on the beach unfolded into a pallid body of flesh. It emerged from the surf like a grotesque version of Botticelli's Birth of Venus. Seagulls hovered as if there was chum in the water.
       "Not worried about how she will come back?" Jacob asked.
       "Come again?"
       "I would be." Jacob dribbled, thrusting the valet ticket toward the man.
       Concern pinched the man's features, making him look older and feeble. "You added that to the funeral box. I watched you. So, . . . so how do you still have it?" Shallow breathing made his words come out shaky. A darting glance down the beach at the rising figure unmasked his alarm. His bottom lip trembled. "What did you put in?"
       The mass on the shore moved and changed shape again. Appendages stretched from stumps, lifting itself up like a foal.
       Jacob fixed the elder with an unblinking stare. Contempt burned through foam spilling over his lips. "A predator's tooth . . . Oh, and a drop of blood. . . After all, you know what they say about dogs and fresh blood--once you give them a bit, they develop a taste for it and then you can never trust them again."
       "You have no idea what you've done," the old man snarled.
       Sweat drizzled from Jacob's brow and into his eyes, smearing his vision and muddling his balance. Seashell fragments crunched under his feet as he staggered to the water, where one of the funeral pillars floated, overturned by the tide. Salty water splashed into his mouth when he collapsed onto it, giving the slightest relief from the sweetness of the punch that lingered on his tongue.
       Something passed behind him. The sound of strangled screams made him flinch. He strained to remain conscious. Not braving a glance back, he kicked, propelling himself into deeper water.
       Don't die here. You'll close your eyes and wake up as someone else.
       He moved out in an arc that granted a view of the beach. A red blanket on the shore stood out against the white sand, but all was still. When his head bobbed into the water, understanding returned.
       There was no blanket.
       Nausea tightened his gut and set his eyes bulging, forcing him to take a harder look at the scene on the beach. That ribbon of color glistened. It was blood.
       Shit! Harriet did come back--but what did she do?
       Light-headedness took over as he searched for any sign of life. Sea oats were the only thing that moved, waving at him with the breeze. Jacob kicked harder, putting more distance between himself and the community.
       I guess you were right, old man. The community does take care of itself.
       His arms slipped from the pillar, just enough for his head to dip below the water for a moment. Choking and retching followed.
       The swish of the sea oats rustled in his ears like whispering, calling him to come back.
       The keeper of the community.
       The sound wouldn't leave him. He kicked harder, but his body felt thick and heavy--no longer under his control. He prayed he was far enough out that they wouldn't find him. Perhaps sea creatures would feed on his body, leaving nothing for them to resurrect. Maybe Harriet had already taken care of the whole group. But those sea oats continued to call him back to the community. Their hiss was the last thing he heard as he allowed himself to let go and drift below the surface.