From A.R.D.

I parked at McDonald’s. It was officially parking on a side street, but was actually the drive-through entrance. Parking inconvenience reduced the rent on our house. It was a one bedroom, one bath with high ceilings and hardwoods on a busy street with traffic and sirens all night long. We lived two doors down from McDonald’s and across the street from Taco Bell on the main street of the country’s oldest suburb.

I unlocked the door and took in the mail, which included a small package, wrapped in brown paper and string, like the packages my grandmother sent. We didn’t get much mail, we had just moved in. I looked for somewhere to set down the mail and my briefcase. There wasn’t much furniture. We were young and broke and on the run, sort of.

A legal incident in another state compelled us to get married and change the trajectory of our lives. We were starting a new life in a new place. We were no longer under surveillance or threat of harm or prison. However, having been followed for months, interacting with investigators and never knowing if it was the good guys or the bad guys after us, we were still pretty cautious and hyper-aware. Only one or two family members knew our address and we didn’t have a phone, since the phone company is an extension of the police. This was in the times before cell phones, when an answering machine was high-tech.

I slipped off my heels and changed out of my work clothes. I cracked open a Busch and went to open my package. I thought it was a surprise from my grandmother, maybe something for my birthday. It wasn’t often that people tied parcels with cotton string, I didn’t the think the post office even allowed it!

The package was not addressed to me and it was not in my grandmother’s distinctive hand. It was addressed to my husband, using his nickname only, no last name. It was printed in thick, block letters using a Magic Marker. The return address featured the initials A.R.D. at an address in the town we left. The street was mostly commercial, but there were some homes along it, mostly rent houses occupied by young, broke college students.

Suddenly I felt uneasy. An unexpected package from the land of the past we were trying to leave was not a welcome surprise. The package was small, a cube that could hold a softball. It weighed next to nothing. It made no noise when shaken. I had no idea what it could be, but I knew that bad things don’t have to be big or heavy.

And how did they get our address?

When my husband finally got home, my anxiety was revved up and I spewed a litany of all the worrisome possible contents of the mystery package I had imagined at him before he could finish his first beer.

Our first instinct was to try to figure out who A.R.D. was. We listed friends, acquaintances, adversaries and none made sense. Had there been Google Earth back then, the mystery could have been solved quickly, since we had the address.

We couldn’t figure out who or where. We wondered about why. My birthday was coming up, but no one knew our address. Maybe it was the watch I left for repair. But we have no forwarding address and I didn’t pay for it.

And then we wondered about what it could be. When my husband couldn’t stand the suspense or speculation any more, he ripped open the package.