With No Means to Return to Sender

"Oh, the packages? Yeah, I started getting those around the time Bill died. He was wrapped up in all sorts of illegal shit, so there's no telling what could be in that box. Anthrax, cocaine, meth, a bomb...just let the cops handle it, okay? And whatever you do, don't open it."

Our Struggle

A couple of months ago, my wife lost her job. She used to be a VP for a well-known furniture brand and then, just like that, the whole Savannah office was let go over a Zoom call.

They offered her a severance package, but Marisol freaked out because we’re both close to retirement age and she was worried that might make it harder for her to find a new job. Companies aren’t supposed to discriminate against older candidates—just like they aren’t supposed to use your race, sexual orientation, health, gender identity, religion, or veteran status against you—but they do.

As a guy who lost a leg in Desert Storm and came back with a heaping case of PTSD, I can attest. They do.

A few weeks into the job hunt, Marisol found a company willing to pay her what she’s worth. All we had to do was relocate. We hugged each other, started packing our things, and did a little research on the place we’d be moving to. It was some cute little town just an hour’s drive from Charleston. It had colorful sunsets, beautiful marshlands, and pastel-colored houses with plenty of personality. On the surface, it looked like a little slice of South Carolina heaven.

We were wrong, though. God damn, were we wrong.

Palmetto Town

Palmetto Town stank before we even entered city limits...and the locals? Don’t even get me started. My leg got gawked at, we got gawked at, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being followed at all times. Even so, we checked into a motel and immediately started looking around to see if any affordable homes were on the market.

There weren’t many choices. The first was a run-down shack that would cost more to renovate than bulldoze and start over. The next was a duplex by the waterfront. It looked nice and Marisol almost bid on it, but then the neighbors started setting off fireworks in the courtyard and I ended up having a panic attack. Once again, it was a no-go.

That left one last property: a place our realtor called "Hicks Farm."

The property was a five-bedroom antebellum farmhouse complete with an orchard of pear trees and an old white barn decorated with white paint and fresh marigolds. As we rolled in, we smelled the pears and flowers. Poor things were trying their best to mask the stench of the marsh and the marsh was winning.

“If the price is too steep, you might be able to negotiate a lower one with Lily,” the realtor told us. “She’s been trying to sell this property for close to a year, but most folks are more interested in touring the house than buying it.”

“Why?” I asked as my wife crouched over to pick a marigold. “Is there something wrong with the property?”

“Physically, no,” the realtor replied, “but some of the locals think that the Hicks farm might be haunted. You see, about twenty years ago, the house’s owner went missing. Many folks around town thought his son Bill might’ve murdered him, but Mr. Hicks’s body was never found and the whole case went cold. Bill recently died and the property transferred over to his sister Lily. She’s the one selling, and at this point I think she’s just eager to get rid of it and wash her hands of this whole mess.”

Our First Night in Our New Home

I liked Lily Hicks. She was quick, direct, and to the point.

When Marisol and I made an offer, she told us that our asking price was more than fair and she was willing to honor it. She even offered to let us keep whatever appliances, furniture, or other stuff we liked because (like the realtor said) she wanted to cut all ties with Hicks Farm. At closing, she handed the keys over to us with a smile and said:

“Congrats. Daddy’s house is now yours.”

That first night, we popped open a bottle of Cava brut, took a long soak in our new Jacuzzi, and watched the sun set over our pear trees. As the colors bled from the heaven to the earth, the pears changed from light brown to gold…then pale yellow…then lavender…and then a lovely periwinkle blue as twilight befell the property.

We toasted our good fortune and raised our glasses...only to hear the doorbell ring shortly afterward.

I asked Marisol if she ordered takeout. When she said no, I got out of the hot tub and went to the porch, just to make sure our new neighbors weren’t stopping by to say hi or some of the local kids were trying to prank us. No one was there, nor did I hear anyone walk away or a car drive off.

The only sign that someone had been on our porch at all was a small brown package with our address written on it...but it was addressed to Bill Hicks, not us.

There was no return address on it, either.

Bill's Package

“Oh, the packages? Yeah, I started getting those around the time Bill died. He was wrapped up in all sorts of illegal shit, so there’s no telling what could be in that box. Anthrax, cocaine, meth, a bomb…just let the cops handle it, okay? And whatever you do, don’t open it.”

That was Lily’s advice and we ran with it. She also warned us that one of the sheriff’s deputies was a bit of a gossip, so we weren’t surprised when a whole circus of people flocked to our property to see what was inside the package. Even the local news showed up! The way these folks were carrying on, you would have thought Bill Hicks was Al Capone and we’d just discovered his safe!

After the K-9 Unit sniffed the package to confirm it wasn’t drugs or a bomb, I asked one of the officers if they could open it. I explained that I’m a disabled veteran and not knowing for certain that the package really isn’t a bomb could trigger my PTSD. I know they said it wasn’t, but my brain needed to confirm that or I’d risk having an episode later.

To my surprise, Officer Shah obliged. He was a very polite fellow, thanked me for my service, and asked Marisol and me to stand back as he carefully opened the box.

It felt like the whole town was watching him and some guy right behind me muttered something about it “feeling like Lily’s auction all over again.” I didn’t know what he meant by that, and I was half tempted to ask, but then Officer Shah gasped and told the crowd to clear.

“Frank?” he called out. “Get Lily Hicks on the phone. I think she’s gonna want to see this.”

The Contents

“I’m sorry. They found what in there?”

If I were Lily, that would have been my reaction too. After all that buildup, that box contained nothing but a squeaky shark toy with sunglasses, a pair of cheap shot glasses from one of the dinner shows at Myrtle Beach, a big tie-dyed tee shirt, and a postcard with only eight words on it:

I’m fine, Lily. Please don’t worry about me.

My wife and I have different theories as to who’s been sending these packages and why. She thinks Mr. Hicks sent the package and is just trying to tell Lily that while he’s alive and well, he’s too scared to come back to Palmetto Town.

My theory’s nowhere near as optimistic. I’ve seen too many ugly things and met too many ugly people in my life to think this story will have a good ending.

You see, Lily told me something else about her brother. Bill didn’t just do drugs. He sold them too. He had a whole slew of shady connections around the county and if he wanted to make somebody disappear, he easily could have. Lily thinks (and I agree with her) that one of Bill’s buddies has been sending cheap souvenir boxes to the house for years and just hasn’t realized that:

1. Bill’s dead or
2. Lily doesn’t own the property anymore.

Now, why would someone go through all the trouble to mail this crap? Simple: to maintain the charade that old Theodore Hicks really is in Myrtle Beach, just like Bill claimed when folks came looking for him.

This stuff is cheap kitsch you could buy at any seedy souvenir shop off the highway. None of it’s personalized, let alone unique, save for the note on the postcard. It’s been sent off to a forensic lab for a handwriting analysis, but it may be weeks before anyone other than the police find out the results.

My fingers are crossed for Lily, though. I can’t imagine how it must feel, living twenty years not knowing if your brother killed your father or if the old fellow simply ran away.

My Plea to Mr. Hicks

Mr. Hicks,

I know it’s a long shot and I doubt you’ll ever read this; but if you do and you’re still alive, I’m begging you to reach out to your daughter. Lily's gone two decades without her daddy and I can tell it's killing her inside.

Give her a call. Hell, send her another letter if that’s what you prefer to do. Just give her a way to contact you back. That’s all she really wants, sir. You. Just you.

Presents are nice and all, but I think hearing your voice again would be the greatest gift of all. It would mean the world to her.

And as her friend, it would also mean the world to me.