The Package

© 2004 J. L. Hepler
All rights reserved.

Phillip stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at the package.

He couldn't explain why, after nearly thirty years on the job, this time he felt like he had absolutely no control. The khaki-colored package he was holding seemed to be daring him not to deliver it. It was practically begging him not to. He read the delivery address again.

Levi Hieres
5305 Pfeifer Street
Austin, TX 78745-2362

Phillip Lutzer, Phil to friends, knew the address well. He had been a mailman on the southwest side of Austin for twenty-seven years now, and Pfeifer Street had been on his route for seventeen of those years. He had an unparalleled, scrupulous work ethic, but a debate over the package had started in his head. This was the first time he was actually contemplating not delivering a package to its rightful recipient. He couldn't believe his own thoughts. Retaining the package could ruin his honor and integrity as a mailman and a Christian.

As he stared at the package, a queer voice inside his head blurted out, Let's take it home and check it out. Something's not right about it. We should check into it. This seldom-heard persona jockeying for control of his actions was the tiny yin side to his overgrown yang. The rebellious half, the suppressed half.

He countered the urge. No, it's a felony, and my livelihood, not to mention an outright sin. He was roiling with conflict. His curiosity was running rampant like a caged beast set free, and his responsible self desperately clung to its leash.

"Well, no matter what, I can't just stand here all day. I've got a job to do," he mumbled.

He slid the bulky package back under his sweaty arm and marched toward the next house. Over the next few hours, the internal bickering relentlessly continued.

His mature side was demanding control, but his curiosity persisted in its pursuit. It was trying to break through the boundaries set by his exemplary lifestyle. He was deacon of the First Baptist Church, organizer over parks and recreation, a volunteer firefighter, blood donor, organ donor, Jerry Lewis telethon pledger, civil rights advocate, a devoted husband, an all-around Good Samaritan, but now this rebellious part of him desired a change in venue.

Why? he repetitively asked himself while trudging through the rest of his route that fateful day. Why does this voice start making demands now, when I'm damn near 52 years old? Why not when I was fifteen, full of hormones, and at a loss for logic? Why didn't it push me then? Why now do I feel the urge to be rebellious?

He arrived back at his Jeep at the end of Pfeifer Street, and peering down into his empty leather satchel, realized that he had made a decision. The satchel was empty. He had one delivery left, the package under his arm, and he didn't want to turn around. The debate was over, curiosity: 1, responsibility: 0.

Now his attention shifted. The new problem at hand was how to get it home unnoticed. Sitting motionless in his Jeep, surrounded by a cloud of confusion, he mulled it over.

The plan seemed to form itself. It was simple. He decided to drop the package in the brush under some overgrown mesquite trees down on the corner of Manchaca and Williams. He had to drive by the vacant lot on his way home anyway, and he could pick it up then. He could pull over and pop the hood on his Dodge Ram for distraction, act like he was checking the battery cables for soot, "accidentally" drop a screwdriver on the curbside, and slide the package into the cab when he bent over to pick it up. Even though he had limited experience with deceit, he knew it would work.

The main glitch in the plan was getting the box into the brush to begin with. When he was going to drop it off, he was going to be wearing a blue postal suit and be driving a postal jeep. Both were recognizable to everyone.

Luckily, he thought, the Jeep's driver's side is on the right, so I can just pull over, pretend to be rummaging around for a lost letter or something, wait until no cars are close, and gently kick the package out of the Jeep. That way, if seen by chance, it was an accident. Right? And if someone else picks it up before tomorrow, oh well.

Phil arrived home around 5:30 to find that his wife Claire wasn't home. A note on the dining room table confirmed that she had just left to pick up some broccoli and cantaloupe for dinner. Phil scurried into the bedroom and quickly tore off his uniform and threw on his warm-ups. He would have some time to examine the box before Claire got home. His mind was racing.

I don't need to tell her. It'll just cause an argument. I'm going to deliver it tomorrow anyway; it just needs to be verified safe. That's what a good postal worker would do, right?

After grabbing the package, Phil, Phillip Lutzer, the great and powerful postal detective, went into the master bathroom and locked the door. He sat down on the porcelain toilet, placed the package on the sink counter, and turned on the water in the sink—a distraction noise in case Claire came home. The tension in his legs relieved, he puffed out his cheeks, let out a sigh, and leaned back as he ran his hands across his potted gut. The plan had worked. He'd made it home. A feeling of excitement mingled with fear, absent in him for longer than he could remember, was racing through his veins.

Looking into the mirror behind the sink, Phil noticed a childlike gleam aglow in his otherwise weathered hazel eyes. A receding hairline, thinning, blanching hair, a series of deep crevices lining his brow, and thin, almost nonexistent lips couldn't contrast more with the youthfulness radiating from his eyes. This division of self frightened him. He realized that he had made a huge blunder, a rookie mistake, but he was no rookie. He was a seasoned veteran. Hell, a hall of famer. Yet he could tell that something in him was new, like a rookie.

Like a forensic scientist methodically and cautiously securing a crime scene, he righted the box so that the address was facing up.

Okay, first things first. What would a detective do? Let's examine the physical characteristics of the alleged box.

He chuckled as he picked up the box and set it in his lap. The name Levi Hieres, printed in Sharpie black ink, held his gaze.

He ascertained the dimensions to be about 13 inches long, 4 inches wide, and 3 and 1/2 inches deep. Shoebox-sized. It was wrapped like a Christmas present from a department store, but instead of a smooth, silky texture, the paper had a dull, sandpapery feel. Nothing was wrinkled or amiss on any side, and the creases seemed exact in symmetry to one another. The only inconsistencies in its uniform perfection were the centered address and the five American flag stamps in the top right corner.

"Hmm...." Phil muttered softly. He glanced up at the locked door. Paranoia.

He tilted the box sideways over his head, trying to look behind the triangular tabs folded down on the sides to see how they were held in place. We can peel one edge open and see what kind of box it is, his inner instigator whispered. It seemed like a good idea, so he slid his fingers along the edge of the fold checking for any weak areas in it. Nope, none. And what was even more peculiar was that no tape or glue was used to seal it up. It appeared to have been born as-is.

"Hmm...." He set it back on the counter with the address facing him.

"Well, I've gone this far off kilter, but I'm not going to open it if I can't duplicate the sealing process, so I'll leave it. I could still take it back tomorrow and nobody would know," Phil said aloud, trying to mask his true desire, the unquenchable desire to tear into the gift like a child on Christmas morning. He needed to know what it was. Why this gift, why now, why couldn't he just let it go?

As he sat staring at the address, a knock, followed by a soft voice, came from outside the door. He dropped the box onto the tiled floor in surprise and quickly reached over and turned the water off.

"Honey, are you okay?" Claire's voice was accompanied by the shrill bark of her ivory poodle, Nina. They went everywhere together.

"Fine, dear. Just finishing up in here." Phil placed his hand on the door handle for extra measure.

"All right. I'm going to go start dinner."

"Okay."

Phil waited for her to exit the bedroom and then stuffed the package behind some stacks of toilet paper under the bathroom sink. He gave a false flush of the toilet and went into the kitchen to help with dinner. The unexpected high from his paranoia was troublesome yet invigorating.

Dinner went by exceedingly fast. Claire talked of her day with the Red Hat Society down at the First Baptist Church, and Phil nodded periodically between bites, keeping his thoughts fixed on one thing. The thing that had become his thing that day.

The couple migrated from the dinner table to the living room to watch reruns of "Three's Company" and "Laugh In." Besides a few light chuckles, silence dominated the evening. The silence was nothing new. After thirty-one years of marriage with no kids as a distraction, two people get to know the ins, outs, ups, downs, sideways, longways, and shortways of each other. Silence is grand after a while. But of course silence wasn't the status quo in Phil's head.

That night he lay in bed listening to Claire snore. His thoughts raced and sleep was impossible.

Levi Hieres. Levi Hieres. Who the hell is that? he thought as he rolled over on his side facing the bathroom door. If only I could go hold it and look at it again, maybe I would see a clue, an answer. No, not a chance. Claire's a light sleeper. If you so much as step foot off of this bed, she'll wake up. I know, I know.

He tilted his head, trying to see around the corner into the bathroom. He knew he couldn't, but tried nonetheless.

5305 Pfeifer. 5305 Pfeifer. That house has been vacant for over seven months. There has been a For Sale sign there for the past four, so who would send a package there? Surely it's a mistake. Or maybe, maybe it sold recently and some one is going to move in soon. Well, I guess I'll just leave the package here tomorrow and check out 5305 Pfeifer during work. I can't just leave it there if no one lives there.

Phil finally dozed off around 4 a.m., after finally justifying his brash actions by deciding it was in the best interest of the sendee for him to investigate. Truth be told, he knew that it wasn't, but he couldn't let the package go that easily. His instinct swore it was tied to him somehow ... an instinct that promised future assurance like a kidnapper awaiting his ransom demands.

Sunrise couldn't come soon enough the next morning. Phil was out of bed and ready for work thirty minutes ahead of schedule, despite only getting one-and-a-half hours of sleep. By 11:30 he would be on Pfeifer Street and no more than two or three houses away from 5305. He ate breakfast silently and quickly, shoveling most of his bacon and scrambled eggs to Nina, who was secretly hiding under the table. Then he kissed Claire good-bye and rushed off to the post office.

Deliveries on Keickbush, Ozmer, Teague, and Union were a mixture of bills and junk mail as usual. No packages. Phil cantered from house to house with a juvenile hop in his step. The morning passed, filled with an intense anxiety that seemed to both speed up and slow time. But before he knew it, he had dropped the mail into 7606 Union and rounded the corner onto Pfeifer Street.

5301: gas bill, credit card application, missing person postcard. 5303: missing person postcard, light bill.

As Phil approached 5305 he noticed his fingers beginning to tremble. For the first time in many years, he fumbled a handful of letters to the ground. He bent over on one knee to pick them up, never breaking eye contact with the evergreen tree that hid the front of 5305.

He walked on the cracked sidewalk toward the house and craned his neck to see around the evergreen. Sure enough, the Star of Texas For Sale sign was no longer a centerpiece in the mass of two-foot-high weeds. This struck Phil as odd. Usually the realtors put a Sold magnet over the sign for a few weeks before taking it down. Oh, well, he thought, I guess someone is moving in. Levi Hieres and family. I guess that answers my questions. I have to bring it back.

But when he glanced up at the house, he noticed that there were no curtains or blinds covering the windows, and his Phillip Lutzer the great and powerful postal detective sense kicked in. He decided to get a closer look.

After looking over his shoulder to the left, then the right, to make sure that no one was watching, he lightly lunged up to the broken-out bay window just right of the front door. He looked in and saw midnight-blue carpet, ragged from use, and sheetrock walls punctured with foot marks. Cobwebs had taken over every corner of the room and slowly eased their way across the walls and floor. A wasp nest the size of a softball sat on the floor. It was not only empty, but uninhabitable. There were no signs of anyone having been there to clean the house, much less see it.

Phil heard a car's engine approaching and quickly darted back toward the sidewalk. He proceeded to finish his deliveries with many more new questions swirling in his mind.

A part of him was definitely glad no one was there. It meant that the package was lost and therefore his. He knew that the Postal Service would just throw it in a stack of unclaimed or mislabeled mail with no return address. It would sit there for years until it was disposed of or sold to a store that specialized in lost luggage and mail. Though still a tad bit nervous about being found out, he felt a slight sense of relief knowing it could be his.

The ride home from work had a genial feel to it. He was excited to get home and see the package, examine the package, make sure the package was undisturbed. Make sure the package was his package.

As soon as he walked in the door, he called out for Claire but got no response. He dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes in the entryway, and eagerly raced to the bathroom. When he opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink, a feeling of shock halted his excitement. The stacks of toilet paper were toppled over and the package, his package, was gone.

Phil let out a wits-end scream.

"Claire? Cllaaiirre!"

He raced down the hall and into the kitchen. Claire turned from the sink and glowered at him, her pale blue eyes aflame with anger, soap bubbles dangling from her reddish curly hair. She stood in a lily-decorated apron with her yellow rubber gloved hands on her cocked hip. The package was staring at Phil from the center of the table.

"What the hell is that, Phil?" Claire gestured toward the package but didn't take her piercing eyes from Phil. "I found it under the sink in the bathroom when I was cleaning."

Phil stood motionless with his postal hat in his hand. He was flustered. Happy to have found the package, confused about what to say.

"Well, it was misplaced, and agh, lost, so agh...."

"So what, Phil, you're a thief now, is that it? You got'em hidden in the attic too? What about in the shed? You turning into a regular Guy Montag? Do you know what this could do to you? To us?"

"Nothing. It won't do nothing, because it belongs to nobody."

"Don't lie, Phil. Do you think that I'm stupid? It belongs to Levi Hieres. And if he doesn't want it, then it belongs at the post office in the lost department. I know how things work up there, Phillip."

He didn't know what to say. What could he say? Definitely not what he was thinking. About how glad he was to see that she hadn't thrown it out or taken the high and mighty road and turned him in. He could guarantee she wouldn't do that. Her lifestyle would have to change right alongside his, and not for the better.

"Phil, this stupid box could end your career. It could erase your retirement and benefits. It could land you in jail. You're a smart man, Phil. You don't need this, not now." She stepped toward him. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, honey. I'm sorry; it was a lapse in good judgment. I just wanted to make sure it belonged to that house, so I checked it out today. I planned on taking it in tomorrow."

Phil answered her queries correctly, but what he really heard her saying was:

This box could be our box. We could keep it here. Open it in secret and tell no one. It's mysterious and overpowering, huh?

Claire stepped back away from him and continued washing dishes.

"You better take it back tomorrow."

Phil nodded. "I will. I promise."

"I can't believe you did that, Phil. My God." Claire shook her head in disbelief.

Phil picked up the package and took it to the garage, which he had converted into a workshop for his woodworking. His new advisor, his inner voice, that unapologetic reptile, was already devising a way to keep the package. Only keep it until we discover more evidence about the house, of course. Phil could simply hide it in the workshop, use a grocery sack and shoe box to make a fake package to walk out with tomorrow, and then everyone's happy. Claire never set foot in his shop anyway, so it was a failsafe plan.

Before Phil had realized it—he actually never realized it—over a month had passed since he had acquired the package, and Claire was still blind to its location. The plan had worked and everyone was happy, sort of.

Phil had begun spending exorbitant amounts of time in his workshop, and Claire was getting a little suspicious of his behavior. It was out of honest concern, no doubt, and for good reason too.

Phil had lost ten to fifteen pounds in the last month, and his eating had dropped down to a bare minimum survival level. His outthrust chin was more so, his crow's feet-lined eyes sunken, and his hairline virtually nonexistent, since the few stragglers he had hanging on were gone. He resembled a forlorn, mange-ridden Shar-pei more than anything else. Stress was obviously deteriorating his health at a rapid rate, and Claire couldn't figure out why. Work was the same, home was the same. She didn't understand. But what she did understand was that Phil had been spending a lot of time in his workshop building a rocking chair for the porch. All of his spare time.

Phil had told her he was working on a rocking chair and had produced some nicely crafted pieces of it from time to time. At the end of every weekend he would emerge from the shop with a back support or arm rest beautifully carved in classic Victorian style. For a month now this facade had gone on. It veiled his hidden quest.

He had been working on creating a rocking chair, though. Or reassembling a rocking chair is a better way of putting it.

On his lunch break, soon after hiding the package on the top shelf in his shop behind a collection of half-used paint cans, he had gone down to the flea market and purchased a vintage rocking chair for forty dollars. He also bought a used bamboo mini-blind set for five dollars. It took him a few days to dismember the chair, sand down the finish, and scatter it throughout the shop. He was a regular Easter bunny. A piece here, a piece there. He also hung the blinds over the window on the door looking out into the garage so Claire couldn't see inside. The door already had a bolt lock, so his isolated domain was set.

And that is what he did, sat ... in isolation.

He sat in a rainbow-tinted fold-out lawn chair for hours every night, staring at the package. He would climb up his step ladder, bring it down from behind the paint cans, and place it on a barstool in front of his chair. He waited. He waited as anxiously as a defendant during deliberation time. He waited every single night for the box to do something, anything. Tell him something, move, unwrap itself, explode, do something. Hell, he'd settle for a courteous "hi" or "thanks." And for some subconscious reason, he still couldn't bring himself to open it, even though he'd decided never to return it.

Not to say that he hadn't tried to open it on many occasions. Almost every day. Various times a day, usually. Sometimes he imagined himself ripping it open like a ravenous vulture tearing into the abdomen of a bloated corpse, but he never could follow through with it. He was able to pick up the box and rotate it. He even shook the box once, but he hadn't heard any miraculous noises or felt any movements. It seemed hollow, but it was heavy. It was silent but all he heard. It was unexplainable, but Phil was still certain that it had a purpose for him. So he sat and stared.

And stared.

His rapt mental state never ventured from the box. His perfect attendance record at church was crumbling. The days at work had become longer. He had two complaints of mistaken mail placement. The first two in twenty-seven years. And his boss, Rodney Harris, had questioned him about taking some time off after his Jeep ran out of gas midway through his route one afternoon. He was drifting into another world. Drifting like the earth away from the sun, steadily. Drifting into the package.

His mind never daydreamed about anything else except the address on the package, the contents of the package, the beauty of the package, the purpose of the package, the package, the package, the package.

Claire knew he was perturbed. His agonized gaze went directly through her at dinner time. He barely uttered a word anymore. And his scruffy voice was barely audible when he did speak. A macabre cloud surrounded him, and she sensed it. If there is such a thing as eternal darkness it was casually creeping over him. Taking him away from all he was as a man.

On the sixth Sunday since Phil discovered the package, Claire decided that something had to give when she returned from church. She marched down the hall and knocked on the shop door. Nina trailed close behind. There was no answer. She knocked again. No answer, no noise, no sign of movement.

"Phil!"

She placed her hand on her throat.

"Phil! I know you're in there. You've been in there for seven hours; now, open this door."

Nothing. Claire rattled the door handle. Locked.

Fearing the worst, Claire went to the kitchen and got a meat cleaver. Once back at the door, she reared back and hit the glass window. It cracked.

"Phil?"

No answer.

She held the cleaver over her head like a lumberjack splitting wood and hit the window again, with all her might this time, sending shards of glass flying into the shop and sprawling Phil's bamboo blinds across the floor.

She stuck her head through the hole.

"Phil. Are you all right? Phil."

She saw the back of his head. He didn't budge. He was slouched down in his lawn chair, naked other than a pair of flannel boxers. A finely crafted rocking chair piece dangled loosely in his hand.

Claire reached in and unlocked the door. She walked up behind him, cautiously.

"Phil?"

"Here it is," he uttered. "Here's the next piece to the chair." His hand angled up a few degrees and then dropped again.

"Phil? Are you okay?"

She tiptoed up next to him and saw the package setting on the barstool, directly in front of him. He was paralyzed by it, and so was she. Him out of seduction, her out of disbelief. The package was spotless, flawless in its appearance. All of the other items in the shop, including the floor, were covered in dust bunnies, glass, and saw dust. The address was facing Phil.

"What the heck is going on, Phil? Why is that package here? You were supposed to get rid of it. I watched you carry it out."

Claire's anger overrode her concern. She was furious, almost to the point of dangerous. She grabbed the package and took off toward the door.

"I'm getting rid of this right now."

Phil didn't move. "Honey," he said in a stupor. "Please come here."

"What?" she replied, turning back toward him. He stood up and ambled in her direction with his arms out. The look in his eyes told her this was a different Phil than she'd married.

"I'm sorry, honey. So sorry. I don't know what's going on anymore. I feel trapped."

"It's going to be okay," she said half-heartedly, her pulse raging.

He crept toward her.

"I'm so sorry."

She nodded. Nina barked.

"I'm so sorry that I'M GONNA HAVE TO KILL YOU FOR TAKING MY PACKAGE, BITCH!"

Phil raised the curved piece of wood and brought it down in one sweeping arc, bludgeoning Claire upside the head. It felt like her head dented, like hitting a rolled-up rug rather than a hard skull. She fell limp, crumpled onto the floor, and her blood-gorged face smacked the cement with a sickening thud. Blood trickled from her caved-in forehead and puddled around her face. Phil was staring at the package in her hands.

He snapped back into a mild state of reality when Nina began barking. Nina trotted up to Claire and began licking her cheek and smelling her blood-soaked hair.

"STAY AWAY FROM MY PACKAGE!" Phil screamed.

He reared back and smacked Nina the same way he had Claire. A soft whimper was all he registered before she fell over, dead. With a malevolent grin exposing his teeth, Phil leaned over, pried the box from Claire's grip, and placed it back on the barstool.

As incoherent as Phil was, he knew that it wouldn't be long before his deed was found out and there would be a stiff price to pay. There was only one thing left to do. He went and grabbed a rope from his junk closet and looped it around a rafter in the garage. After successfully anchoring one end to the rafter, he made a slip knot on the other. He stepped up onto his rainbow lawn chair and slid the rope around his neck. He stared at the package. No other thought besides the package ever crossed his mind. No doubt, no guilt, no fear, no remorse. Nothing you would expect from a God-loving man.

"Here goes," he said.

He stepped off the lawn chair. It keeled over beneath his bare feet.

He swayed from side to side like a hypnotist's pendulum. His arms never moved in resistance toward his neck. He simply stared at the package. As his vision fogged in and out he read over and over:

Levi Hieres
5305 Pfeifer Street

And just before his world went eternally black, the package did something. In between periods of blackness and blurred vision, Phil saw the name Levi Hieres unscramble and rewrite itself as Evil is Here across the package.

When the police found him, he had a relieved simper plastered across his face.

Phil was partially right in his assumption. It didn't take long to find the dead bodies, if you don't consider a week a long time. Over twenty cops led by three homicide detectives handled the crime scene. It was accurately ruled a murder/suicide. Typical these days, although usually occurring with younger couples and involving kids.

Once the bodies were removed and all the street cops were heading back to work, the homicide detectives finished up at the crime scene.

"Look at this, boss," one of the remaining cops said, pointing at the package still sitting on the barstool. "Looks like we had another fucked-up postal worker. I swear these people are nuts."

"Let me have it," head detective Ramirez said. "The evidence truck already left, so I'll take this with me."

"You sure, boss? I'll take it down to the station."

"That's all right. I have to fill out paperwork on this case tomorrow, anyway. I'm gonna stop by my house to grab a bite to eat, and then I'll take it up there in a few hours. This case is solved, anyway. You just get back to your rounds."

"Sure, boss. See you tomorrow."

Detective Ramirez waved, stuck the package under his arm, and walked to his car.

I wonder what's in this box, he thought, as he started his car and drove away.

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