James Grippando - A King's ransom

We didn’t agree on everything, but that had kept things interesting, and only once had it made me nervous. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the prelude to our breakup. We were bicycling through Coconut Grove and stopped at the water’s edge in Kennedy Park. It was a sunny and warm Saturday in February, the kind of day that made you realize why you lived in South Florida. Picnic blankets dotted the green landscape, parents were out playing with their children all over the park, a clown was entertaining a flock of children at a birthday celebration. I couldn’t help noticing that most of the moms and dads in that particular group looked even younger than I was. Just the thought of making a lifelong commitment so early in life had me both in awe of them and scared for them.

“What makes them so sure?” I asked, almost to myself.

The question had come out of the blue. Jenna and I had been sitting on the grass in silence, but she knew exactly what was going through my mind. She always did.

“It’s a process,” she said. “It doesn’t start with kids, or even the thought of kids.”

“Where does it start?”

“Physical attraction.”

“What?”

“Every successful romantic relationship is built on physical attraction.”

I gave her a strange look, but she was serious. “That’s ridiculous. You think the most important thing is looks?”

“Physical attraction encompasses a lot more than looks.”

“Like what?”

“Millions of things. You might think I’m smart. On one level that might make you want to be in my study group. On another it might make you want to romp naked with me in a big bowl of Jell-O. Physical attraction can flow from anything about me that makes you want to touch me.”

“And that’s the basis of every successful romantic relationship?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Then you should move in with your sister and adopt children.”

“Come on. You’re saying that what makes all these people want to get married and take their kids to the park on the weekend is physical attraction?”

“No. I’m saying that it’s what makes them want to rip each other’s clothes off and jump in the sack. And if we don’t want to do that, there aren’t any kids to take to the park on weekends.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed, but I nodded and smiled. Back then it didn’t take much for Jenna in spandex to make me nod and smile. “So are you physically attracted to me?” I asked.

“Are you asking if I want to get married and have your kids?”

“No,” I said, smiling wider and shaking my head. “No-no-no-no-no-no.”

She rose quickly from the grass and walked toward her bicycle. My stupid grin quickly faded, and I hurried after her.

“Jenna?”

She continued down the bike path, no answer.

“Jenna, wait.”

She strapped on her helmet and got on her bicycle. I grabbed the handlebars to keep her from taking off. She looked me in the eye and said sharply, “A single no would have sufficed, jerk.”

Our eyes locked for a moment longer, as if she were waiting for me to say something to redeem myself. Before I could speak, she broke free, leaned into the pedals, and took off.

“Damn it,” I said beneath my breath. I was angry at myself for having played this game, for having said no so emphatically just to preserve the big surprise. Her thirtieth birthday was a week away. I’d planned to pop the question then. After this blowup, I didn’t think she’d ever believe that I’d bought the ring two months earlier.

I watched in silence as she sped down the bike path, keeping her in my sights until she was almost too small to see.

Not once did she look back.

Late Wednesday afternoon a package arrived. It was about the size of a box of checkbooks and wrapped in brown shipping paper. Torn at every corner, it was held together by multiple straps of clear plastic tape picturing a colorful parrot atop a blue box that read “ Correos de Colombia .” The metered postage was stamped ADPOSTAL SANTA FE DE BOGOTA D. C.

I assumed it was from the kidnappers.

Interestingly, it was sent to my house in Coconut Grove, not to my mother in Coral Gables. That made some sense. Alex had told them I was with her during the radio communication in Bogota. Perhaps they’d decided to communicate with me directly, and my father could have given them my address. The thought of his telling them anything lifted my spirits. It meant he was still alive.

I was eager to open the package, but I proceeded with caution. I shook it lightly. Something moved inside. My mood suddenly shifted from curious to macabre. The warnings of Duncan Fitz at yesterday’s court hearing came flooding back to me, the gloomy picture of what dangers my father might face if ever the kidnappers learned that the insurance company had denied coverage and refused to pay. Could someone have tipped them off to the dispute? I suddenly feared that the box might contain some gruesome warning from the kidnappers, something that my father would have given up only after a struggle, something so shocking that he would have begged them to send the package to his son and not his wife.

My hand began to shake. I’d heard of kidnappers sending ears or fingers to the family in the mail, and this box was the perfect size. I closed my eyes and forced myself to bring it to my nose and sniff for strange odors.

I detected nothing, but the contents could have been sealed in plastic. From the kitchen I phoned Alex and told her my concerns.

“Open it,” she said.

“But what if it’s-”

“I think I know what it is. Open it.”

I put the phone down and switched Alex to the speaker. Slowly I peeled away the already torn paper. The box inside was sealed with more tape. I slit it with a kitchen knife, drew a deep breath, and flipped open the box.

“It’s an international pager,” I said.

“I knew it. Those bastards.”

“What? This has to be a good sign. They wouldn’t send me a pager unless they wanted to be able to contact me on a moment’s notice. They must be getting ready to turn Dad loose.”

“That’s what they’d like you to think.”

I was only half listening. “There’s a note here,” I said, already translating in my mind. “They want me to wear the pager at all times. It says they’ll be in touch.”

“It doesn’t say when, does it?”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

“I would assume they’ll call when they’re ready to make the exchange.”

“Stop it, Nick. You’re doing exactly what they want you to do.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen it a dozen times. It’s a psychological ploy. They give the family a beeper, and the reaction is always the same: Resolution is near. But the beeper never sounds. You’ll wear it every day, check it every ten minutes, wonder if it’s broken, take it to a repair shop, drive yourself crazy. Finally you’ll get a message, but the number you’re supposed to call will have a few digits missing, which is intentional on their part. You’ll think your father is going to die because the stupid pager didn’t work. It’s all a game for them. It’s how they wear you out, make you pay the big bucks.”

I held the pager in the palm of my hand. I wanted to cling to the idea that my father might soon be released, but the dose of reality from Alex had turned most of my hope to anger. “What should I do with it?”

“Keep it, of course. Just don’t drive yourself crazy with it.”

I wanted to throw it against the wall but calmed myself and took a seat on the barstool at the kitchen counter. “I’m tired of the games on all fronts. The kidnappers, the lawyers, the FBI. It’s wearing me out.”