Payton Hidden Away (14 page)

She was right. I know the way. I
know the way as well as if I never left. But as I drive through Payton, I
probably look like a lost tourist what with the way I’m looking around, craning
my neck, doing double-takes. It’s probably my unguarded surprise at how much
things have changed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a different
town.

“It’s so weird
having you back,” Kristie says.

“I’m not back.”

“We’ll see.”
She’s still staring out her window. I don’t think she’s mad at me, but it’s
hard to be sure. She was always emotional, and despite the setbacks and
disappointments she’s clearly lived through, nothing’s changed. Either that or
things have stayed ironically the same.

I concentrate on
the road, on the street names, street signs, business names, vacant lots, and abandoned
buildings. All these ‘places’ feel familiar, yet everything looks as different
as me. I’ve been here for three days, but I still can’t get over how far Payton
has fallen.

“What happened
here?” I ask quietly. “It’s like a ghost town.”

She’s silent and
doesn’t turn as she leans on her elbow and stares out the passenger-side
window.

“You there?” I
ask.

She nods.

“Then what
happened?”

She shrugs. “People
started moving away.”

“Why?”

Nothing.

I turn into the
parking lot of the Days Inn and pull into an open parking spot in front of room
16.

“Well…” I say,
trailing off. “We’re here. I’m going to change.”

“You want me to
come in?”

I stare at her.
It’s not an advance, or maybe it is. Regardless, my thoughts are wandering—wondering
about her motivation “Up to you,” I say as I kill the engine and open the door.
“It’ll be a few minutes.”

“What happened to your face?” she
asks, waddling toward me. Her thighs are vying for position as they rub
together, her feet pointing sideways to support her weight. Kind of reminds me
of a duck. The shirt she’s wearing is several sizes too small, and her shorts
are too short, blue veins running a varicose maze I don’t care to see.

“Terrorists,” I
answer as I open the fridge and pull the milk. Popping the top, I smell inside.
It doesn’t smell fresh, but it’s not sour yet either so I pour a glass.

“That’s not
funny,” she says. “Did you get in a fight?”

“Nobody saw
anything. Don’t worry about it.”

“Who started
it?”

“What’s it
matter? Jesus, Mom, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Enough with the
language.”

“Don’t start. I
already get hassled enough by Ritchie.”

“Well, he’s
right, and I still pay the bills around here, so as long as you’re living under
my roof, enough with the language.”

“That’s for
about another ten days,” I mutter under my breath.

“What did you
say?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard what
you said, and if that’s the attitude you’re planning to take with me, then you
might as well move down to Florida now.”

“Georgia, Mom.
Georgia. Why does everyone think I’m going to Florida?” I sip from the carton
and wrinkle my nose. I was wrong. The milk is definitely past its prime. I
start pouring out the rest.

“What are you
doing?”

“It’s stale,” I
murmur.

“Figures. I
thought it tasted kinda funny on my cereal.”

“I’ll pick up
some tonight.”

“Should I be
worried?”

“About what?”

“What are we
talking about?”

“You’re worrying
again.”

“I’m your
mother. That’s my job.”

“Well don’t.
Makes you look old.”

“Thanks. I
already get hassled enough by the mirror.”

I smile. “Touché.
And I didn’t mean it like that. You look great.”          

“I’m not stupid
either.”

“There’s nothing
going on. It was a fight. Guys have an insatiable need to prove our male
bravado when in the presence of the opposite sex.”

“And I suppose
you were just an innocent bystander who got caught in the middle?”

“Bad timing.”

“Seems awful
convenient.”

“Trust me, it
doesn’t feel very convenient.” I kiss her on the forehead before turning to the
living room. “Stop worrying.”

“Where are you
going?”

“Homework!” I
call over my shoulder.

“I’m worrying!”

I smile, but say
nothing as I head for the bathroom where I inspect my reflection. It’s bad. My
face is swelling, and it’ll only get worse as the bruising darkens. My chances
of getting laid a second time have been greatly diminished. Frowning, I reach
over to turn on the faucet. The water stings, but I force myself to wash off
the blood and clean the dirt from the two open cuts. When the blood runs thin
and turns from red to pink, I shut off the water and dab my face with the
towel.

I miss Kristie.

Maybe after
Ritchie’s game I’ll head over to her place. Her dad doesn’t trust me, and her
mom isn’t exactly ‘in my corner,’ but so far they seem to tolerate me, so
that’s a win. Or at least it’s not a loss.

I sneak out
through the window and drop to the ground. Mom knows I do it, and I know she
knows it. I could have gone out the front door, but our silent understanding
seems to work better. She has plausible deniability, and we don’t fight. If
anyone asks, as far as she knows, I’m in my room. Right now she’s sitting in
the living room and shaking her head. Later she’ll close the window in case it
rains, but after it gets dark, she’ll re-open it a crack so I can sneak back
in. I promise to be careful, and she promises not to worry. It’s worked this
ways for years, and now that I’m going, I worry about her and what she’ll do
once I’m gone.

“Bye, Mom,” I
whisper while watching her watch TV through the big picture window where all I
can see is the back of her head and her frizzy gray hair. The house is lit up,
bright and warm on the inside. It’s growing chilly out here, and the sun is
orange instead of yellow. Daylight will be replaced with night in under an
hour, and I’m already late, so I cast one last look toward home before turning
and breaking in a jog toward the ballpark.

I’m sweating
again by the time I get there, the game is already underway, and the crowd is
already cheering, which means Ritchie is already pitching. As usual, the stands
are packed. It’s funny, but volleyball, lacrosse and track fail to garner much
attention from the locals. They can barely get fifty people to show up on game
day. Even Pirate football games sometimes fail to sellout. Pirate Baseball is
the big ticket, though it’s only when Ritchie’s on the mound that the whole
town shows up. The bleachers overflow, and the grounds around the park are
standing-room only. The feeling is electric. It’s like being at a professional
ballpark. The loudspeakers blare every time he takes the mound, the fans
leaping to their feet and clapping and singing along to
Welcome to the
Jungle
by Guns ‘n Roses.

I weave my way
through the crowd to the stands, the music and the screaming fans deafening
around me. It isn’t so much Pirate baseball as it’s Ritchie Hudson. Makes me
wonder why he’s as neurotic off the mound as he is. He should be looking at
big-time schools that offer baseball programs. He should be laying pipe with
every girl in town. Instead, he follows me around like a lost puppy, his head
in the clouds over Joanne as if she’s the only answer to his every question.

I climb the
bleachers to the fourth row, fourth seat. It’s the only empty seat in the
house, and it’s been reserved just for me. ‘AAA’ has been etched into the
aluminum for nearly three years now. 44 is Ritchie’s lucky number. He was born
on February 13
^th
, which is the 44
^th
day of the year. We
were both eight years old when we met, and since there’s two of us, eight
divided by two is four, and two 4s equal 44. He also wears #44 on the back of
his jersey. He didn’t even pick the number. It was just given to him, and since
he touts fate as the will of God, he’s convinced everything happens for a
reason. Therefore, he decided the fourth row, fourth seat should be mine. Sort
of a good luck charm. Baseball pitchers are, by nature, a bit superstitious,
but Ritchie is different. He’s an oddball among oddballs, but nobody argues
with Ritchie Hudson, and
nobody
makes fun. If he thinks I bring good
luck by sitting in the same seat every time he throws, then who’s to say
otherwise?

“Where were
you?” a man asks as I take my seat and begin clapping in tune with the crowd.

“What?” I shout
over the noise.

“You’re late,”
he shouts.

“Do I know you?”

“Hudson gave up four runs in the first inning because you weren’t here,” the man shouts
back. “Next time, have some respect.”

I look over at
the scoreboard and sure enough, the Sailors have a 4-0 lead. I turn back to the
field where Ritchie is staring directly at me, that stupid grin of his
plastered all over his dumb face. I shrug and point at the scoreboard before
shrugging. He just flips me off, which pisses off the ump, and Ritchie gets a
warning.

The crowd goes
nuts.

Focus!
I
mouth over the music, but Ritchie just keeps grinning like a moron.

The music
settles down, but the crowd remains standing as Ritchie goes to work.

“Steeeeeeeeeerike!”
the ump shouts, and the energy returns, the crowd going bonkers. Suddenly I
know—I just
know
—that even though we’re losing, we’ll find a way to come
back. This game is well in hand.

Top of the seventh. The good guys
are up 5-4. Ritchie has pitched six full innings, and he’s gassed, but the
skipper sends him out anyway. They should have tapped the bullpen long ago, but
since we can’t hit for shit, Coach Dunham apparently feels our best bet is to
keep our starter on the mound to protect the one run lead. It’s a crucial game.
Everyone in the ballpark is well aware of just how crucial it is, and everyone
knows that even at his worst, Ritchie is better than any alternative Dunham has
in his hip pocket. But Ritchie looks exhausted. His pit-stains have engulfed
his entire jersey at this point, turning the entire thing a shade darker. He’s
lumbering his way out to the mound, cracking his neck and stretching his
shoulders by rotating his arms in a circular motion. The crowd is uneasy,
murmuring while wondering aloud.

Then Ritchie
pulls a Ritchie.

He turns to us
and yells something I can’t quite make out from here but looks something like
“make some fuckin’ noise!”

The crowd rises
to its feet. I rise with them, and suddenly we’re all clapping and cheering
like crazed animals, praying for a miracle as he tips his hat before going into
his routine. Ritchie gave up four runs on six hits in the one inning I wasn’t
here. Since then, he’s given up goose eggs while fanning twelve and walking
only one. This is high school ball. Twelve strikeouts over five innings doesn’t
just happen by accident.

As Ritchie goes
into his warm-up for the seventh and final inning, the music is louder, the
crowd louder, the night louder than I’ve ever heard it before. The stands are
actually shaking. I feel a weird sense of anxiety gripping my insides, but I
also can’t help but marvel at what my friend has accomplished. He’s a dud in
the classroom. He can’t even pass remedial math, but out on the mound he’s a
god. People are clapping, stomping, graffiti spilling out on the field, the
crowd singing along to the music. It’s like we just won the Super Bowl, but we
haven’t even won this meaningless regular-season game.

Yet.

Even from where
I’m standing, I can tell Ritchie is gassed. His uniform is soaked, un-tucked
and hanging limply over his gut, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue. He’s exhaling
in wide O’s, and he’s stretching to buy time. But I also know him well enough
to know that this is what he lives for. He’d rather die than let the bullpen
take over. He’ll throw his back out before he throws in the towel, and as the
first batter settles into the box, I wonder if Ritchie’s streak will finally
break.

Ritchie goes
into the wind and hurls.

Thump.

Swing.

“Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

The crowd erupts
in chorus, and Ritchie waits for the ball to come back. Catching it on the fly,
he turns his back the way he always does, his head lowered. He murmurs to
himself, his lips moving ever so slightly as he stares at the ground. Returning
to face the plate, he’s ready and deals up another swing and a miss. His
fastball still looks untouchable. Another windup, another pitch.

“Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

The crowd
explodes as the batter tosses his bat in disgust. Ritchie just turns his back,
head lowered while his big hand massages the ball. Some kids are lighting
sparklers from the bleachers across the way, and they’re waving them around.
This prompts a reaction from everyone else who owns a lighter, because suddenly
there are hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny flames springing up.

Two outs away.

The next batter
takes his place at home-plate.

People are
shouting themselves hoarse, stomping their feet. I’ve never heard it this loud
before. Ever. The crowd doesn’t bother to quiet down even as Ritchie turns back
to home plate, reads the signs and settles into his windup. A foul, a ball and
a strike later, and the crowd is chanting, clapping, stomping. The world around
me is vibrating and shaking. People are waving flags, T-shirts, sparklers,
lighters all the while pumping fists and clapping, rolling in waves, the
stadium packed. The streets are empty, the homes empty, the stores and shops
closed. Payton is closed—shut down. Everyone’s here. Everyone.

“Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

The crowd goes nuts,
frantic and falling over one another. Two outs.

“Ritchie! Ritchie!
Ritchie!” the crowd chants.

One more.

For his part,
Ritchie looks focused. He’s throwing angry, ignoring the calls being sent in.
The game is at home plate. Forget the outfielders, and forget the score. This
is between him and the last batter. He’s 122 pitches in. He’s exhausted,
sweating, angry. One hanging slider and we’re tied. One well-read fastball, and
it’s a brand-new game. One slip-up and every fan will go silent. Butts will hit
the seats.

But that’s only
if
…

Fourteen
strikeouts. Fourteen out of the last eighteen batters have gone down on
strikes. That’s unheard of.

Ritchie’s back
is to home plate and he’s massaging the ball while the batter takes a few
warm-up swings. Ritchie turns around, the crowd roars, rising to its feet. We
all stand at once, and I can hardly see over the raving wall of raised fists in
front of me. Looking around the stadium, I can’t help but smile. Everyone is
here for him and everyone is here for this moment. We’re one out away from an
unbelievable come from behind victory—the kind of thing people will recount
long after the season ends.

Ritchie rears
back and hurls a fastball.

“Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

The crowd is
electric. Two more strikes. That’s all he needs.

Thump, thump,
thump, thump. Shoes, flip-flops and boots stomp the stands, hands clapping,
people shouting and shrieking. Ritchie stretches a bit, and I smile, wondering
if it’s for show—even if just a little bit.

Ritchie faces
home plate, spits, adjusts his cap and goes into his wind. He throws a
curveball that causes the batter to chase it into the dirt, and the crowd roars
with enthusiasm.

Two strikes.

One more. One
more and this place is going to implode.

The feeling around
me—pumping and vibrating—is surreal. So much energy, so many hopes and so much
fear. One bad pitch and this crowd will panic. Never mind the four runs he gave
up in the first inning. And never mind the fourteen strikeouts since. It comes
down to this. The guy on the loudspeaker is trying to call the game, but you
can barely hear him.

Ritchie faces
the batter, goes into his wind and rears back. Flashbulbs go off, the sounds
around me deafening, and the ball leaves Ritchie’s hand. His fastball has been
good all night, but this is something else. He found every last ounce of
energy, and the ball is in the catcher’s glove before either the batter or the
umpire have an opportunity to react.

“Holy shit,” I
whisper in awe.

Around me, the
crowd boils over as the umpire calls the final strike. Ritchie just stands
there, his arms spread—palms up, a big Ritchie grin is on his face. He suddenly
tosses his mitt high in the air. His teammates are rushing the field along with
the fans, while I stand rooted. All I can do is shake my head, inspired by my
friend’s performance. This wasn’t just a game. This was a monumental moment in
the history of Payton County.

Fireworks
explode overhead, lighting the sky. Ritchie is hoisted up on the shoulders of
his teammates. He looks my way and tips his hat the way he does when we win. But
he looks different. This time he looks like an angel. All that talk of
incompetence, all those fears of inadequacy, all that concern of being fat and
ugly—it’s all forgotten. Out there it’s just Ritchie, a big oaf. My best
friend.

I’m still
clapping, still whooping, still pumping my fist as I stand to leave—fourth row,
fourth seat—and make my way toward the stadium exit. The crowd around me is
nuts, the world around me all about Ritchie. We’re here for him.

But it’s
different. He’s different. He’s smiling, but he’s not happy. He’s empty, and even
though this evening is supposed to be about him, it’s not. This night is all
about
her
. He’s acting excited while she’s nowhere to be seen. And it’s
not like he doesn’t notice.

I clap anyway.