Payton Hidden Away (20 page)

The rain hasn’t stopped. It
hasn’t even slowed. It’s been raining like this for hours on end, feeling like
it’s been raining since I got here. Maybe the rain will never stop. It’ll just
fall forever.

Change the
channel.

Another realty
TV show. This one is all about a hoarder’s lifestyle. It makes me reflect on
what a complex organ the human brain is, and how ostensively unique people are
as a result. I normally don’t feel bad for people who suffer as a consequence
of their own decisions, but I find myself feeling worse and worse, slipping
into a pit of black depression as I finish my dinner.

Change the
channel.

Another shampoo
commercial. This time of day it’s either diapers, shampoo or some kind common
cure for erectile dysfunction. It’s advertising for the unhappy housewife as if
they’re the only sad souls watching this channel at this time.

I wash my hands,
brush my teeth, peel back the curtain and check to see what’s going on outside.
It’s still raining.

Change the
channel.

An infomercial
on the world’s most prolific vacuum cleaner. It’s the biggest sucker of them
all.

I hate this. I
hate television, and moreover I hate commercials. To top off my list of hates,
I especially hate sitting still. It’s still raining, but I need to do something
before I put my fist through a wall. However, having learned my lesson the hard
way, I first peer through the peephole to make sure there are no bitter
childhood friends lurking on the other side of the door. The coast is clear, so
I open up, step outside and stand beneath the overhang while water cascades in
front of me like a waterfall. The sky is muddy and foreboding, but it’s also
silent in its own way. There is no thunder or lightning. Just rain. The air
smells clean, the silence of the small town familiar.

I start walking.
I don’t have a raincoat or an umbrella, but it’s just water, and in a childish
way, it’s nice just to feel something clean. It’s a warm rain, quickly plastering
my shirt to my skin, flattening my hair to my head, and it’s a beautiful moment,
a moment I’ll cherish. It’s a moment I can’t—

“Hey, buttface.”

My golden moment
ends with cartoonish drivel, that swirling sound that goes lower and lower
until there’s a ‘ploop,’ signifying the end.

“What do you
want?” I ask without turning.

“I told you to
leave. Why you still here?”

I won’t turn
around. I won’t let him see my fear. I’ve been through hell over the past few
days, and the last thing I need is another scar to compliment the other myriad
of scars I’ve earned since showing my face in town.

“My car got
wrecked,” I say slowly.

“Yeah, I saw
that.”

“So, I guess I’m
stuck here until the pencil pushers sort it out.”

“That ain’t it,”
Ritchie returns. “You got money, and you’re a hotshot working for some shithead
somewhere. You got means.”

“Are you
planning on giving me a lift?”

“Are you man
enough to face me?”

“What do you
want?” I ask, turning around.

“I want you out
of my town,” he says. The rain is coursing through what little hair he has
left. Ritchie has three chins now instead of one, and while he still boasts the
broad shoulders of a one-time athlete, he exemplifies the complacent
couch-potato who hasn’t pushed himself in more than a decade.

“Why are you
doing this?” I ask. “I never did anything to you.”

“You know why.”

“That was twenty
years ago. No one even remembers what happened here.”

“I remember. And
so do you. That’s why you came back.”

“I came back
because Kristie called me.”

“Oh, come on.
You ain’t given two thoughts to that bitch since you left. Are you really that
hard up?”

“You’re
impossible.”

“I make the
impossible possible, shit dick.”

“Always with the
colorful language.”

Ritchie grins,
one tooth cracked in half, and for a moment I see my former friend. “You think
you got what it takes?” he asks, that smile tipping the corners of his mouth,
that smile I remember from so long ago when we’d toss around the football or play
video games or just hang out for no reason. I remember him smiling like this when
we’d talk about girls or motorcycles or sports. It’s a big grin with lots of
teeth and cheeks, yet it’s a façade, because I can tell there’s no life behind
those dark eyes of his. There’s no empathy. Whatever we once had is long gone.

“We got a rich history,”
he continues. “We go way back. I love you like a brother, but I told you to
stay away. And you shoulda.” Ritchie glares at me, but I swear there’s a gleam
in there someone. Maybe he’s proud of me. Or maybe he found his excuse to
unleash Hell. “Did you really come back for her?” he asks. “Just to dredge up
old memories? See an old piece of pussy?” He shakes his head while pacing in
front of me. “No one wants you here no more.”

I have to blink
the rain from my eyes. “Kristie wants me here.”

“Kristie’s using
you. If you don’t see it, then yer blind. She suspects you, and if she don’t,
then she will.”

I stare at him
for a long moment, rainwater dripping along my face. “I’m responsible.”

He eyes me
through the rain. “Thought you didn’t remember nothin’?”

“I believe you
said I remember enough.”

Ritchie frowns.
“You got a smart mouth too. You keep stickin’ yer nose where it don’t belong
and diggin’ up old ghosts, and yer gonna find yerself in a word of hurt.”

“I’m not here to
dig up old ghosts.” The distance between us is wide, the rain coming down in
torrents, flooding the streets, the water winding in currents toward the drains
that thunder from underfoot. I wipe the rain from my eyes and stare back. “I’m
here to bury them.”

Ritchie eyes me
for a long moment, and I can feel his gaze digging into my soul. Finally, he
offers a doubtful grin. “To bury ‘em, huh?” He chuckles and begins pacing
again. “And just what the hell do you plan on buryin’?”

I stare at him a
long moment before leaning back on my heels. “I haven’t decided yet,” I answer.
“Maybe this whole goddamn town.”

Ritchie scowls.
“You know how much I hate that language.”

“At this point,
do you really think I care what you like?”

Ritchie glares
at me through the rain. “Despite what you might wanna think, that little whore
don’t want you no more. She didn’t bring you back here to pick up where you
left off. She brought you back to remember why she forgot about you in the
first place.”

I step forward
with every intention of walking past him, but he holds up a hand and gently
pushes me back. Apparently, this conversation isn’t over.

“You don’t want
to do this, Rich,” I say, but even I can hear the crack in my voice. “There are
important people who will come looking for me.”

“Do what? This
ain’t nothin’. This is just a warning shot. A shot across the brow.”

“Bow, you dumb shit.”
I’m scared. As much as he was my protector when we were friends, he also scared
the crap out of me with that smothering way of his.

“This ain’t your
home no more,” he grumbles.

But it
is
my home, and I’m strangely aware that I’ve felt more alive in these last few
days than I’ve felt in the past several years. I’ve begun to
feel
again,
and it’s been ripe and painful and scary and beautiful. Old feelings are
resurfacing, causing my heart to leap—some of it good and some of it bad. Good
or bad, beautiful or terrible, it’s
something
, and something is better
than nothing.

“Go home, Rich.”

“I ain’t goin’
home.”

“Then what are
you going to do? Kill me right here? Right out in the open where the whole town
can see? Is that going to fix things?”

“It might.”

“Go home, Rich.”
I turn away and make my way back toward the hotel. Worst case scenario has him
chasing me down, bashing my head into the cement until things go dark. Best
case scenario has him leaving me alone so I can return to my mundane life back
in Atlanta. I’d go back to InteGREAT Inc. and my 8
^th
floor perch
where I’ll stare longingly out the window down into our inglorious parking lot
before noticing a scuff on my loafer and licking a Kleenex to use as wax to rub
it out. Best case scenario has me dying one day at a time instead of all at
once. And one’s got to ask one’s self; what’s the point in that?

“Boogieman is
watchin’,” Ritchie calls. He’s been following from several paces back. I want
to stop in my tracks, whirl and scream in his face that I’m not afraid, but I
am so I don’t. The best I can do is duck my head and walk away.

And that’s the best
case scenario.

I’m happy to shut the hotel door
behind me, draw the chain and turn the deadbolt. Water drips from my hair, my
clothes soaked. I’m shivering with cold even though it’s warm in here. I slump
against the door, feeling terribly small. The lamp is warm and bright, the TV
cheery, a group of whoever busting out in laughter.

—at my expense
no doubt.

I change my clothes and dry my
hair, and within ten minutes I’m exactly where I was a half-hour ago—sitting on
the edge of my bed while flipping through the channels. My presence here is
pointless. I’m not accomplishing anything. I’m a distraction—a speed bump. I
know what it is I
should
do, but I don’t know that I
can
do it. I
figured everything would just kind of work itself out when I came back. Somehow
Kristie and I would stumble from one clue to the next until we were led by the
hand exactly where we needed to go. But none of that has happened. There aren’t
a lot of clues. There never were. There was a letter and hearing aid and a
missing person. That’s it, and that’s what made the mystery of Joanne’s
disappearance such a mystery. She was just gone.

Then again,
maybe my return home has nothing to do with Joanne. Maybe it has something to
do with Payton County, reconnecting with Kristie, reconciling with Ritchie and
getting square with all the guilt I left behind years ago.

Guilt.

Because there
is
guilt now that I remember. There
is
guilt, because I remember more than
just bits and pieces, and I remember enough to know that I did something wrong,
but I can’t quite…

And yet I can.

There are the
things that I
do
remember. Things we said. Something we hid. Something
I’ve never talked about. Not to anyone. This alone brings about a stab of
guilt—like a hot flash reminding me what I have to do, not because I want to,
but because it’s time. Kristie has a right to know, so I’ll take her there
tomorrow. It’ll lead to anger and tears and regrets for pretending the things
that happened never did.

If I just up and
left town the way Ritchie wants me to, then I could deny everything. I could avoid
the grief by returning to my life in the big city. Tomorrow is Monday where things
return to normal. Same city, same traffic lights, same streets, same buildings,
same elevators, same desk, same coffee, same notes—same shit. I’m expected to
show up for staff meetings, status meetings, change control meetings, quarterly
earnings meetings and my one-on-one with the bossman himself. I’m supposed to
be in his office at 9:30 sharp, and I’m already trying to think of what I’ll
say when he calls wondering why I’m not there.

Pacing.

I can’t leave,
because now there’s guilt. I can’t leave, and I’m afraid to stay. Tomorrow is
it. No more secrets. No more lies. Tomorrow is only a few hours away, and it’s
coming whether I want it to or not.

7:22 p.m.

Now that I’ve
conceded, I just want it to be over. I want to give myself up, throw up my
hands and walk into the Payton Police Department begging for forgiveness. And
even as I pinch my eyes like a kid wishing on birthday candles, I’m still not
sure I remember everything that happened the way it happened. I remember how it
ended, but the things in between are fuzzy, like frosty glass. It’ll come back.
Once we’re there. Tomorrow morning the rest will come back. That much I’m sure
of. Once we’re there, I’ll remember. The big question is whether or not I
want
to remember.

And then what?
What will happen? To me? To Kristie? Will I be left at the side of the road
thumbing my way back to the airport while the rain continues to fall?

I flip through
the channels one last time, and this time there’s a ballgame on. Baseball. The
crowds, the field, the hopes and dreams of an entire city hinging on a 3:2
pitch with two outs and two on. Something’s got to give, and I’m reminded of
the fourth row and the fourth seat of an event in my life a million and a half
hours ago.

I settle back
against the headboard and cross my ankles, folding my hands behind my head. The
pitcher adjusts his cap, a single bead of sweat rolling from his sideburn to
his chin. It’s only the first inning, yet he’s 32 pitches in, the bases are
loaded, and he’s already feeling the pressure. Reminds me of Ritchie in a weird
way. Ritchie sweats in the middle of winter even when he’s sitting still, but
on the mound he was a god. He lived for this kind of pressure. He would rather
have three men on than have the bases empty. He was the rock the team relied
upon, and it wasn’t until ‘that’ night, that he finally cracked.

That night.

I turn out the
light but leave the T.V. on. I’m left to dwell within my own conclusions while
the game plays out somewhat differently.

9:37 p.m. Night is falling, but
daylight hasn’t given up yet. Summer in Michigan seems to last forever. The
game is only in the sixth, but the score indicates the game ended a long time
ago. The news is nothing new, and the Sunday night movie of the week wasn’t all
that good even when I saw it in the theater some six years ago.

I feel antsy,
like a caged animal set to be fed to the predators waiting outside, but I can’t
just sit around twiddling my thumbs. I need to clear my head even if that means
getting wet or risking another encounter with Ritchie, so I undo the deadbolt
and pull the chain. The air is fresh and familiar—the smell of Payton County
after a summer rain. Not all of the memories flooding back are good, but they
do remind me of a time that
felt
simpler even if in reality it wasn’t.

Wandering the
streets for awhile, probably looking like I’m lost, I decide to pick up a
six-pack to pass the time. There’s a Gas ‘n’ Go kitty-corner from the hotel, so
I turn back. The bell over the door announces me, and I offer the pimply kid
behind the register a nod. He does not return the gesture. He just stares at
me, a not-too-bright look on his face.

There’s nothing
good in the cooler, so I grab something domestic and plop it on the counter so
Mr. Pimples can ring me up. He doesn’t even ask if there’ll be anything else,
so I just pay and leave before stealing my way back to my room where I’m
careful to pull the chain and turn the deadbolt. I kick off my shoes, crawl
onto the bed and plop the six-pack between my legs.

Time for some
liquid relaxation.

There’s still
nothing good on TV. I flip through the channels thinking something should have
ended and something else should have started by now, but it all looks the same.
It’s as if the FCC is conspiring against the consumer. Then again, maybe bad
beer makes for better TV. To test this hypothesis, I decide my entertainment
barometer will be gauged by the decibel level of my laughter based on bad jokes
an hour from now once I’ve polished off a few cold ones.

Shake, pop,
fizz, and I slurp the suds.

I’m not ready
for tomorrow, and I can’t help but hope that if I’m careless enough, tomorrow
won’t come, though even if it does, then maybe she won’t show. I stop surfing
channels, having settled on one of those crime dramas that are meant to look
like a movie but can’t hide the fact that it was produced on a small budget. I
haven’t seen this episode, but the answer to the riddle of whodunit seems
obvious. It’s clearly the husband. They’re trying to make it look otherwise,
but I’ve seen evil before—real evil—so there’s not much they can do on TV to
convince me that the best-of-intentions can be hidden behind bad dialogue,
spooky music and poor foreshadowing.

Shake, pop,
fizz, and I slurp the suds.

I feel nothing
other than boredom, so I start pacing, irritated that the TV has nothing better
to offer than a crime saga, three dumb sitcoms and a bad infomercial on best
practices for a green lawn. I don’t even own a lawn, which leaves me here
wasting away while waiting.

Empty again.

I count them up
to find I’ve already blown through three beers. Pulling number four, I pace through
the cramped room. I’m not ready for tomorrow any more than I was ready for
today. Tomorrow will be worse. Tomorrow I’ll break her heart. Again. Almost
twenty years worth of poetic justice is about to be served up in a 24-hour
window. Now that my memory is drifting back, I know I am where I am, because
this is where I’m supposed to be, and I know
who
I am because of what
happened.

Shake, pop,
fizz, and I slurp the suds.

Now I’m watching
an advertisement for high-speed internet, which happens to be offering the deal
of the century, but only if I call now. It’s feeling warm in my room, so I open
the door to let some cool air in. Then I crank up the tube and start rockin’
out to one of those commercials featuring a Foreigner song as a backdrop. There
are only two other cars parked on the lot, so I can’t imagine there will be too
many complaints. I’m all alone, my door wide open, the night looking in.

The alcohol is
finally kicking in, and it’s about time. Sure enough, these sitcoms are
suddenly hilarious, my comedy barometer spiking. The beer catches up fast, my
mood changing like the weather, and soon I’m wondering if it was fear that
brought me home instead of courage. I’m certainly no hero, and I’m not here to
put the wrong things right. I’m here to cover up what was botched years ago.

11:37.

It’s only been
two hours since I decided to go out, and now that the alcohol has blocked my
ability to care, I’d just as soon get tomorrow over with. Either that or just
leave. I’d skip town if there was a Taxi service, or a bus route, but there
isn’t, so I can’t. This place really is at the end of the earth. You don’t just
move here. You die here too.

I wince as I
chug again, this time too much. Number five is gone, so I start wondering how
much attention I’ll attract if I stumble into the same Gas n’ Go to buy another
six. Of course the commercials aren’t helping. They’re encouraging me to keep
going. In fact, there’s one on right now telling me it’s okay to drink so long
as I drink responsibly, and since I don’t have car, I guess I’m being
responsible enough.

It’s just after
midnight, and for the past twenty minutes, I’ve been reciting what I plan to
say to Kristie tomorrow. My words have to be chosen carefully or she’ll freak
out, and what I have to say has to be said just right or she’ll miss the point.
After five and a half beers, it’s sounding somewhat poetic, which makes sense,
because I’m a poetic bastard when I’m drunk. Of course, it’s not quite as
poetic when I scamper into the bathroom, put the seat, settle on my knees and
puke my guts out. Foul beer runs in streams from my nose, and it feels like my
eyes are going to pop straight out of my skull. My stomach lurches, forcing
warm beer and stomach acid up my throat, filling the toilet with the red mess I
had intentionally swallowed. One more gag, and I think the worst has passed.

Flush.

Standing, the
reflection in the mirror reveals a face covered with beer and snot. I didn’t
think I’d get this drunk, but then again, I haven’t binged like this in a
single sitting since college.

12:13.

The world is
spinning. I crank open the tap and drink cool water from my palms before
bathing my face and washing off the sticky, smelly mess. I look old. I look
tired, and now that my drunken stupor has taken a turn, I’m regretting
everything from the moment I decided to come back to Payton to the last few
hours of this night. This is not how I envisioned things would go. I expected a
red carpet and a trip down memory lane. Maybe I’d even score with an old flame.
This was supposed to be therapeutic. Even fun.

I shut out the
bathroom light and cross the room where I collapse into bed. Then I reach over
and shut out the light hanging over the bed, pull the covers up to my neck and
proceed to sweat to death despite the sound of the AC grumbling in the corner.