Payton Hidden Away (23 page)

I leap forward,
racing down the steps toward the field. Kristie is screaming my name, but her
voice is drowned under as I maneuver the bleachers, hurdle the railing and race
onto the field. Ritchie’s holding his own. I expected him to, but he’s not only
beating back his opponents, he’s destroying them. Referees are blowing
whistles, the PA is screaming for calm, and players are fueling an all-out
brawl—all of it backed by the frenzied Payton faithful who are rushing the
field—me leading the charge.

Ritchie’s being
pummeled. He’s bleeding yet he’s shrieking with rage, and he’s fighting back. I
figure every person he faces is named ‘Travis’, and every blow he lands is
meant to avenge the only girl he’ll ever allow himself to love. The fireworks
have started, but the skies are dark. I know I need to get to my friend, but
someone must’ve seen me coming, because someone lands a blow, and I see white.
I hit the dirt, and while everything is foggy and painful, I realize that I’m
lying face down in the sweet smell of the grass and dirt of a small-town baseball
field. Less privileged kids never see this much green. And here I am, bleeding
all over myself while soaking it all in as people race in chaos overhead.

Screaming, I sit straight up, my
room drenched in shadows. I’m covered in sweat, my sheets soaked. Feels like
I’m lying in a puddle, so I tear away the covers and swing my legs over the
edge of the bed, my head in my hands as I gasp for air.

It was just a
dream. It didn’t—
couldn’t
have actually happened. The television is
still on, but the game is over, and it’s now late-night TV with cheap
commercials and over-modulated sound.

It’s too loud.

I use the remote
to turn the sound down, the volume level on the screen counting backwards like
a time bomb ticking down. The LED clock beside the bed has stopped, hanging on
2:13 forever, the woman on the TV fossilized with fear while the audience jeers
and heckles. Apparently, they hate her the way I hate myself.

I need a drink
of water.

Crossing the small
room toward the bathroom, the carpet is crusty from soap and shampoo and God
knows what else, and the bathroom tile is still sticky from whatever the
previous tenant left behind. Rinsing my face, I drink from my cupped hands
before shutting the water off and drying my face with a damp towel. Returning
to bed, the sheets are clammy and wet. Frustrated, I consider my options before
shoving the bedspread aside and taking a seat in one of those useless chairs
they keep in the corner.

It’s 3:02 in the
morning. My mind is on fire with thoughts and memories, and I figure I’ll never
fall asleep again. And maybe I don’t want to. After all, the dream wasn’t about
him. It was about the other one.

The hangover isn’t as bad as I
thought it would be. I think vomiting up the final two or three beers minimized
the damage and prevented what would have been bad from becoming
really
bad. I don’t bother to shower. Or shave. The five o’clock shadow adds color to
my face, and I’m hoping she’ll notice the stubble before she notices how red my
eyes are.

It’s 9:09 on
Monday morning, which means she’ll be here shortly. It’ll also means I am now
officially late for work, so I dig out my phone and flip through my contacts
before selecting ‘Phillip Beltran’ and pressing
send
. Knowing Phil the
way I do, he wandered in through the security doors five minutes ago, crossed
through the lobby with that smug look of self-importance on his acne-pocked
face while en route to his office. By 9:10 he’ll be booting his computer, and
by 9:13 he’ll have already checked his email. Two minutes later, he’ll be
wondering how he can ruin the rest of the day for guys like me.

Ring number one.

Phil never picks
up on the first ring. God forbid executive management connects the dots and
draws a natural conclusion that Phillip K. Beltran has idle time. Beltran is a
corporate stooge. He even has a brass plaque hanging on his wall that reads;
Project
an image of success at all times
. It’s one of four things you see upon
entering his office, the first being a very bold nameplate announcing
Phillip
K. Beltran, Senior Vice President.
The second is that big gaudy metal desk,
the third is a five foot plastic ficus tree, and the fourth is that ridiculous
plaque.

Ring number two.

Beltran makes an
art form out of appearing distracted. After all, it’s an honor to solicit the
wisdom of a Senior Vice Douchebag, and since the phones at InteGREAT Inc. only
ring three times before going to voicemail, it’s always in the middle of the
third ring that he’ll answer. When he picks up today, it’s with that same
irritated yet professional “Philip Beltran” that I’ve come to loathe.

My mouth is
sticky, and my breath stinks, reminding me to brush my teeth before Kristie
shows. “Phil, it’s Tony.”

“Tony,” Beltran
says, his voice managerial. “I stopped by your cube a few minutes ago.”

“I’m not there.”

“But you’re
weren’t in,” he finishes.

“I was in a car
accident,” I say. “I’m still in Payton.” I leave it at that. Let him draw his
own conclusions. If the man has a heart, which he doesn’t, the first words out
of his mouth should be
are you okay?
But knowing him the way I do, he’ll
be less interested in me and more concerned with the work stacking up on my
desk.

“We’ve got
Crimson nTernal coming onsite this week,” Beltran says. “You’re my lead. I need
you here.”

“Yeah, I know.
If you’ve got any suggestions, I’m all ears, but I’m kind of stuck in a holding
pattern until Allstate figures out what to do.”

“So, you’re not
coming in.” It’s a statement. Not a question.

“It shouldn’t be
more than a few days.”

“So, you’re not
coming in.”

I bite my
tongue. “The airport is eighty miles away, Phil. And there’s no taxi service in
or out. Like I said, I’m open to suggestions.”

“And you said
you’re where?”

“Payton County. It’s in Michigan. My hometown.”

“What are you
doing there?”

“I’m fine, by
the way,” I sneer. “Thanks for asking.”

“You know how
important this week is.”

“Which is why
I’m calling.”

A heavy sigh.
“This is disappointing.”

“I’m glad you
pointed that out, because whatever it is you’re not implying is coming off loud
and clear.”

“So, what do we
do?”

“The insurance
company is working as fast as they can.”

“I need you
onsite by Thursday morning. Do whatever you have to do, but be here by Thursday.”

“I’ll call as
soon as I know more.”

 Phil is quiet
for a moment, and I wonder if I lost the signal even though the phone shows
we’re still connected. “Dustin can fill in through Wednesday,” he mumbles over
the line. “But I need you here by Thursday. Wednesday if possible. Thursday at
the latest.”

“I’ll call you.”

A second audible
sigh. Phillip Beltran doesn’t like to be ‘told’ anything. He does the telling.
“Let me know if you need anything. I can be somewhat persuasive when push comes
to shove.”

“Thanks,” I
answer. “I’ll call.”

“Keep me
posted.”

Beltran can’t
let go, but I hang up anyway. I don’t even say goodbye, and despite our awkward
banter, I figure the exchange went better than expected. Part of me was
thinking I’d be unemployed by now, and part of me is disappointed that I’m not.

Checking my watch,
I still have a few minutes before Kristie shows, and once she’s here, it’ll be
too late to turn back. Then we’ll go to a place no one’s been in twenty years,
and we’ll see things no one’s ever seen. Those things will rewind the clock and
reopen old wounds. They’ll include me, her, Joanne, Ritchie—all of it and all
of us. It makes me wonder if she’ll be able to handle the deluge of memories. I
still don’t remember all of the details, but I remember enough to know where
we’re going and why. I remember enough to know I’m responsible for Joanne’s
death, and I know enough to remember how Kristie will react.

She’s not ready.

I’m not either.

Joanne didn’t
just hitchhike out of town. I remembered this tiny little tidbit of relevant
information at some point yesterday. I remembered enough to know that Jo never
even left. She’s still here just like her sister suspected when she found Joanne’s
hearing aid rotting in that old barn. Joanne’s still here, Kristie’s still
here, Ritchie’s still here, and now I’m here. I’m back. The sad thing is I know
this, and all the aspirin in the world won’t change it even though I take four
anyway.

For the
headache, of course.

Graduation day. The whole town
has turned out for the big event. It’s not quite like one of Ritchie’s games,
but it’s standing room only, and they’re all standing and they’re all clapping,
cheering us on. We’re dressed in our best, behaving better than our parents up in
the stands who are doing their best to embarrass us. As we file in as pairs—a
sea of black robes and flat caps—we’re talking in calm voices about how this
summer is going to be “off the hook,” and how we can’t wait to get out of this
one horse town. We talk about next steps as if we’re planning our next trip to
Chuck E. Cheese while quietly, we all have that look of terror, we’re all
hoping we’re not the only one, and we all smile when we’re told to.

I take my seat
in one of those plastic cafeteria chairs with one of those awful backrests. Our
tassels are on the left, and we’re waiting to swing them to the right, thereby symbolically
releasing us from our childhood prison and opening the door into the great
unknown. Principal Price is up there talking about responsibility and reverence
and leadership, his face a river of smiles while we’re down here, silently wishing
we could rewind time to when we were only seniors and all underclassmen looked at
us like gods. Principal Price is saying a lot of nice things, and he’s smiling,
and we’re smiling, and the crowd out there is smiling, but I’m dying inside.
Today is supposed to be beautiful, but instead it feels empty. I’m sitting
among 156 of my peers, when I know I should be sitting among 157.

My best friend
isn’t here.

“Franklin
Roosevelt said it right,” Price continues as he looks around, hands planted
firmly on the podium. “
As you have viewed this world of which you
are about to become a more active part, I have no doubt that you have been
impressed by its chaos.” The crowd laughs, but he’s stolid.
“FDR was
referring to the growing pains we all experience as we go from boy to man or
from girl to woman. It’s a scary world out there, and this is just a first
step. A high school diploma will only open so many doors. You have to shoot for
the moon, be willing to risk everything, be all in or be nothing at all.”

The student body
falls silent. Masking our fear is suddenly not as easy as it was only a few
minutes ago.

“Shoot for the moon,”
Price repeats. “It’s within your grasp. Believe me, it’s there for the taking,
but
you
have to reach out and take it. No one will hand it to you. You
have to take that first step. And then you’ll have to take that second and
third step too. Never give up. Never settle for average. Shoot for the moon, and
I promise that even if you don’t make it, you’ll be among the stars.”

The crowd
erupts. We erupt. We’re a bunch of zombies going with the flow and doing what
we told. We’re told to smile. We’re told to clap. We’re told to cheer. Principal
Price stands at the podium, the sweat raining like beads over his face, his
hands out, his grin toothy. It’s supposed to be our big day, a day every one of
us seniors will remember for the rest of our lives. But someone is missing, and
as a result, I can’t relax. My best friend isn’t here. I’m set to leave home in
three days, but given the number of loose ends that I don’t know how to tie off,
everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Ritchie’s not
here.

But it’s not
because his alarm didn’t go off or because he’s staging a coup, or even because
his dad beat the hell out of him. Ritchie’s not here because he wasn’t invited.

I’m sitting beneath the overhang
of the Days Inn, my knees up—my back against the paint-flaking wall when she
turns into the parking lot. She pulls right up to my room before shutting off
the engine. She stares at me through the windshield and from behind the dark
shades hiding her eyes before opening her door, snaking out a well-manicured
foot in a flip-flop and climbing out. The door to my hotel room is wide open,
but I’m not inside. I’m out here, my head resting against the paint-flaking
wall. Just as I suspected, she’s early. Nine minutes.

“What are you
doing out here?” she asks, removing her sunglasses.

My clothes are
wrinkled, my hair a mess. Two days of stubble complete the picture of a hapless
and perhaps even hopeless train wreck of a man. The aspirin are helping with
the pain, but not the dread. “I forgot what mornings smell like here.”

She sniffs,
looking around. “I don’t smell anything.”

I close my eyes
and draw in a deep breath. “If I concentrate, I think I can even smell the
Beaver.” I look up at her. “I think I’d like to see it again before I leave.”

“You’re not
leaving.”

I frown.

She smiles. “Not
if I have anything to say about it, anyway.”

I get to my
feet, wiping my jeans. I don’t feel humorous, and in a little while she’ll know
why.

“You haven’t
showered,” she says, looking me up and down.

“I had a long
night.”

“Have you been
drinking?”

“Some.”

“Are you still
drunk?”

“I don’t think
so.”

“You’re not
sure?”

“I’m not driving,
so what’s the difference?” I answer as I walk around the car to the passenger
side. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we
going?”

The door is
locked, so I knock on the roof of the car. “It’s locked.”

“Tony?” Kristie
persists. “Where are we going?”

I look at her. I
hate doing this. I can still see the girl I once loved, and I know how much
this is going to hurt. All that pain she’s tucked behind a single thread of
hope is about to come undone. I’m about to make her world that much smaller.

“You okay?” she
asks.

“Fine.”       

“Then where are
we going?”

“It’s just this
place…” I manage, my voice locked in phlegm at the back of my throat. “Hidden
away.” I look away. I don’t want her to see my eyes. I don’t want her to read
my thoughts. She deserves closure, but I’m worried there can’t be closure in a
situation like this, because even if there is an answer, there won’t be an end.

Nothing ends.

Not here. Not in
Payton. I knew that the moment I came back. The moment I arrived I felt that
I’d never leave again. Somehow, without even trying to, I’ve become one of the
townsfolk. I’m one of ‘those guys’ who used to make cracks about Route 89, but
it won’t be long before I’m regaling stories of what it’s like on the outside
with neighbors or co-workers or friends. Only over time, those stories will
become embellished, watered down—incomplete. Over time, I’ll forget I ever
left, and I’ll be here, just like everyone else, until the day I finally get
out by being buried six feet down.

“Come on,” I
say, tapping the car again. The sun slips behind some clouds, and when I look
up, the sky is hinting at rain again. I draw a breath and look her in the eye.
“I’ll take you to see your sister.”

The color drains
from her face. So does any trace of good humor. Her eyes get dark, the distance
between us not enough to hide what she’s suddenly feeling. “What did you just
say?”

“Unlock the
door,” I answer. I have a bad headache, and if we’re going to do this, then I’d
just as soon get it over with.

She holds out
her remote key, presses a button, and something behind the passenger door
clicks, allowing me entry. She returns to the car and takes the wheel, but she
doesn’t start the engine right away. She just sits there, still for a moment,
gathering her thoughts.

“That way,” I
say, pointing forward.

Kristie glares
at me. “Are you telling me you know where she is?” she asks. “You’ve known all
along?”

“No.” I shake my
head. “Like I said before, it’s been coming back in bits and pieces.”

“But now you
suddenly,
conveniently,
remember?”

“There’s nothing
convenient about it.”

“But now you
know?”

“Yes.”

“You son of a
bitch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you kill my
sister?”

I consider going
into detail, but there aren’t many details to draw from that are relevant. The
puzzle pieces are all there, but the picture image just won’t focus.

“Did you kill my
sister?”

“Start the
engine, Kristine.”

She stares at me
for a long moment before turning the key, throwing into reverse and peeling
out. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“I can’t read
your mind. You tell me to drive, but you—”

“Turn left.”

And just like
that, we’re on our way, heading straight into the worst day of the rest of my
life.