Payton Hidden Away (8 page)

“It was an easy
fix. They said it was just a loose thingamajig.”

“Is that a
technical term?”

She smiles.

“What were you
doing out on Route 89?” I ask. “You weren’t trying to leave town, weren’t you?”

She smiles again.
“No. Well, yes, but no—not permanently. I visit my friend Natalie over in
Lansing once a year. Remember Natalie Biggs?”

“Sure.”

“She lives there
now. She comes home for Christmas. I go there in the summer. It’s kind of
became a thing.”

“The way things
often do,” I say with good humor.

She throws a French
fry at me. “I’m being serious.”

I chuckle. “Sorry.
Go on.”

“There’s no
cellular service out there, so I was stuck walking. And it was raining, so I
stopped to wait it out in the barn.”

“And?”

“And…you.”

I frown.

“We have history
out there, and I’m not embarrassed to talk about it.” She’s blushing, so I know
she
is
embarrassed if only a little. “I mean, do you ever think about
me?”

“Sure,” though
she should know better, and maybe so should I. If I can’t remember details from
that summer, then why would she believe that I remember anything about her? Somewhere
along the line I made a choice to forget as much as I could, and I would have
never returned had it not been for her phone call.

“You remember
how all the kids used to say that place was haunted?”

I nod. “Ritchie
used to drag me out there. We’d go out there when there wasn’t anything else to
do. I guess he was bound and determined to prove to the world how unafraid of
ghosts he was.”

The humor has
drained from her face, and I realize the time for telling jokes has passed. She
tilts her glass and takes more than just a sip. Her eyes are misty when she
looks up. “When I was out there yesterday I sat down on one of those old bales
of hay. The lighting wasn’t all that good, but I could still see. Sort of. The
barn doors were open, and it was around midday, so I could still see all the
stuff the Johnson’s left behind.” She smiles. “Nobody’s touched any of it. Even
after all these years. It’s like an antique store, but eerily devoid of life,
you know?”

I shrug. “I
haven’t been there in years.”

“Well, it was still
light enough to read all that graffiti you and Ritchie spray-painted on the
walls.”

I shake my head.
“That was Ritchie’s idea.”

She smiles.
“Even the part that reads AAA plus KL?”

Now it’s my turn
to blush.

Her smile begins
to wane, and her attention drifts. I might as well be sitting alone.

“How is
everything?” the waitress asks. Again. She’s like a fly that won’t shoo.

“Fine,” I
return, though my tone isn’t terribly friendly. The waitress nods with a
half-smile before turning away.

“Then I saw it,”
Kristie whispers, leaning forward. She pushes the bangs from her eyes. “It was
in the corner, next to an old bale of hay and mostly buried. I wouldn’t have
even seen it except for just a bit of color poking through the dirt. And you
know how Joanne is. She likes bright colors.”

I can feel my
pulse racing.

Kristie leans
back and reaches into the purse on her lap. She pulls out what looks like a
rotted piece of orange cloth wrapped over a horseshoe-shaped wire. Dirt has
ruined the original vibrant color, and moths or mice or something had chewed a
lot of the cloth away leaving only bits, but despite the poor condition, even I
recognize what Kristie’s holding.

“Jesus,” I
whisper, leaning back. I’ve suddenly lost all interest in my meal. And
Kristie’s face is already stained with tears.

“She was wearing
this the day she disappeared.” Kristie whispers. “She only had two of them, and
the white one was still in her room. That means she was wearing this that day.”
She draws a breath. “She wouldn’t have taken it off. Not on purpose.”

“It’s okay,” I
say, but I know it’s not. I take the cloth-wrapped wire from her hand to
examine it. It was Joanne’s hearing headband. In better days, it didn’t look
much different than the kind of headbands girls wore in their hair to keep the
long bangs out of their eyes. It looks different now, but just the sight of it
dredges a slew of memories I had long buried. Joanne’s disappearance destroyed
this town.

I was in Georgia by then, but the cops tracked me down anyway. They asked all kinds of questions I
didn’t have answers to. They asked me about Kristie. Then they asked me about
Joanne, but I didn’t know anything. I told them the truth. I was at UGA on
scholarship, and I’d taken a job at the bookstore. I invited them to check the
records. Everything checked out, and they eventually left me alone.

It’s terrifying
not being able to remember. I remember bits and pieces of the day I left, which
is more than I remembered just yesterday, but at best, what I do recall is
broken fragments that don’t add up to a whole story. I remember being scared,
but I don’t remember why. I remember wanting things to go back to the way they
had been, and I remember knowing they couldn’t. It was over. All of it. It was
over between Ritchie and me, and it was over between Kristie and me. When I
left, I knew I’d never be back. I’d never come home. It wasn’t a vow. I just
knew I’d never be back because of what had happened, and I vaguely remember
passing the old Johnson Farm on the way out of town. Once the farm was behind
me, so was Payton. I was on a Greyhound bus, and everything I owned was packed
tightly in a single suitcase beside me—kind of like the one I brought with me
when I flew in earlier today.

Funny how things
revolve in circles.

“If she was
wearing this the day she allegedly hitchhiked out of town,” Kristie murmurs,
“then why was it in the corner of that barn?”

I look down at
my meal. Just a few more bites of tender meat sitting in red and black sauce,
wiggling—almost alive. “It doesn’t mean she was murdered,” I murmur.

“Oh come on,
Tony, she never came home. She never called. We never heard from her.”

“What about the
letter?”

She shakes her
head. “I’m not talking about the letter. I’m talking about her. She never
showed up. She never picked up the phone. She and I were close. We’re identical
twins. Twins have a unique bond even close brothers and sisters don’t share.
They
can’t
share.”

“Were you two
fighting? When she left, I mean.”

“Sure, she and I
fought. We fought a lot. Sisters fight.”

“Did you fight
the day she disappeared?”

Kristie leans
back. “What do you think? You were there.”

“I don’t
remember.”

“That’s a cop
out.”

“It’s not. I
honestly don’t remember.”

“Come on, do you
honestly expect me to believe that?”

“There are all
these flashes,” I say demonstratively. “Images. Like photographs. Bits and
pieces. But they’re not whole scenes, just snapshots.”

Kristie shakes
her head. “I called you this morning because you were there—the day she
disappeared. You two were close.”

I just shake my
head. “I don’t remember being close…”

“Well,
regardless of what you choose to or choose
not
to remember,” Kristie
murmurs. “
I
still love her. By now we would have heard something. More
than just some stupid letter. I would have
felt
something.”

“So you think
she’s dead because you don’t
feel
anything?”

“No.” Kristie
shakes her head. “I think she’s dead because I found this.” She waves the wire
in my face, her eyes tearing up. “For almost twenty years we’ve buried our
heads in the sand and accepted the lunatic premise that she just hitchhiked her
way into the sunset—that she’d hooked up with the wrong guy or something. It
was that letter that kept us from considering that maybe she never even left
town. Nobody looked around to see if she might still be here.”

“So, what’s it
got to do with me?” I ask.

“Because you
were there. That afternoon. You were
there
.”

I’m sitting in a
stupid restaurant booth, and she’s asking me to re-engage old memories and
feelings that I’m not sure I even remember. She’s asking me to return to something
I intentionally left behind. Joanne wasn’t part of my family, and Kristie isn’t
either. They were a fantasy I’ve made a point to forget. I’m frustrated,
agitated to the point of just throwing my hands up and tossing in the towel.

“Forget it,” she
murmurs, picking at her napkin.

“We got a few
days to figure this out,” I offer. “I don’t have to be back to the office until
Monday, so let’s think.”

She looks at me
like she knows something I don’t. “You’re not going back.” She doesn’t just say
it as a conversation piece. She says it matter-of-factly, as if it’s already
been carved in stone.

“Actually, I am.
I’ve got a plane ticket that flies out on Monday, and I’m leaving or I lose my
job,” I say. “If you want to play Nancy Drew and dredge up old memories, then
we can do that for a few days, but don’t—”

“Is this some
kind of game to you?” Kristie asks, her eyes welling.

“I was just—”

“Fuck you!” she
shrieks. She grabs the headband from me, shoves it in her purse, stands and
storms from the restaurant. If I wasn’t emotionally involved before, I am now.
So are the other restaurant patrons who are staring at me, cheeks bulging with
un-chewed food. Some of the faces are familiar, and I can tell they suddenly
recognize me too. A sea of frowns judge me, and I’m suddenly the schmuck
everyone remembers me as. I drop thirty bucks on the table and stand to leave
even though I’m still hungry.

This just keeps
getting better and better.

Now that I’ve officially offended
the one person I’d hoped not to offend, maybe I won’t have to stay in Payton
through the weekend after all. This has been about the worst ending to a lousy
day that I can imagine, and I’m feeling about as low as a slug that just ran
face first into a brick wall.

I drive straight
back to the hotel, lock the car and then lock myself in the room before setting
the alarm for six a.m. By six thirty I plan on being on Route 89 heading out of
town toward the airport. This was a bad idea. The whole trip.

A hot shower and
some cold ice water later, and I’m spread out on my bed watching
Jeopardy
.
I’m not getting any of the answers right, and I’m feeling terribly
uncomfortable as I squirm on top of the scratchy bedcovers. I don’t belong
here. I’m tempted to call her, but I don’t have her number, and even if I did, there’s
nothing to say. She’s right. I’m wrong. This town is messed up.

There’s a knock
at my door. Sitting up, I look down at the way I’m dressed—or rather that the
way I’m undressed. Pasty white skin, flabby gut, unclipped toenails. I didn’t
even bother to comb my hair after showering, and now I’m sitting in nothing but
boxers. Scrambling, I pull on a pair of jeans and push my arms through the
sleeves of one of my button-down shirts.

“Coming,” I call
as I finger-comb my hair while crossing the room to the front door. I unto the
deadbolt, turn the handle and open the door to her, a smile on my face.

Only, it’s not
her.

And the stupid
smile smeared across my stupid face quickly melts.

He’s put on some
weight, and he’s lost a lot of hair. His face is creased with lines of age and
wear. He looks fifty-five years old, yet I know he’s only two weeks older than
me. His appearance is as intimidating as his body odor, and I’m surprised to
realize that I’m more shocked by his appearance than I am by the fact that he’s
standing in the doorway with a scowl of sheer hatred directed at me.

“Ritchie,” I say
softly, trying to smile while realizing I don’t have it in me.

“What are you
doin’ back here?”

“Good to see you
too,” I say, quietly thankful that my voice is not yet shaking.

“I told you not
to come back,” he grumbles, and his voice is deeper than I remember. He is a
brute of a man, tattoos on both arms—a roll of fat hanging out from under his
T-shirt.

“It’s been a
long time, Rich. This is my home too.”

“The hell it
is,” he grumbles, and he is not placating me. “This is my fuckin’ town.” He
shakes his head. “Not yours.”

I’ll admit that
my reappearance in Payton may have been unwarranted, but I’ll be damned if
Ritchie Hudson is going to tell me that this is
his
town. This is my
town too.

“Ritchie, it’s
been a helluva long day.” I thumb over my shoulder into my room. “You want a—”

I am in the
process of offering him a beer when a fist comes out of nowhere and strikes me
squarely across the jaw. There’s a white flash, a burst of pain, and that’s how
my day ends.

“You okay?” she asks.

Payton Hill
grants a perfect bird’s eye view of the city. Technically, it’s outside the
town limits, but the name was adapted and it stuck. We’re sitting up on Payton
Hill under the boiling sun, which is this big fiery death ball dangling in the
sky as though it’s about to melt mankind. It’s only May, yet this is the
hottest spring I can remember. It feels more like August, and I don’t do well
when it’s this hot. Even so, a teenager couldn’t ask for a better backdrop, and
he couldn’t ask for a better set up. I’m with my girl and she smells great,
feels great and looks great. Her bare arms, neck and face are milky white, the
shadows doing their thing to make her more ‘angel’ than ‘human.’

My motivation
rests somewhere in the vicinity of getting laid. She’s not Sharon Daniels, but Sharon
is more like a cartoon—the one where the cartoon boy-dog sees the cartoon
girl-dog and jumps up, tongue out, eyes bulging, tail waging. Kristie isn’t
Sharon Daniels, but she’s beautiful and gorgeous and willing and much too good
for me. I love her legs—caramel glazed and glistening under the light, and I
love the way her eyes twinkle with unfettered adoration for me. I love the way
her hair smells, and I love about a million other things about her. It takes
practice to remind myself that she is not a goddess, yet after years of staring
at women clad in underwear in Sears catalogues, my mind has imagined a hundred
times over what the real thing must feel like. Her tongue, her fingers, her
breath, her hair, her toes, her belly-button, her taste. Everything about her
is feminine and so much different than my lanky, hairy, smelly body that I
can’t help but wonder what she sees in me.

“Tony?” she
asks.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

I’m on my back,
one leg up, my hands behind my head. She’s on her stomach, her chin on her
hands, her hands on my chest. “You’re quiet again.”

“I’m fine.”

“What are you
thinking about?”

“Us.”

She rolls over
onto her stomach and rests her chin on her folded hands upon my chest while
looking me in the eye. “What about us?”

“Just us. This
and that. You know.”

“No, I don’t
know. Are you thinking about us as a couple or as two people? Or are you
wondering how much longer you have to lie here before you can go play with your
friends?

“I don’t
play
with my friends.”

“You know what I
mean.”

“And I’m not…” I
trail off, suddenly flustered. This is so typical. My mom does this sort of
thing all the time. She analyzes everything I say before twisting it around and
using her own brand of word-trickery to tell me what my problem is even before
I’ve had a chance to figure out if I even have a problem. “I didn’t mean it
that way.”

Kristie rolls
away onto her back. “Forget it. I don’t want to fight.”

“I didn’t
realize we were fighting.”

“You’re ignoring
me again.”

“I’m not
ignoring you. If I were ignoring you, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

“You’re only
here in body. Mentally, you’re somewhere else. Probably Georgia.”

I bite my
tongue. “That’s totally unfair. I was enjoying what I thought was the perfect
afternoon my girlfriend.”

“Now you’re
placating me.”

“What does that
even mean?”

“I think it
means you’re lying to me.”

“You don’t even
know?’

“Joanne said
it.”

“In what
context.”

“I don’t know.
Why?”

“Well, find out
what it means before you start using it on people who might take offense.”

“I told you, I
don’t want to fight.”

“We’re not
fighting.”

“It feels like
we’re fighting.”

“Only because
you’re using words that you don’t understand.”

“Or you.”

“Or me.”

She’s quiet. She
even closes her eyes as if in deep thought. “Fine. You want me to say it? I’ll
say it. I don’t think you love me.” She shakes her head. “There, I said it.”

“Did I miss
something?”

“If you loved
me, you wouldn’t be moving away.”

“But I’m moving
away
for
you.”

“You’re moving…you’re
doing this for
me
?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re
moving away and leaving me behind as some kind of
favor
?”

“Well, it’s not
exactly like—”

“God, you’re a
narcissist.”

“Good word. Did
you learn that today?”

“Fuck you.”

I bite my
tongue. I shouldn’t have said that. I baited the hook and she took it hook,
line and sinker. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t love
me.”

“You think this
is easy for me? Leaving you behind? You think I haven’t thought about cashing
in my chips and settling on Payton-is-the-best-I-can-do? I want
more
. I
want more for you, and I want more for
us
. I’m not…placating you.”

She’s about to
say something, but my using that word against her shuts her up. And now she’s
angry.

“I promise I’m
not,” I continue. “And I didn’t use that word just to piss you off. I mean it. I
love you.” I do, in fact, love the hell out of her, and it’s killing me to hear
her talking to me like this, especially when I’ve been thinking about what I’ve
been thinking about. My heart is thundering in my chest, a question I’ve been
toiling over for the last three weeks repeating itself like a broken record in
my mind. Now just doesn’t seem like the right time. Then again, she’s pissed,
so what better time to pop the ultimate question than when everyone hates
everyone?

“You’re just
saying what you think I want to hear,” she says. “You’re just—”

“What if I were
to ask you to marry me?”

“Don’t start. I’m
not in the mood.”

“I’m serious,
Kristine.”

She looks up. “You’re
serious? You’re
seriously
asking me to marry you?”

“What if I am?”

“Because you
love me or because you’re afraid of losing me?”

Oh my God,
really? A guy can’t ask a simple yes/no question without having it twisted into
a fuckin’ pretzel. I just asked the girl to marry me, yet she’s still not
happy. Dating is a big, giant crap bag. Even after you think you’ve found the
right girl and all that awkward stuff is supposed to be behind you, it’s not. You
still can’t win. It’s a perpetual chessboard. It’s not about the right question
or the wrong answer. It has to be some combination of what-ifs and that’s-that
scenarios that guys don’t understand because girls dream up demented scenarios
while reading
Cosmo
and eating granola bars at pajama parties.

“I’m hungry,”
she decides. “Where are we going?”

“What?”

“I’m too hungry
to talk about it.”

“You’re too
hungry to talk about marriage?”

“I’m too young
to talk about marriage,” she says, jumping up. “I’m too hungry to argue.” She
extends her hand. “Come on. I’m buying.”

“You’re not
paying. It’s not like I’m destitute. I can afford a meal for my girlfriend.”

“You don’t get
paid till Friday.”

“I’ve got a few
bucks.”

She keeps
tugging on my hand. “On your feet, you chauvinist pig. You always buy. Today’s
my treat. I’m in the mood for chili.”

“Who eats chili
in the middle of summer?”

“I do. Dune’s
has the best.”

I shake my head,
take her hand and lead her toward Payton proper feeling pretty confused. I just
popped the question, and she just blew me off. Actually, she just threw my
inappropriately timed question right back in my inappropriate face leaving me
feeling like a wet puppy. I don’t even feel like we’re dating anymore as we
walk down the hill hand in hand. I feel like I’m in a movie playing the
boyfriend even when I know the girl whose hand I’m holding is only agreeing to do
so because she’s getting paid to do so.

The sidewalks
lead us into town, the crosswalk our threshold. The streetlights and neon signs
aren’t exactly Las Vegas, but it’s a small town and looks like one. We cross
the street, and like a gentleman, I open the door for her. There’s a sign by
the front counter reading ‘
Please Wait to be Seated
,” and there’s a
friendly looking hostess that appears to be devoid of ‘friendly.’ She smiles,
but it’s not real. It’s one of those smiles that’s only worth minimum wage.

“Name?” the
hostess asks.

“Peters,” I
reply with a straight face. “Harry.”

That’s my
teenage jocularity coming out. I don’t know why I’m trying to be funny. I don’t
feel funny. I feel hollow. I feel like I swallowed a bloody booger, that acidic
taste, that gurgling nausea in the pit of my stomach. Maybe humor is a defense
mechanism. Who knows? Ask my shrink.

“Harry Peters?”
she repeats. She raises a razor-sharp eyebrow. “Harry Peters?”

“I’m very
sensitive about my name.” I can’t seem to let it go.

“Funny,” she
says humorlessly. “Mr. Abbott.”

And now I’m
pissed, and I feel myself getting defensive without really wanting too. She
just called me Mr. Abbott, but only my dad ever went by Mr. Abbott, and he’s
dead, and this minimum wage whore should have some goddamn respect before
getting lippy with her customers. After all, I’m paying her salary with my 10%
tip.

Kristie giggles.

The hostess
snaps her gum, eyes dull. “A table or a booth or by the window?”

“A booth will be
fine.”

She grabs two
menus. “Right this way.”

Kristie is
eyeing me suspiciously. “I doubt she meant anything by it, Mr. Cranky Pants,”
she whispers, acutely aware that our friendly hostess has hit a nerve. We take
our seats, planted smack dab in the middle of the spotlight. We have napkins,
silverware and empty glasses.

“You’re
wandering,” Kristie says.

“I’m right
here,” I promise.

Our waitress
appears with two ice-waters, a pad of paper and a Bic pen. Her nametag reads
KATHRYIN, and she’s eyeing me defensively as though I’m a smarmy comment away
from lunging at her. Maybe I am.

“I like the
phonetic spelling,” I say with a smile.

“Excuse me?”

“Your nametag.
The misspelling. Kathryin. With an ‘i.’” When she doesn’t blink, I add, “after
the ‘y’.”

She looks at the
nametag, an effort that requires her to scrunch all three chins into three tiny
rolls. “Is there something funny about my name?” she demands, looking up.
“Harry Peters?”

“No ma’am,” I
say. “I meant to say that it’s a lovely name.”

“You ready to
order?”

No, I’m not
ready to order. I’m ready to punch her in the face, but the French dip is on
special, and Kristie is eyeing me with that look of hers.

“We’ll need a
minute,” I return.

Kathryin with an
‘i’ after the ‘y’ smiles without meaning it. “Sure.”

“What’s the matter
with you?” Kristie hisses after our waitress walks away.

“I can expect
spit in whatever I order.”

“This was
supposed to be fun.”

“I’m having a
blast.”

She leans back,
eyeing me—studying me. “Is it me? Is it what I said?”

“No. It’s not
what you said.”

“Is it because
you’re leaving?”

“It’s not
because I’m leaving. There’s nothing wrong. I’m fine. Really.”

“Is it your
dad?”

I look up
sharply. I don’t mean to. It’s more like a defense mechanism. You knock your
funny bone and you kick. I just kicked.

“It’s your dad.”
She takes a sip from her water. “Why don’t you ever talk about him?”

“It’s not my
dad. I don’t even remember my dad.”

“Come on, you
were fine when we walked in, cracking jokes and stuff. Yet, she called you ‘Mr.
Abbott,’ and you clammed up.”

“I wasn’t fine.
I was pissed off.”

“At me?”

“No.” I shake my
head. “Can we not…I’m fine.”

“Why are you so
mopey?”

“I’m not mopey.
I’m misunderstood.”

“Like an
artist?”

“Exactly like an
artist.”     

She frowns
“Sometimes I feel like I hardly know you. I’ve never even seen the inside of
your house.”

“It’s not my
house. It’s my mom’s house. Besides, you’re not missing anything.”

“And I’ve never
met your mother. You’ve hung out with my family, like, how many times? Twenty?
Thirty?”

“Are you keeping
count?”

“I’m being serious.”

“You’ll meet
her.”

“Don’t you love
her?”

I shrug. “Yeah.
I do. She’s my mom.”

“Then what’s the
problem?”

“There is no
problem. You’ll meet her.”

“When?”

“Whenever.”

Kathryin is
eyeing us from the opposite side of the room. She knows we’re too young to
drink, so perhaps we’re too young to tip. Apparently, we’re already on her
short-list, and we haven’t even ordered yet.

I look over the
top of my menu at Kristie and watch her quietly. Her hair is slightly out of
place, and her skin slightly pink from the sun. Her eyes are darting back and
forth as she reads through her choices, and she looks so pretty. She looks up
suddenly and catches me staring.

“What?”

I say nothing. I
just look. And look. And look. She smiles slightly—unable to hold it back—the twinkle
returning to her eyes, the edges of her perfect lips turning upward. Neither of
us say anything, but neither of us need to. Enough is said just with our eyes,
and I know her well enough to read her smiles. This is one of those good
moments where we click instead of clack, where I’m growing into a man and her a
woman. We’re realizing that we are an ‘item’ and this is love. She’s prepped to
say something. Something romantic, something—

“You are such a
pervert,” she whispers with a smile.

“Ready to order?”
Our personal Jesus has returned with a vengeance, breaking us from our trance, and
this time she’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer.