Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  I know what’s coming even before it happens. I’m about to be in my first real fight since I was eight years old, and it’s all going to be over a girl I hardly know.

  “Mandy,” Ritchie beckons, “why don’t you come over here and stand by us.”

  “She owes us money,” the one guy interrupts.

  “Not today she don’t,” Ritchie answers.

  I shift nervously. Mandy keeps looking my way, and I can’t figure why. There’s a sound off in the distance—like a drumbeat, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s the sound of my own thundering heart.

  “One last time,” Ritchie says. “Walk away. Now.”

  “She owes us money.”

  “Not today she don’t.”

  The one guy smiles, and that must be Ritchie’s cue, because he looks giddy, almost like he’s happy. I know what’s coming, but before I can define, plan and execute a brilliant intervention, Ritchie has already launched himself at the one that’s been daring him to. I’m wide-eyed as I watch my friend pummel the guy underneath him, which is all fine and dandy except now I’m standing in the shadow of two bigger guys who don’t seem to like me very much. One of them even has a tattoo of a scorpion on his forearm that looks to be hand-carved.

  That’s cute.

  “I’m just—”

  The tattooed one lunges first. I make a weak attempt to defend myself by throwing a fist, but my wrist just slaps his shoulder. Microseconds later, there’s a white flash followed by a searing pain in my jaw. Stumbling backward, I see him rushing at me. I get angry. Then I get scared. Then Scorpion-tattoo-guy lifts me up and drives me backward. We crash. Then we wrestle, and I do a lot of losing even though I manage to land a few good punches. Scorpion lands more.

  Scorpion’s fists are doing a fine job of finding their target, and I’m tasting blood as it drains backward from my nose into my throat, where it slips along the water slide into my stomach. Yet, with a burst of adrenalin, I swing back and connect with what feels like a concrete wall. This buys me a moment. Scorpion-guy stumbles back. I look over at Ritchie, but he’s got his hands full, taking on two at once.

  My nemesis rushes me. I’m convinced that he’s more than a senior. He’s a trained fighter. These assumptions are based loosely on the volume of sheer pain I’m experience from each blow to the side of my face. Scorpion throws a wicked punch. And then another. And another.

  And then the punishment ends.

  I open my swollen eyes and see only the blue sky overhead. I don’t know where Scorpion-tattoo-guy went, but then I hear groaning. Rolling onto my side, I see Ritchie and Scorpion rolling over and over on the dusty parking lot. It’s an equal fight, and an impressive sight to behold. They’re both big guys, but what Scorpion hasn’t counted on is Ritchie’s fast ball. Ritchie lands a good one, and Scorpion winces, gritting bloody teeth. Instantly, Ritchie’s back on his feet, but so am I, and I rush in to intervene. I get between them, my hands up, palms out, facing my friend and begging him to back down. But Ritchie’s not buying. I’m not even sure he sees me given how intensely he’s glaring at the other guys, a string of blood running from his nose along his lip and chin. The other three are shouting, but they’re not rushing back in.

  “It’s over!” I shout.

  “I’m gonna kill you!”

  “Stop it!” I repeat.

  Ritchie’s pointing over my shoulder. “I’m gonna kill you, skin you, filet you and fuckin’ eat you!”

  “Goddamn it, Richie!” I scream.

  This stops him in his tracks, his eyes turning sharply on me. He doesn’t exactly soften. He just redirects his hatred.

  “Snap out of it!” I holler in my toughest growl, shoving him backward.

  There’s a moment. It doesn’t last long. More like a flicker of light, but I think in that instant, Ritchie hates me like he hates them. Then it passes, and he starts pacing, fists balled at his sides, his eyes on the three hooligans.

  “It’s over,” I say, not quite as loud.

  “You want more?” the big guy opposite us asks.

  “You shut the fuck up!” I snap at him.

  “I ain’t even gotten started yet,” Ritchie hisses.

  I wipe a stream of blood from my nose. “That goes for you too, Rich.”

  Ritchie casts me a dirty look while continuing his madman-like pace—his face red with rage.

  I remain rooted where I am, pinned in the middle, careful not to infringe on my friend’s personal space. “We gotta get out of here,” I manage. “Now.”

  Ritchie looks at me, then them and then back at me. “I’m not done.”

  “Yes, you are.” I pause. “You got a game in less than an hour. You want to get tossed off the team?”

  Ritchie looks around—maybe for a weapon? His mouth is curved downward, his chest heaving. He looks on the verge of a heart-attack. “Let me kill ‘em,” he grumbles.

  People always joke about things like that. People say things like ‘you kill me’ or ‘it kills.’ We use words as weapons until the meaning is so watered down that it means nothing at all. But when Ritchie says it, it sounds different. He means it.

  “Not today, Ritchie.”

  “I swear I’m gonna run you over if I have to,” he spits, blood running over his lip.

  “Do you want to pitch tonight or do you want to go to jail?” I keep my hands up, palms out. “Let it go.”

  He flexes, the threads of his T-shirt pulled tight. His eyes are bloodshot, pink spittle running from the corners of his mouth. If he decides to rush back in to finish the job, there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I’m shaking—terrified. “Don’t do it,” I warn, freaking out that he’s going to go ape-shit.

  He lunges, shoving me. Hard. I stumble, trip and roll. Scrambling to my feet, my hands are already up again. Ritchie is baring his teeth, his eyes wolf-life. “Where’d she go?” he growls, looking around.

  Suddenly we’re all looking for Mandy, but she’s nowhere to be found. Smart girl. She must’ve taken off while we were being meatheads rolling in the dust to defend her honor.

  “Goddamn it,” Scorpion mutters.

  “Watch your mouth,” Ritchie snaps.

  “Enough,” I snap.

  Ritchie stops pacing. His chest continues to heave, but his hands are now on his hips, and I can almost see the fight fleeing his body. Suddenly, he turns his back and storms away. I wait for him to stop or turn around or come back or something, but he doesn’t. He just storms across the parking lot toward the road. He’s growing smaller and smaller—drifting as he goes. After a few moments I realize I’m still standing in the shadows of three bigger guys who would just as soon kick my ass, so I scamper after my friend even though I’m careful to maintain a safe distance. Ritchie’s not right yet. Once he is, he’ll be a bucket of apologies and a slew of excuses, but until then, it’s hands-off. I’m still weak in the knees, my face feels like putty, and my stomach is like Jell-O, and I’m pretty sure I’d soil my pants if Ritchie were to suddenly turn on me, but he doesn’t, because the storm has passed. By now, he’s thinking about baseball again.

  Ritchie turns around, walking backward, waving me forward. “What you doin’ hangin’ out way back there? Come on, Triple A. It’s go-time. We got a game.”

  The sun is hot, the afternoon late. The hottest time of the day. No breeze and no relief. I’m sweating and bleeding at the same time. I don’t know how it happened, but in the course of the past thirty minutes, my life has shifted slightly off its axis. Everything I knew yesterday feels more like someone else’s documentary. I’m following my friend not because he’s a leader, but because I’m afraid not to.

  Nine

  Today

  I have absolutely no idea where I am. Nor do I know what day it is. It’s probably Saturday, but that’s only a guess. The sun is beating against the shades pulled over the windows. There’s even a tear that allows the sun to cut a yellow slit through the air leading to the couch I’m lying on. Bits of dust float aimles
sly through the thin shaft of light before disappearing into shadow. Over on the coffee table, magazines are fanned out with intentional carelessness, and the carpet underfoot is meticulously vacuumed. Nothing appears out of place. The television sits quietly in the corner, the refrigerator hums from the kitchen, and I can hear the shower running from down the hall. The room smells clean—like Pledge.

  Pledge. That’s my clue. This is Kristie’s place.

  Yesterday seems so far off that it’s like a dream—or a nightmare, and many of the details still seem so sketchy that maybe I only imagined them. Only my chest hurts, and my face hurts, which means my rental car is totaled, and until Allstate figures out what to do, I’m stuck here. I explore the bumpy contours of my ragged face with my fingers while recounting the events of yesterday’s accident.

  The shower shuts off, reminding me that there’s someone else here. The door opens, allowing a perfume of humid steam into the hallway. She emerges while drying her hair. All she’s wearing is a robe, and she looks good as she pads barefoot across the floor.

  “Morning,” I say from the couch.

  “Hey,” she responds, disappearing into the kitchen.

  I remember the promise I made to her the night before, and I’m starting to think maybe it was a mistake. Nothing good can come from dredging up old memories. Especially memories that were forcibly buried a decade and a half ago. Best case scenario, we find nothing, which will satisfy no one and end nothing. Worst case scenario, we find the bones of a dead girl.

  I stumble into the bathroom and squint at the bright light that burns at my swollen eyes. I haven’t shaved in 30 hours, and combined with the cuts and bruises, I look a fright. The great thing about getting older is the lack of conviction to care. I wash my face, gargle some water and strip out of my clothes before stepping into the shower. The water feels amazing, cascading over my body and soothing me into submission.

  Five minutes go by. Then ten. I just stand there as the water turns cool before turning the handle and shutting the shower off, the water dripping in a constant stream until it slows to a drip, leaving me standing in a pool of water draining in a tiny whirlpool.

  I need to get out of here.

  Pulling the curtain aside, I step out onto the rug before wiping my hand across the foggy mirror and staring at the frosty image staring back. I pull a towel from the rack and dry off before pulling on the same clothes I’ve already been wearing for the last two days, shutting out the light and exiting the bathroom.

  Part II

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” Kristie says as I enter the kitchen. She’s got the whole nine yards lined up and ready to go as she divides scrambled eggs onto two plates that are already boasting four strips of bacon and a healthy helping of hash browns. I haven’t had hash browns since I was a kid. I was expecting coffee, but this is a royal breakfast, a real dining room table and what looks like real flowers sitting in a glass vase at its center.

  “Sit,” she orders with a smile, so I do. Setting a plate in front of me, she kisses the side of my cheek.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “This is amazing, but it’s way too much. Seriously, you could’ve gotten away with some coffee and Lucky Charms.”

  “I know,” she answers with a smile. “But I remember your appetite.”

  Digging in, I realize I’m hungrier than I thought, and the plate is clean before I’m full. I help myself to the remainder of the hash browns. Without thinking twice, I pause to run the empty skillet under cold water, swishing the water around before setting the skillet in the sink. She didn’t ask me to, but we’ve always worked well as a team. We always did things for the other because they needed doing, not because it was expected. She smiles as I take a seat and bury the hash browns under a layer of catsup.

  “Funny how things work out,” I say.

  She cocks her head. “Have things worked out?”

  I shrug. “I mean, us being here, having breakfast together after all these years.”

  Kristie stands and carries her plate to the sink where she starts dishes while staring beyond the window into the backyard. I’m left to admire her from behind. The way her white robe hangs over her thin frame, the way her feet are buried in big, poofy slippers, the way her wet hair clings in stringy strands to her neck. She’s the same girl I remember falling in love with, but now she’s a woman I hardly know.

  “I want to go over to the old Johnson farm today,” she says, her voice soft.

  “What for? You already found the headband.”

  “Which is why I want to go back.”

  I draw a patient breath. “A hearing aid doesn’t mean murder.”

  “Maybe not, but two decades of silence does.” She washes her dishes, stacking them noisily.

  I’m glad I’ve finished breakfast, because I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I don’t want to go back to that place. I don’t remember everything that happened there, but the things I do remember weren’t exactly Kodak moments. Not a lot of spring picnics out at the ol’ Johnson Farm.

  Standing, I cross the kitchen and place my plate on the counter. “If it’ll settle your mind, then let’s go.” I touch her shoulder reassuringly and give a little squeeze.

  She reaches up and pats my hand. “Thanks.”

  There’s a robin in her birdfeeder just beyond the window dipping his head and pecking at seed. We stand quietly watching, and for a moment I feel comfortable just being with her. Then I frown, noticing that the fence lining the backyard looks awfully familiar. There used to be a pool here, but it’s gone now, though there’s still a bit of a depression indicating the hole hadn’t been properly filled. “Isn’t this where Sharon Daniels used to live?” I ask.

  Kristie doesn’t look up as she scrubs my plate. “Her parents retired to Florida. I heard she moved to Chicago, but who really knows anymore.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.” I kiss the top of her head before walking away. “I should swing by the hotel and change my clothes,” I say to cover the awkward silence.

  “That’s fine,” she calls after me. “It’s on the way.” She passes through the living room on her way into the bathroom where she turns on the light and closes the door.

  Collecting my things from the end table beside the couch, I head for the front door, step out on the porch and squint into the new morning sunshine. Everything smells familiar, and Payton is as quiet this morning as it was last night. I stand for a moment, asking myself if this feels like home. As much as I want it to, something’s off. Frowning, I rock back and forth, testing the wooden planks underfoot. It sags, feeling soft. And beyond the rotting porch, the sidewalk leading to the driveway is cracked and overtaken by weeds. Her lawn is a patchy mess.

  “Ready?” she asks, pulling the door shut. But the door doesn’t close all the way, and she has to pull hard and hold on before she can insert the key to lock the deadbolt.

  “Ready.”

  She tosses me her keys. “You drive. You know the way.”

  “I totaled my car yesterday. You sure you want me driving?”

  “You totaled your car saving someone’s life.” She smiles. “I think I can trust you.”

  I shrug. Fair enough.

  Ten

  Yesterday

  There’s a reason why I don’t like going to Ritchie’s place. It’s not the stench of dried animal urine in the carpet or the flies buzzing around the dirty dishes in the sink or the general dilapidated condition of the home. It’s the tension that seems to hover like humidity, permeating the air like a stink that can be rinsed. Even if Mr. Hudson isn’t there, that clammy feeling of dread that he could walk through the door at any moment weighs heavily on everyone’s mind. There aren’t a lot of smiles to go around.

  “I think I’ll just meet you at the stadium,” I say, hesitating at the edge of Ritchie’s front lawn. To go any further would be to temp fate. The end of the sidewalk and the start of
the grass seems to mark a line better left uncrossed.

  “Don’t be a buttface. The cockroaches are asleep this time of day.” He winks. “Come on. I’ll only be a sec.”

  Reluctantly, I follow, but not before looking for any sign of Mr. Hudson’s big rig. The driveway is empty, and the road either way is empty as well. I follow Ritchie up the driveway, through the open garage and into the house.

  “Hey, I’m home,” Ritchie calls. “Ma?”

  “The trash needs to be taken out,” she hollers from her perch in the broken recliner in the living room. “They’re gonna come in the next half hour, so you’d best get it out now before your father sees it.”

  “Dad ain’t supposed to be home ‘til late.”

  “The garbage man comes early.”

  He frowns, glaring at me. “Fine,” he calls. “Where is it?”

  “Right there in the kitchen,” she answers. “You’re probably tripping over it.”

  Ironically, Ritchie isn’t, but I am. I do my best to sidestep the open bag where two or three flies are hungrily buzzing around the empty tin cans piled near the surface.

  “I’ll take it out on my way out.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  “How could I…” he grumbles under his breath before rolling his eyes, shaking his head while beckoning for me to follow him through the kitchen to his bedroom where he strips off his shirt and pulls on his Pirates jersey. “Check it out,” he says, nodding toward his bed. “My dad’s new Playboy.”

  “When’s he home long enough to read them?”

  “He takes ‘em with him on the road. Beats off in the parking lot of rest stops.”

  “Who’s this month’s playmate?”

  “Some broad. Who gives a shit? It’s a magazine. You’re off banging Kristie while my dad and me are jerking off to Playboy.” He shakes his head. “The same copy I might add.” He’s holding the bottom half of his Pirates uniform in his hands. “I gotta change.”

  I turn my back. “Does your dad know you look at his mail?”