“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I murmur. “That ladder’s more termites than timber by now.”
“I have to look.” Kristie reaches the loft and disappears. I can hear her shuffling around, and I recognize the futility of her search. Another rumble of thunder overhead causes me to look up. “We should probably go.”
No answer.
“See anything?” I call.
“No,” comes her distant return.
Of course not. There’s nobody up there. Who would be dumb enough to kill another person and then drag the body up a rickety ladder and bury it in the loft of a collapsing barn? But Kristie has to be sure, so I guess I’m stuck here until she’s satisfied.
Kristie re-emerges and begins to descend the ladder. “She’s not up there.”
“You sure?”
Pause. “Yes, and thank you not the sneer.”
I pace with hands in pockets. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I want to check the house,” Kristie says, hopping off the latter.
“Even though you found the headband in here?”
“Yes.” She waits, but I don’t bend. I just kind of casually wait. “Is this how you help?” she asks.
“We’ll check the house.”
The world outside is completely calm as we exit the barn. There’s no wind—no breeze. Nothing. The sounds of insects are all around us, but nothing’s moving. It’s still-life, and it’s messing with my head.
“Let’s go,” I say, leaving through the open barn doors and carefully navigating my back into the tall grass leading toward the house. Kristie follows, and we gingerly step through the grass while watching for snakes. Or glass. Or nails. Once we reach the house, I insist on climbing the stairs first. I test each step, gently applying pressure, half-expecting to fall through. Reaching the top, I usher her forward.
We enter the house together, treading carefully. The place is in terrible condition. Even so, I’m fascinated with the way things were back then and how well the place has held up. It’s like a step back in time—better than a museum. Even though two decades have passed, nothing has changed. Nobody’s moved anything, despite the hundreds of people that must’ve come and gone. Everyone has respected the sanctity of what once was, and they’ve left everything alone. An old couch and coffee table, the rotting magazines, the television. Nobody moved anything. Even the old grandfather’s clock is still in the corner where the world stopped at 5:23. The refrigerator and stove are still in the kitchen and glasses remain stacked in the cupboard. The previous owners must have left in a hurry, because two glasses that had been washed years ago are still sitting on an old rag upon the countertop where they had been left to dry. Pictures still cling to the walls and an old pot filled with dirt sits in the center of the kitchen table where I imagine a plant once thrived. Opening the pantry door, the canned goods have been wiped clean, but I guess that’s okay. Better than going to waste.
The bathroom is scary. The porcelain toilet broke in half years ago, and there’s a black slime growing on pretty much everything. The old shower curtain has some kind of green vine creeping toward the ceiling, and I marvel at how quickly nature takes over.
Kristie heads up the stairs leading to the second floor, and I follow not out of curiosity but rather to make sure she doesn’t slip and cut herself on a rusty nail or worse. The house should be condemned. I’m actually a bit surprised that it’s still standing.
“They used to sleep up here,” she whispers as she steps into the master bedroom. The bed is rotting, but the blankets—rumpled and used—are still on top of the mattress. This is the corner of the house where the roof caved in, so what was once a beautiful space is now rotting away. The dresser has been spilled and clothing is scattered around the room. People used to wear these clothes, and people used to sleep in this bed. The shattered window and the rotting drywall is a reminder that all dreams come to an end.
We leave the room and step gingerly along the hallway toward the next open doorway—a boy’s room judging by the broken model airplanes and toys scattered about. Everything is exactly as it was the last time I saw it. It’s almost as if it’s waiting for a little boy to come back, pick up his coloring book and go to work as though not a day had passed. The dresser is still standing, and upon opening the drawers, clothing is still neatly folded inside. Broken glass litters the floor where the window was broken out. The closet was torn apart—the closet door lying in two pieces upon the floor. Everything else is neat and tidy. I wouldn’t have expected this kind of cleanliness. Not from a boy, and certainly not after this many years. It makes me wonder what happened to cause the Johnson’s to just up and disappear. There were rumors, of course. One was that Old Man Johnson took his family to the back field and shot them one by one before turning the gun on himself, but nothing was ever found. Nothing. They were just gone. Another theory had them kidnapped by aliens—beamed up into some spaceship before being whisked away and used as experiments.
Kids make up the stupidest stuff.
The last bedroom is where the little girl slept. Her room looks like it might as well have been straightened yesterday. Everything is its place including her dolls and stuffed animals. The curtains are still hanging in rags in front of the window that remains intact. It’s like nobody’s even set foot in this room since the door was last pulled shut. Even the dust remains undisturbed. The wallpaper is slightly moldy, but the room feels ‘safe.’ It’s as though the spirit of a child is still here.
“She’s not in here,” Kristie whispers, pulling the door shut. She turns to me and wipes her eyes. “Jo, I mean.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nods, draws a breath and forces a timid smile. “I want to check the basement.”
Whatever makes her happy. Whatever she wants so we can leave. Whatever.
We make our way back down the rickety stairs to the main floor. Kristie pulls open the door leading into the cellar where I can smell the stale, pungent scent even from up here, but we head down anyway. One stair at a time, each step creaking, threatening to give, and even when we reach the bottom, I don’t feel any safer. The house could come down at any time. We’d be buried. No one would even bother digging us out, because no one would know we’re down here.
Lightning flashes, spreading our shadows across the floor.
“Happy Halloween,” I murmur.
She glares at me, apparently in no mood.
There’s more sand than concrete on the floor. The walls are damp with condensation, and it’s not that I’m afraid of spiders, but the big furry monsters down here are enough to make even me squeamish. They’re albino white and sitting still as if waiting to spring.
“Well?” she asks.
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you leading?”
I bite my tongue. “What exactly are we looking for?”
Her silence is enough to make me regret my question. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
We enter what was a canning room where all the old Ball jars are either broken or filled with some kind of pickled slime. An old wooden door lies at the back of the room, and it’s pulled tightly closed. Kristie leans up against me, and I can feel her heart racing. She’s scared.
“Seen enough?” I ask.
“She’s back there,” she whispers. “I can feel it.”
“She’s not back there. The cops have been all through this place. There’s nothing back there.”
Kristie shakes her head. “She’s back there.”
I try to take a step forward, but she pulls me back.
“Do you want to see or not?” I ask.
“No,” she replies. “I don’t know. It’s been so long…”
“Do you want me to look while you wait out here?”
She studies me, draws a deep breath and finally nods.
Biting my tongue while reminding myself that I’m here for her, I step forward only to hear and feel a crunch beneath my shoe. Looking down, I find that I’ve step
ped on a dead mouse. That’s for effect, of course. In a grungy place like this, I need to either step on a dead mouse or a live snake because otherwise it’s not worth the hype that comes with hunting around a moldy old basement.
I close my fingers around the brass handle, and suddenly I’m Indiana Jones, curious if this door might be booby trapped. For all I know, I’m entering some kind of cursed tomb. I turn my hand, and the knob squeaks poetically. The stiff door gives, yawning open to reveal—
Kristie screams, and I leap back. Closing my eyes I brace for impact but nothing happens. Opening one eye, I look into the room only to see…
…nothing.
Absolutely nothing. Brick and mortar, a few old shelves filled with gunk and garbage and nothing more. Turning angrily, I find her trying to stomp on one of those ugly white spiders dancing around her feet. She finally makes contact, and I hear a pop. She looks up at me and smiles nervously.
“Got it,” she says.
“No kidding.”
She frowns.
“Anything else you’d like to see?” I ask.
“What’s in there?” She tries to peer around me.
I step aside. “Nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Be my guest.”
“I don’t want to…”
“It’s empty.”
She steps around me and into the empty room where she looks around. She even scuffs the ground with her shoe, kicking up some dust but not much more.
“Satisfied?” I ask.
She stares at me, exhaling before turning to look around again. Hands on hips, she sweeps the room one more time before turning back. “No…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” She looks around, and there are more of those white spiders that seem to be inching closer. “What about that room?” She’s pointing into the open doorway of the old coal bin. There’s even a small pile of coal, a shovel and a worn, rotting pair of rubber boots.
“See anything?”
She shakes here head. “I hate it down here.”
I extend my hand toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”
Kristie leads the way up the stairs while I admire her shapely behind. I wonder if it’s as firm as it was back when we were kids.
“You’re looking at my butt,” she says. “I can feel it.”
“I’m just making sure none of those nasty spiders decided to hitch a ride.”
“How thoughtful.”
“I’m a thoughtful kind of guy.”
“Even after all these years…”
“I’m loyal that way.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Your butt is spider-free.”
“You’re sure?”
“Trust me, I’m looking really close.”
We reach the top floor, and she turns on me. “Thank you, Tony.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She steps forward, backing me up against the wall. She wraps her arms over my shoulders and pulls me closer. She opens her mouth and touches her lips to mine. I’m defensive until I feel her tongue touching mine. It’s weird, and then it’s not, and it feels so good to be kissing her again. It feels natural. We kiss like teenagers, her as hungry for me as I am her. When she pulls away, she’s blushing.
“What was that for?” I ask.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t really do anything. I was just—”
“Stop,” she says, pecking me on the lips. “Just stop.”
So I do. She looks at me, and I look at her. We do a lot of looking. We’re twenty years older than we were then, but it still feels just as fresh, and I’m still just as excited, and she can tell, because she’s grinning with that knowing grin that both drives me nuts and turns me on. I take her hand and lead her out the back door onto the porch. The boards creak under our weight, but they hold. The storm is blowing in from the west, the clouds overhead tumbling and fighting for position. The wind has picked up and there’s lightning in the distance.
“It’s going to be a doozie,” she murmurs.
“Want to leave?”
She wavers a moment then shakes her head. “No.” She cuddles up to me as the first rain drops fall in big, fat splatters. “I feel better here.”
Fourteen
Yesterday
Ritchie frowns, that look he sometimes gets in his eye. “What’s that even supposed to mean?” he asks. “Try not to be the sore thumb?” He shrugs. “Why would you say that? Why would anyone say that? I’m not a sore thumb. I’m the life of the party. Everyone likes me. They all want me there.”
I say nothing.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a door knob. What’s it mean?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Other than it’s Greg’s party, not yours.”
“Greg’s an asshole. If he tries anything, I’ll kick his butt.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I snap. “It’s his party, Rich. He organized it, and it’s his place. And he’s not an asshole. He’s a good guy.”
“Well, if you love him so much, then why dontcha marry him?”
I bite my tongue, refraining from what I really want to say. “All I’m saying is you don’t have to be the center of attention all the time.”
Ritchie is quiet for a moment. “Bite me.”
“Do you really think the fastest way to Joanne’s heart is by acting like a moron?”
Ritchie kicks a stone angrily. “But people laugh at my jokes. They think I’m funny.”
“They’re laughing at you.”
“The hell you say.”
“Just…” I’m overly-demonstrative with my hands again, a bad habit of mine I’m not at all proud of. “Just play it cool. That’s all I ask. Play it cool, and everyone will have a good time.”
We continue through town, the fat old moon hanging heavy in the sky. I’m dressed nice—casual, though it’s apparent to even me that I tried too hard to look casual. Nice shirt, clean jeans, yet the shirt is carelessly un-tucked, and the jeans are meticulously worn. I’m wearing my favorite cologne, and despite my recent battle wounds, I might even pass for a semi-mediocre good-looking guy.
Greg passed me an invite two weeks ago. It was under the table—a nobody-knows-what-nobody-knows kind of thing. Even now I’m not sure he intended for that invite to extend to Ritchie, but if not, he should have known better. Ritchie’s my best friend, and he goes where I go.
The idea of a party sounded prodigious, and it’s panning out to be a perfect night for a bonfire. There’ll be hot girls and cold suds, and that’s all fine and everything, but I especially can’t wait to see her. Kristie. It’s only been two days, but it already feels like an eternity. My head is so wrapped up in seeing her that I momentarily forget that my buddy is by my side. For once he’s quiet, and I’m worried that I might have hurt his feelings.
“I hope she’s happy to see me,” he murmurs.
This makes me feel bad. He should be looking into scholarships and big ten schools, but instead he’s wrapped up in her. He can’t focus on anything else. It’s sad. Sad and innocent all in one. He and I couldn’t be more different, yet we couldn’t be more the same. We’re both meatheads with boobs on the brain.
We walk through the tall grass, stepping high, the dewing grass slapping at our legs. I can hear the laughter from here. People sitting around the campfire and having a good ol’ time. The neighbors are probably less than thrilled, but Greg compensates by proactively inviting the whole neighborhood so everyone will feel included and too guilty to complain. Then he invites the cops, just in case anyone does. Of course, the cops never show. They know kids will be drinking, but they did it when they were our age, and their parents did it before them. Besides, there are more important things to do than bust some kids out having fun. Nobody’s driving, and everyone walks home, so it’s cool just long as someone like Ritchie doesn’t fuck it up for the rest of us.
We cross the
driveway and make our way into the backyard where there are fifty or more people either seated around a fire or out in the shadows making out. We’re fashionably late, and for the first time that I can remember, I am warmly received. Mandy Ferguson is here. She’s off by herself, rocking to the music, but she’s smiling—at me. It’s amazing what one little fight can do for a guy’s reputation.
Someone tosses me a beer, and I catch it on the fly. Ritchie gets one too, and he’s a wild man as he hops around the fire, shakes his beer, pops the cap and lets the fizz fly. The crowd cheers him on, and he’s the man in the spotlight just the way he likes it. My ‘play it cool’ speech has not had the effect I was hoping for, but so far, everyone seems okay with him being here. I approach Kristie, taking a sip. I sit beside her, lean in and give her a kiss.
“You taste like beer,” she giggles.
“I missed you.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
She stares into my eyes, that soft little smile of hers at the corners of her mouth. “I love you.”
She said it. She actually said it. I should be freaked out, but I’m not. The weird thing is, it feels nice. What’s weirder is I think I love her too. Ritchie is hopping around the fire, stealing the attention of everyone else while I’m here in the shadows with the only person I want to be with.
There’s a sound to my right, and I look over to see someone walking past. Her head is bowed, the long hair hiding her face. But I’d know that walk anywhere because it’s just like her sister’s. Joanne.
“Jo?” Kristie asks.
“Is she okay?” I murmur.
Kristie doesn’t answer as she stands and follows her sister.
“Perfect,” I murmur disappointedly, mostly to myself.
The sparks dance into the darkening sky. Ritchie has settled down a bit. He’s still on his feet, but he’s congregating with a small group. Despite the shadows, I can still see him stealing glances toward Joanne who is currently being consoled by her sister. Joanne’s crying. Something upset her, though I can’t figure what. It’s Saturday night, and we’re partying. There’s nothing to be upset about.
Payton Hidden Away Page 16