Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  “What did you do?” I choke. I can barely stand. “Did you kill her?”

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even turn. He just stands there, a hulk of a man.

  “Jesus Christ, Ritchie, you killed her. You fucking killed her?”

  Now he turns, his eyes flashing. “And you’re going to bury her.”

  I shake my head, taking a step back. “No way, man. I won’t do it.”

  “You already done it,” he says. “You’re responsible.” Tears are rolling over his cheeks, but he doesn’t look sad. He looks angry. He tosses me the shovel, and I react defensively by curling into a ball. The shovel bounces off my shoulder and settles in the sand. I look at the shovel and then the body of the girl lying dead on the floor.

  It’s happening. It’s real.

  Just a little while ago I was laughing with Kristie and Joanne and Travis. Two hours later, I was making out with Joanne here in this house. Ten minutes after that and she’s dead. She’s dead, and my life is ruined.

  Ritchie nods toward the shovel lying at my feet. “You bury her,” he says gruffly. “That’s how we stay brothers.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Today

  Kristie’s still crying, but there’s not much I can do. It’s not like there’s anything I can say that will be of any consolation, and there’s nothing I can say to make any of it any better. It’s a shitty end to a terrible nightmare that I spent twenty years trying to forget, and it was one lousy phone call five days ago that started the bleeding all over again. All those years of counseling, all those years of running—all those years trying to convince myself that I’m not a bad person, and all I can do is sit and stare at the rag-wrapped body that has been rotting in this basement for two decades.

  “How could you!” she cries.

  I just sit there.

  “How could you…”

  I don’t have answer.

  “How did it happen?” Kristie asks. “How did your little party with your good buddy Ritchie go down?”

  “I kissed her,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Oh, so you…” Kristie snarls with sarcasm until she suddenly stops and looks up. “What? You did what?”

  I shift nervously. “I kissed her.”

  “You kissed her? Why?”

  “I think I might have been in love with her. I don’t know. I mean, we had a…we had this moment.”

  “You think you might have been in love with her?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t know. I might have been. But when Ritchie saw—”

  “I thought you loved me?”

  “I was just a kid. I didn’t know what I was doing, or what I was feeling.”

  “And Ritchie saw you?”

  “He saw us.”

  Kristie tries to regroup, but I can tell she’s struggling.

  “Joanne tried to…pretend that nothing had happened.”

  Kristie wipes her eyes and gets to her feet. Makeup streaks her face, smeared like hell. She looks awful, and I feel awful. Coming clean is supposed to be liberating, but it feels sciatic. “Did you kill my sister, Tony?”

  I stand up and turn my back. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “I buried her.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “What difference does it make? I’m responsible!”

  “How are you responsible? Did you kill my sister?”

  “I was responsible.”

  “Did you kill my sister!?”

  “No!” I shout. “I didn’t kill your sister. But I am responsible.”

  The room falls silent as we square off, standing opposed, the fight fleeing my body, the tears welling in my eyes. It’s not just me, the tears are slipping over her cheeks too. We’re both in pretty deep, and it feels awful.

  “And then you left town?”

  I nod.

  “Why? Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you stay?”

  “You don’t know him. And by that time, I didn’t either. Besides, I was already set to go. My bags were packed. I had a ticket and an alibi. It was the perfect murder, and I was the perfect witness.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because he told me to leave town and never come back.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or he’d bury me right there with her.”

  I can hear her step closer, but she pauses. Then she takes another hesitant step before pausing again.

  “Don’t forgive me,” I say, tears welling in my eyes.

  “But…”

  “What I did is unforgivable. This whole thing is my fault.”

  “Even if you didn’t kill her?”

  “I didn’t kill her, but I couldn’t stop him either. And I never told anyone, and your sister’s been down here for twenty years, because I was too big of a coward to say anything. I buried her, and then I left her here, and I swear to God I forgot about her and you and everything else.”

  “But you didn’t kill her,” she whispers, and I guess this is some kind of precious moment where we’re supposed to bond as the floodgates of truth open up and embrace us within the arms of angels. But it’s not precious. It’s prickly and painful, and I hate myself. I did this. Her sister is wrapped in rags, having spent two decades in a basement because of my cowardice.

  “You didn’t kill her,” Kristie repeats.

  “If I hadn’t kissed her,” I say defiantly. I shake my head. “If I had just let her go...”

  Kristie wraps her arms around me from behind despite my opposition. “You said you loved her.”

  I shrug. “I was a kid.”

  “Did you love her more than me?”

  “What difference does it make? Really?”

  “It matters, because no one else loved her.”

  “Oh, come on. You loved her.”

  “Sure, I loved her, but my Dad looked at her like she was defective, and my mom always wanted boys. And all the kids at school made fun of her.” She looks at me. “I treated her awful, because I was jealous. She was so much smarter than me. But, yes, I loved her, because she was my sister.”

  “She knew you loved her.”

  “She knew I loved her, and I knew she loved you, and that’s why I went after you.”

  I clam up. Joanne had mentioned something just like that, but to hear Kristie say it...

  “If you loved her,” Kristie continues, “and if she knew it, then at least she had that. At least once. At least for a little while.”

  “Ritchie loved her.”

  “Ritchie possessed her.”

  I turn to her. “He also killed her.”

  Kristie’s face wrinkles, and she starts crying again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean for it to come off so harsh like that.”

  “I knew she was dead. I knew it from the very first moment. She had taken off, and you followed her.” She smiles. “You said you were going to see Ritchie, but I knew, and I was confused and frantic, and it was something like two hours later when this weird wave of calm settled over me. And I knew.” She sniffs. “I just knew. I knew she was gone. I couldn’t feel her anymore. I couldn’t…it’s like she wasn’t there…”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I want him to burn for this.”

  “He will. I promise.”

  “You could go to prison.”

  “I’m every bit as guilty as he is.”

  She steps up, burying her face against my chest and begins to sob. Again. I wrap my arms around her, rocking her ever so gently, my nose buried in her hair, her breath hot against my neck. When I open my eyes and look up, I suppose I should be surprised by what I see hulking in the shadows blocking the stairs going up, but given my luck over the last week or so, I figure it’s just par for the course.

  “Why did you come back?” she asks through her tears, her face pressed against my shirt. “I mean, you didn’t have to come. You could have said no. And you didn’t have to
bring me back here.” She’s sniffing and ruining my shirt. “So, why’d you do it?”

  But I’m not really paying attention. Instead, I’m staring destiny in the eye, and destiny’s staring back, filling the doorway with that massive frame of his.

  “To finish it,” I answer.

  Kristie looks up, but I’m not looking at her. I’m looking over her shoulder into the eyes of the devil himself. He’s covered in shadow, but his features are distinct. I’d know that form anywhere. The broad shoulders, the lazy gut, the fists clenched at his side.

  She turns, sees him, and backs away. Twenty years later, and it’s a big ol’ class reunion. The four of us are in the same room for the first time in nearly two decades. For better or for worse, the loose ends of the perfect homicide will be buried where it began, all the pieces quickly falling into place. This is the showdown I was terrified of, but now that it’s here, I feel surprisingly little. I should be terrified. I think Ritchie could kill both me and her without losing sleep. The thing is, at this point I think I could do the same to him.

  Twenty-Eight

  Yesterday

  Ritchie looks at me the way I expect he would look at a little brother. His eyes offer comfort and protection along with a careful warning. Everything will be okay so long as I do what I’m told, and so far I’ve done what I’ve been told. “You done good,” he says in that way he often does when he’s feeling proud. It’s almost like we’re friends again even though I hate him more than I have ever hated anyone ever before.

  I look down at the sandy floor. It’s hard to tell anyone’s buried here. Jo’s gone. She’s gone unless anyone ever suspects a reason to dig, and there’s no reason to suspect anyone ever will, so she’s gone.

  “Now we can be friends again,” Ritchie continues. “You wanna go for ice cream?”

  “Ice cream. You want to go for ice cream? Seriously?”

  “When it comes to ice cream, I’m always serious.” He grins. “I got me a hankering for moose tracks.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Think of it as a celebratory parting gift now that you’re leavin’ town and all.”

  “I’m not going to squeal.”

  “Oh, I know you ain’t gonna squeal,” he answers with a smile. “Turns out that you leavin’ town tonight is a lucky coincidence, ‘cause the only thing savin’ yer skinny ass is the fact that you’re already packed and ready to go.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Depends. I was plannin’ to—” but he locks up, suddenly pinching one eye shut. He leans over and repeatedly smacks the side of his head with the palm of his hand before crouching down, grinding his teeth.

  “How are the headaches, Rich?”

  He slaps at his head, a bit of spittle dripping from his lower lip.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask. “How’s it feel? Does it feel like it’s ripping your fucking head apart?”

  “It’s…fine…” he manages.

  “It’s fine? That feels good? You mean you’re not worried?”

  He slaps at the side of his head, over and over, crouching over, spit running from his mouth. Settling down on one knee, he continues to rap the side of his head.

  “It’s gonna kill you,” I sneer.

  “I’ll kill you first.”

  “You’re not going to kill me,” I murmur.

  “You don’t think so?” he asks through gritted teeth, looking up.

  “I know so.”

  “And what makes you so sure?”

  “Because I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the conflict between the left and right hemispheres battling each other, both winning and both losing. One of his eyes even twitches. He clears his throat, hacks up a loogie and spits. “You killed her,” he murmurs. “I seen you do it.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  “I’ll tell whoever I gotta tell if you don’t shut your pie hole and leave the way yer supposed to.” He winces once or twice, the seizure or headache nearly gone.

  “I still have to stop by the house.” I say, stalling.

  “What for?”

  “To pick up my stuff.”

  “You want cash? I got cash. I got enough cash so you can buy a whole new wardrobe. You don’t need to stop by the house.”

  “It’s not about cash. You want my mom asking questions?”

  He wavers.

  “Because she will. She’s expecting me before I go.”

  He huffs and he puffs, but he finally frowns and agrees with a half-hearted nod.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “Doin’ what? I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

  “What about Joanne?”

  He grins, and it’s that simple, stupid, toothless grin that I learned to trust and later learned to hate. He’s grinning at me as if this is just a conversation like any other—maybe an argument over baseball cards. “Joanne’s dead,” he says. “And if you ever talk, I’ll bury Kristie too.”

  I could say something in retort, but that’s Ritchie. He’s already said his peace. His mind is made up. He’s black and white—like a cartoon robber. There is no in between. Love him or hate him, Ritchie is Ritchie. For better or worse.

  Mostly worse.

  Part II

  Ritchie follows me home, trailing a few paces behind so we won’t have to talk. But he’s still back there. He’s got those awkward, familiar steps. His left leg is a half-inch short, which makes him drag the right foot, leaving a scraping sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. I keep hoping he’ll eventually get bored and wander off, but the closer we get to my house, the closer those dragging steps creep. He wants me gone, and he’s going to see it through.

  We reach my house, and I leave Ritchie standing in the driveway as I crawl through my bedroom window like it’s any other night. Mom’s left my window open a crack the way she always does so I can sneak in one last time. She’s waiting for me out in the living room, her feet in her bunny-slippers, her tattered nightgown. I know this because I can hear the TV laughing like this is funny. She knows tonight is the night I’m leaving, and she’s playing ‘mom’ one last time, pretending I’m not actually going—pretending her ‘baby boy’ hasn’t grown up and isn’t flying the coop.

  I wash the blood from my face, not that it helps much. I still look a mess. I also look scared, and I feel sick to my stomach. Joanne is dead. She’s really dead, and I really buried her, and now I’m really going to leave town without saying goodbye.

  I dry off my face and turn out the light.

  This is it.

  Part III

  Almost made it. Almost. I was hoping I’d be able to play it out as I’d originally planned. A suitcase, a hug, a few tears and a heartfelt goodbye with a promise to call. I almost made it, but I guess Ritchie doesn’t trust me, because the doorbell rings, which is followed by the sound of her recliner snapping shut and our squeaky front door opening up. Then I hear his voice and his charm followed by Mom’s laughter.

  “Tony?” she calls. “Ritchie’s here!”

  I bite my tongue, wishing I was stronger than I feel. “I’ll be right there,” I answer while camouflaging my voice behind good humor. Not that it matters much. She’s not even listening to me. She’s talking to him.

  “I can’t believe he’s leaving,” Ritchie says politely. “He’s actually leavin’.”

  Our walls are paper thin.

  “I’m proud of him,” she says, and I hear her broken recliner squeak as she sits back down. “You should be too. He’s worked awfully hard to get where he is. He’s earned it.”

  “Oh, he done good all right. It just hurts to let him go,” Ritchie says, “He’s my best friend.”

  “You’re such a sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real peach,” I mutter under my breath as I close the suitcase and turn out the light in my bedroom. The room goes dark, and I stand there like a lump, looking around for what will like
ly be the last time. Finally, I turn my back, make my way along the narrow hall and cross through the living room.

  “What happened to your face?” Mom snaps, sitting up.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It was a scrimmage.”

  “A scrimmage? What’s that mean, a scrimmage?”

  “It means don’t worry about it.”

  “It means he saved my butt for once,” Ritchie says with a smile.

  “It means I have to go,” I say. “The bus is thirty minutes out.”

  She cranks down the recliner again and stands up in her bunny slippers and worn nightgown. She extends her arms, two tears slipping from her eyes over her cheeks. “I can’t believe my baby boy is already moving out.”

  “It’s not like I won’t be back, ma.”

  “It’ll be so lonely here without you.”

  “You’ll still have your friends.”

  She waves me off. “My friends.”

  “I’ll stop by,” Ritchie says. “If you need anything, I’ll be you surrnigate son.”

  “Surrogate,” I mutter under my breath.

  Mom smiles. “I’d like that. Thank you, Ritchie.”

  Ritchie smiles that broken-tooth smile. “My pleasure.”

  Mom holds her arms out to me, the folds hanging like swinging water balloons. “You’ll call me?” she asks.

  “Every week.”

  She kisses my neck and pats me on the back before pulling away and wiping her eyes. My mom. I didn’t think letting go was going to be so hard. She and I have had only each other for so long that I barely remember my life when Dad was a part of it. I’m going to miss her. I’m going to miss this house. I’m going to miss the things I’ve taken for granted for so long. Her, Kristie, my school—all of it.

  Except Ritchie.

  Ritchie stands at my side with that dumb grin on his face. By now he’s probably convinced himself that I did it. He’s probably convinced that he’s innocent. After all, he loved Joanne, and I took her from him. He’s probably itching to finish me off too as if to avenge the hole in his heart, and yet I have to stand at his side, my own stupid smile on my own stupid face while I tearlessly say goodbye to my mother.