Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  “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.

  Part II

  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.

  Six

  Yesterday

  “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 somewh
ere 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.