Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  I button my shirt, buckle my belt and tie my shoes. My suitcase is packed, and in five minutes I’ll be on Route 89 on my way back to the airport. Nobody wants me here anyway. I tuck the suitcase into the trunk before slamming it loud enough to announce my intentions to the entire world. One last look around confirms my sour supposition that no one will even notice once I’m gone.

  “Dust in the wind,” I murmur as I take the wheel, fire up the engine and peel out of the parking lot onto the main drag. No traffic. No cars. No life. It feels like the rest of the world forgot Payton County even exists. As the residents die off or move away, I imagine things will continue to deteriorate until there’s nothing left but a fading sign:

  For Sale

  Payton County

  A fine collection of memories

  …and other assorted shit

  The street light turns red, so I slow to a stop. Across the way on the opposite corner, a young boy is playing on his red skateboard. He’s practicing 360s, reminding me of when I was that age. I never owned a skateboard, but I remember playing on this corner. Ritchie was always at my side, and the future always looked infinite.

  Looking in either direction, there is no traffic, no cars—no shops open for business. The entire town of Payton belongs to me and the boy, and as far as he’s concerned, I don’t even exist. He’s in his own little world while doing his own thing. I envy both his youth and unintended indifference toward everything else.

  The light remains red, and it seems to have been so for the last twenty minutes. There are no cars. There’s no traffic. It’s just me vs. the goddamn light that’s been red forever. Growing steadily impatient, I’m stuck waiting for the dumb thing to turn so I can get the hell out of Dodge.

  Still red.

  I impatiently drum the wheel with my thumbs before looking both ways again. I’ve been sitting here for at least two minutes, and I’m about to risk driving through when I notice another car approaching from the west, sailing over the hill at a quick clip. The light for oncoming traffic must have finally turned yellow, because I hear the car rev its engine before lurching forward, a plum of blue smoke puffing from the rear exhaust. The front end lifts slightly as the vehicle’s speed increases. Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of red jump into the road. The boy’s on the curb, nursing a bloody elbow while his skateboard slows to a stop in the middle of the street. The boy scrambles to his feet, and knowing how boys think, I already know what’s coming.

  The light for oncoming traffic turns red as mine turns green. I can see the driver of the other car, but he can’t see me—or the boy. He’s messing with his cell phone and about to plow right through the intersection.

  The kid dashes into the road.

  I mash the gas-pedal, my rental car loyally leaping forward.

  The boy looks up with fear—eyes wide. The driver of the Buick finally reacts, white-knuckling the steering wheel as his tires scream. My Impala rushes into the intersection.

  This is going to hurt like a—

  The impact is worse than I expected. My head whips to the side, smacking the window. There’s a flash of white accompanied by what seems like a delayed resounding thud and the crumpling of metal. My car is shoved sideways despite the ambitious tires that continue to spin. I feel the car lean the way a sailboat leans when it catches a sharp breeze, and I’m sure I’m going over.

  Then everything stops. The rental is up on two wheels—leaning sharply to the side, the engine still running. For some reason the tires have stopped trying to turn. The passenger side is crumpled, the seat pointed inward instead of facing forward, the window shattered, and pieces of glass are still falling like rain into my hair and lap.

  I’m wedged in, and ironically that’s what I’m thinking about instead of wondering whether or not I’m still in one piece. Something warm and sticky is trickling along the right side of my face, so that can’t be good. Undoing the seatbelt, I manage to inch myself out of the bucket seat and crawl up and out of the passenger-side window. I know I should stay put until help arrives, but getting out of the car seems like a better idea than just sitting there waiting for the car to catch on fire or something. Besides, I need to know if the boy is okay. I need to be doing something other than sitting and wondering why I intentionally drove into the path of an oncoming car. Somehow, I’ve managed to strand myself here, and despite the strong taste of blood on my tongue and the pain in my ribs, I’m already wondering if my actions were motivated by something on a subconscious level.

  The morning air is still chilly as I pull myself from the car and collapse onto the hood of the Buick. I hear sirens in the distance, the pain starting to grip me like an iron fist. My leg doesn’t feel right, and blood is running into my eye.

  I peer through the front windshield of the Buick to find the driver slumped over the wheel. Steam is rising around me from the car’s ruined engine, and I can hear the stampeding feet of approaching bystanders. Someone is crying, and it sounds like the voice of a child. Suddenly, the town has woken up.

  “Mister, are you okay?” a man in boxers and a wife-beater is asking.

  “I’ve been better.”

  The police are here. Their screaming sirens are making my ears bleed, and their flashers—at least from what I can still see—are beautiful red and green against a light blue backdrop.

  “What happened here?”

  “I saw the whole thing!” a woman shrieks. “He saved that boy’s life!”

  “She’s right,” the man in boxers says. “Jimmy woulda run that kid over.”

  “Is he okay?” I ask.

  “Jesus, he’s bleeding bad,” an officer says. “Dispatch, we got injuries on the corner of Main and Lincoln. Send an ambulance. 11-41.”

  “Roger that 11-41. Ambulance is en route.”

  “How’s the kid?” I repeat. Blood is running over my lips and into my mouth

  “The boy’s fine,” the officer says.

  “Hey, I recognize him,” someone else says.

  I lay my head on the hot hood of the Buick and close my eyes. I can feel sleep coming.

  “Stay with me,” the officer says, shaking me by the shoulder. “Come on. Eyes up here. Focus on me.”

  But sleep’s coming whether he wants it to or not.

  “Isn’t that Tony Abbott?”

  “Come on, son. Eyes on me.”

  “What the hell’s Tony Abbott doing here?”

  I’m probably dying. Later today it’ll likely be either Kristine or Ritchie who ID’s my body. Maybe then they’ll feel bad. After all, I didn’t have to come back. I did it for them. And this is what I get.

  Part III

  I’m not dead. That much I’ve figured out. I am irritable. But that’s to be expected. Beyond that, I don’t have a handle on much of anything else. The room is empty except for me and this chirpy equipment what with all its blinking lights. I’m lying in the world’s most uncomfortable bed and hooked up to what I think is an EKG. I guess white means clean, so this must be a hospital room, but it does make me wonder about perceptions and stereotypes. Do people get better faster just because everything is white? No. So, even hospitals are liars. Hospitals and doctors and nurses and the people around you who are supposed to care. Paint the walls blood red for all I care. Just tell the truth.

  “He’s awake.”

  Tilting my head the other way, I find that I’m not alone. Kristie is here with her mother. Mrs. Lambert is dressed nice, but she looks different. She looks old, and she’s dressed old. Then again, it’s been twenty years, so I guess we’re all old.

  Kristie reaches across the bed and takes my hand. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I return.

  It’s a pretty deep conversation.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, a tear slipping over her cheek. “About last night.”

  The only thing I remember about last night is getting punched in the face, and that had nothing to do with her. “Me too,” I manage. My jaw hurts when I talk.

&nb
sp; “You saved that kid,” Kristie says as she wipes her eyes. She leans over and kisses me on the tip of my nose. “He’s alive because of you.” She beams. “You’re a hero.”

  I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like a coward.

  Kristie pats my hand.

  Mrs. Lambert is unsmiling. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Like I’ve been in a car accident.”

  Kristie giggles, but I expected a giggle. I was at least hoping for a courtesy smile from Mrs. Lambert, but she offers nothing but a stoic glare as if I just killed her favorite cat.

  “Well,” Mrs. Lambert says, standing. She’s put on some weight, and her hair has grayed. She hasn’t aged well. “I’ll leave you two alone so you can pick up where you left off messing up my daughter’s life.”

  “Oh my god,” Kristie gripes. “What did we talk about?”

  “Welcome home, Tony.”

  “The outpouring of support thus far has been overwhelming.”

  Mrs. Lambert hesitates, the wheels turning in her mind. She looks like she’s about to walk away when she suddenly turns. “Where’s my daughter?” she demands.

  “Mom…” Kristie begs.

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  “You were the last one to see her.”

  “Was I?”

  The air is dry, so dry you can almost hear the static electricity. It’s like a crackle, hanging in the air.

  “It’s too coincidental that you left the same day she disappeared. Did you kill her?”

  “Mom!”

  “Where’d you bury her?”

  “I have no idea where she is,” I repeat, matching her glare.

  “I hope that’s true,” she says, an unfriendly smile on her lips. “For your sake.”

  “Mom…”

  Mrs. Lambert scowls at me before sending a warning glance in her daughter’s direction and marching away. Kristie sits on the edge of the bed and gently brushes the bangs from my eyes the way she did when we were young. “Sorry about that,” she says. “She tends to hold grudges.”

  “She’s right to.”

  The soft tips of her fingers gently brush the stitched cut over my left eye, and I flinch. She withdraws quickly, gritting her teeth, her eyes apologetic. “Sorry.”

  “Me too,” I say. “About yesterday, I mean.”

  “What are we going to do with you, Anthony Abbott?” She smiles. “Triple A.”

  I smirk.

  “And just where did you think you were you going? Leaving town?”

  I shake my head. “Just out for a drive.”

  “Out for a drive.” She shakes her head. “Right.”

  “The boy’s okay?”

  “Not a scratch.”

  “What about the rental? You think they’ll be able to buff it out?”

  She snorts. “No, you’re pretty much stranded.”

  I nod. “Figures. This whole trip was a bad idea.”

  She frowns. “So you were leaving.”

  “Nobody wants me here.”

  She stares at me. “I want you here. I asked you here.” She leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “You need rest.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  She sits down and scooches the chair closer. “I’m not going anywhere.” She crosses her bare legs. I try not to notice, and when I do, I pretend that I don’t.

  “Still looking,” she says with a smile.

  “It’s hard not to.”

  “I always liked that.” She smiles. “It was different with you. Not like with other guys.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but we’re all pretty much the same.”

  “You were different. It felt different.”

  I shift uncomfortably.

  “So, what happened?” she asks. “Why’d you run?”

  “Which time? Twenty years ago or this morning?”

  “Twenty years ago.”

  “Well, first of all, I didn’t run. That was the day I was scheduled to leave. I know we talked about it.”

  “Yeah,” she says quietly. “We talked about it.”

  “I had that job lined up and an apartment on campus waiting for me.”

  “You never even said goodbye.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “What do you remember, Tony?”

  “Hardly anything.”

  “Like amnesia?”

  “Like I don’t remember. Some of it’s coming back. Like when I run into people I knew or see things from my past, but there’s this…” I tap my skull before swirling my finger in cuckoo circles. “It’s like there’s a blank spot.”

  “That’s a terrible answer.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  She shakes her head, biting her lower lip before turning on me. “Joanne’s dead.”

  “And you know this how? Because you found that old hearing aid of hers?”

  “I know it because I’m her twin sister.”

  “What about the letter?”

  “Fuck the letter. I know it. I feel it.”

  “Then what do you need me for?”

  “I need to know how. And I need to know who.”

  “I don’t have any idea. I can’t even remember the name of the street I grew up on. I barely—.”

  “It was a long—”

  “I barely remember you.”

  She stops, leans back, draws a breath.

  “I had to think real hard about it when you called me,” I whisper. “I couldn’t remember your face. I barely remembered who you were. All there is, is some vague…recollection at best—like a picture out of focus. Something happened that summer. I get it. And I know I was here when it happened, but I don’t…” I shake my head. “I just don’t remember what.”

  She’s rigid. “If you’re telling the truth, then you’re talking about repressed memories. Yet you said some of it’s coming back.”

  “In bits and pieces.”

  “Why would you have blocked it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Were you involved?”

  “I don’t know. And neither do you. We don’t even know if there was something to be involved in.”

  She looks upset.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Yeah, I get it. You’re sorry, I’m sorry, we’re all very, very sorry.”

  “I mean it. I never said it, but I’m sorry about your sister.”

  Kristie smiles, but it’s forced. I mourned Joanne, and I moved on. Kristie hasn’t. Apparently, no one else in this spook-show town has either. The people here are stuck in a dead zone mourning a girl who disappeared too long ago to remember why.

  Kristie is taking her time. “If my sister was murdered, then she was murdered here. Not in some other city or state. It happened here, and somebody in this town knows something.”

  “That’s a big ‘if.’”

  “Which is why I called you.”

  “What possible difference can I make?”

  “You knew her as well as anyone, but you haven’t been here all these years since. You haven’t stood by, the more obvious clues passing right under your nose. You haven’t been here searching for that needle in the haystack.”

  I need a drink. Tea. Water. Anything. My lips are parched.

  “I want you to help me,” she says. “Help me find my sister.”

  “Your sister’s gone. I don’t know what I can even do.”

  “Just help me.”

  “If she’s alive, then she’s not here. And if she’s dead, then what difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference because she’s my sister. I need to know. I deserve to know. Jesus, just…help me.” Kristie’s not backing down. “I’m tired, Tony. I’m tired of waiting, and I’m tired of not knowing. I need some kind of closure so I can sleep at night.”

  “She’s been gone for two decades. Even if you’re right, the best possible outcome you can hope for is finding her body.”

  Kristie looks down, biting her lower lip.


  “Are you sure that’s what you want?” I ask. “Right now, you can imagine anything you want to. You can imagine she’s living in sunny California with her own view of the ocean. You can imagine her happily married with a couple of kids and a growing retirement fund. The moment you find a body, every last bit of hope you’ve been clinging to disappears.”

  “I want to find my sister.” She sniffs, drawing a deep breath. “Yes, we’re twins. You wouldn’t…couldn’t know what that means. I know she’s dead. I know it. I let go of hope a long time ago, but you have to understand that I can’t just let her go.” She looks up at me. “I need answers.”

  I close my eyes feeling way in over my head. I’m not sure I can do this—even for her. “I want to see the letter.”

  “You’ll stay then?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, my only ride out of town was totaled this morning.”

  “Ironically enough, you might be right. They even stopped running the bus route through here years ago.”

  “Of course they did.”

  She pats my hand. “They’re going to discharge you tonight. I’ll take you home.”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  She shakes her head. “My place.”

  I frown.

  She leans over again, and I’m expecting another kiss on the nose or maybe the forehead, but her soft lips touch mine, and she tastes exactly the same as she did when we were kids with nothing but time on our hands. My heart starts to thud like a sledgehammer, and it’s the same feeling—the same exact feeling. She pulls away, and I look up at her.

  She knows.

  “I won’t be far,” she whispers. Her eyes dance to the empty glass next to my bed. “You’re out of water. I’ll let the nurse know.”

  “Thanks.”

  She drapes her purse over her shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll be back a little later.”

  I nod.

  “Guess I still got the touch, huh?” She winks.

  I offer a weak smile before rolling onto my side and shutting my eyes. I need a few hours to forget about her and this town. And I need a few hours to remember everything else. She finally leaves me to listen to the intercom summoning Dr. So-and-so to report to room such-and-such. After awhile, the sounds of life and death happening around me become comforting. No stress, no worries. Here I’m safe. So long as the robotic voices continue to call out over the intercom.