Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  “’Course he does. He has me hold onto it so Mom don’t find out.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Is it?”

  I shrug. “I dunno. Maybe he’s not all bad. At least he trusts you.”

  “He trusts me like he trusts a politician.” I hear the sound of a zipper being zipped. “Let’s go get chilidogs first. I’m starved.”

  I shrug. “Is there time?”

  Ritchie doesn’t answer.

  “It’s getting late,” I continue. “What time do you need to be at the ballpark?”

  Still nothing.

  When I turn to look at him, he’s got a look of perplexity on his face. His eyes are squinted, lips slightly parted, head cocked as if he’s listening for…something.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  Then I hear it. Some kind of sound coming from the hall outside Ritchie’s closed door, but it hasn’t yet registered in my mind. It’s the look on my friend’s face that makes me listen harder. Sure enough, the sound is drawing closer. Footsteps.

  “Hide!” Ritchie hisses under his breath.

  “What?”

  The door bursts open, and I whirl—hands up. Ritchie’s father, a beast of a man, lashes out, his big paws striking my chest and pushing me so hard that I’m lifted from my feet. It all happens so quick that I don’t even know what’s happened until after I’d hit my head on Ritchie’s dresser on the way back down.

  “Dad, what?” Ritchie shouts.

  Mr. Hudson doesn’t slow as he barrels into his son and drives him up against the wall. The entire house shutters. Even a towel Ritchie has hanging over his window as a makeshift curtain slumps to the floor.

  “You stupid ass!” Hudson shouts. “I told you to cut the grass this week while I was out! Now they’re threatenin’ to evict us!”

  “I cut it!” Ritchie hollers. “On Tuesday! It rained!”

  Hudson strikes his son sharply across the face. “And there’s an open bag of trash sitting in the middle of the goddamn kitchen floor that you were supposed to take out before they come to pick it up!”

  “It’s cool, Dad. I already talked to Mom about it. It’ll be curbside in, like, three minutes.”

  “They just drove down the street two minutes ago, retard!” He strikes his son again, and this one sounds like more than a slap. It sounds like knuckles against cheekbone. Ritchie doesn’t cower, but he also refuses to fight back. Or maybe this is his way of fighting back. The big man steps back, panting like a monster, fists clenched as his sides. Ritchie just stands there, his lips pinched tightly, his eyes welling with tears, though not one is allowed to slip.

  “When I drive my ass all over this god-forsaken country to put food in your stomach and a roof over your pea-brained head, I expect you to show me some goddamn respect,” Mr. Hudson growls. “You do your chores when I tell you to and hang out with your faggot friends after.”

  As quietly as I can, I try to get myself into a sitting position, but there’s papers and trash all over Ritchie’s floor. I reach behind my head and gently touch a welt that’s also wet and sticky with something warm. Blood.

  Mr. Hudson turns on me, his eyes bloodshot red with rage. “Get out of my house, you fuckin’ runt. This ain’t your home.” He steps over my legs on his way toward the door.

  “Hey, Dad,” Ritchie says softly. His eyes have dried, and now he looks angry.

  Mr. Hudson turns back.

  There’s no humor in Ritchie’s black eyes. “You ever touch my friend again, and I’ll kill you,” he growls.

  Mr. Hudson says nothing. I don’t know what’s scarier—what just happened or the sincerity in my best friend’s voice. Less than a half hour ago, Ritchie was saying the exact same thing to those bullies out by Walmart. Now he’s saying it to his own dad. And just like before, he means it. But without saying anything in return, Mr. Hudson just walks away, his footfalls drifting away.

  Ritchie straightens his jersey and gingerly touches his fingertips to the side of his face. He crosses the room and hovers over me. Extending his hand, he helps me up and pats me on the back. “You were saying?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “All that stuff about how he trusts me because he lets me hold onto his girly mags.”

  “Can we go now?”

  “How’s your head?”

  “It hurts.”

  “Man up. Don’t be a girl.”

  “I’m not a girl.” I rub the welt. “But I probably won’t be hanging out at your place much more either.”

  Ritchie looks toward the door. “He used the bad words.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “I ain’t worried.”

  “Can we go now?”

  “We’re…” Ritchie suddenly winces, pinching one eye shut while reaching up and whacking himself upside of the head.

  “Rich?”

  He blinks, licks his lips and ushers me toward the door. “We’re going,” he says. “I’m starved.”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “How are the headaches?”

  “Fuck the headaches. I’m hungry.”

  So I follow him. I don’t know why and I barely know how, but I follow. I feel dazed as I follow him down the hall, through the living room where Mr. Hudson glowers at us. We drift through the kitchen and exit out the side door into the garage.

  “What about the garbage?” I ask.

  “Too late.”

  “Yeah, but still. Even after all that?”

  He stares at me with cow-like eyes for a second before breaking into that big dumb grin of his. “Fuck him. He can kiss my grits.”

  Eleven

  Today

  With my face feeling like putty and my chest feeling like it’s been pinched in some sort of enormous vice, I realize that I look as bad as I feel. Every part of me hurts in one way or another, so it’s not easy to maneuver my body into the car—my feet on the floor, my knees tucked up under the steering wheel, my butt cupped and my back against the reclined seat. I do so, but not without a number of grunts and groans while contorting my face in what must be a hundred different expressions, most of which are likely unflattering.

  “Are you going to make it?” she asks. Her tone is playful though laced with concern.

  “The jury’s out.”

  “Maybe this is a bad idea. You want me to drive?”

  “I’m already here.”

  “You sure?”

  “I just—”

  But she thrusts a piece of paper in my face and holds it there.

  “What’s this?”

  “The letter,” she says. “You said you wanted to read it.”

  “Joanne’s letter?”

  She nods.

  “Jesus.” I take the letter from her, unfolding it. The first thing that strikes me is that it’s a printout. It’s not handwritten. “Typed?”

  “I wondered about that too.”

  “Are you sure it’s hers?”

  “That’s the kind of the point of this discussion.”

  I frown.

  “I blindly believed in that letter since it showed up in our mailbox,” Kristie says as she tucks her purse on the floor between her feet. “I’ve picked over the words so carefully, analyzing it for hidden messages, and it took me a number of years to finally figure out what it was that felt so out of place.”

  “You mean other than the fact that it was typed.”

  “She had sloppy handwriting. I used to always pick on her for that. I told her she should be a doctor. The fact that it’s typed is noteworthy, yes, but that doesn’t mean that it didn’t come from her. She could have typed it explicitly because of her poor handwriting.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Will you please just read the letter?”

  I pull my door shut, cutting the outside sounds, enveloping us inside. “I’m reading it.” I’m not thrilled. It’s like we’re dating again, only without the benefits. Carefully, I unfold the letter
, straightening the yellowed page of paper.

  Dear Mom and, Dad,

  First of all, I’m okay. I know how surprised you must be to get a letter like this after all this time, but I’m okay, and I’m happy and for now that should be enough.

  I’m writing because I want you to know that I’m safe, and that I’m not angry with any of you. I didn’t leave because I was angry, and I’m not angry now. I left because I needed to. I didn’t see any other way out. I just received my fourth rejection from the fourth school I’d had applied to, and I decided that if my dreams were to ever come true I’d have to do more than just daydream. At the time I knew you wouldn’t understand, and I didn’t want to fight, so I just left. I figured it was easier to apoligize later than ask permission.

  I’m in California on the coast, south of San Francisco. I don’t want to give you the name of the town because I know you’d come looking for me. It’s not that I don’t want to see you or that I don’t love you. I just don’t want to go back.

  Tell Kristie that I’m not mad at her for that day. She’ll know what that means. I think I miss her the most and I promise that I’ll come back after I’ve sorted things out and get settled in. I can’t wait to vacation down in Payton with you all. Please don’t be mad, and please don’t worry.

  I love you all. I’ll write again soon.

  Love,

  Joanne

  “It’s a nice letter,” I say, refolding it. “What makes you think it’s bogus?”

  “Is that all you see?”

  Frowning, I unfold the page and read through the letter again. And again. Then I see it. Or at least I think I see it. I look up. “It’s just a spelling error,” I insist. “And ‘apologize’ is an easy word to mess up. Even with spell check.”

  “First of all, no, it isn’t an easy word to mess up. Not for her. She was a straight A student. That’s not the kind of word she would misspell. Secondly, that’s not the only error.”

  I reread the letter again. Then again. I shrug. “What?”

  “Look closer.”

  I reread the letter again, but I don’t see it. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  “There’s a comma,” Kristie says. “In the salutation, there’s a comma between the word ‘and’ and the word ‘Dad.’”

  “So.”

  “So, she also doesn’t make grammatical mistakes.”

  “That’s getting a bit nit-picky, don’t you think?”

  “That’s not her only flub. There are missing commas all over the place and there’s that line where she says ‘I’d had.’ She’d never do that. It’s not hers. She didn’t write it. I stared and stared at this letter for years while waiting for a second letter or a phone call or something. Anything. It took me thirteen years to finally figure it out.”

  “And you’ve been sitting on it ever since?”

  “No. I haven’t been sitting on anything. I’ve be looking.”

  “And because of a couple of commas, you’re convinced she didn’t send it?”

  “I’m convinced that whoever killed her sent it.”

  I shrug. “It’s a bit of a stretch.”

  “It’s enough to reopen the case.”

  “There is no case.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I draw a breath. “Look,” I say calmly. “I won’t even pretend to understand what this is like for you. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be the same as being twins. I get it even though I don’t understand it. I know what this means to you.”

  “You have no conception of what this means to me.”

  “Which is why I’m agreeing to go back.”

  She snatches the letter from my hand and crams it in her purse before drawing the seatbelt across her body. She won’t look at me. Her attention is directed straight ahead—straight out the window at the flaking painted brick of the run-down Days Inn. “Then let’s go.”

  “I’m not arguing with you. I’m actually trying to agree.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “We’re going.”

  But she doesn’t answer. She just folds her arms defiantly across her chest. I don’t remember much about her or ‘us’ or this town, but I am a man, and men have instincts, and if I’ve learned anything over the course of my time on this earth, combined with the time I’ve tediously spent attempting to communicate with the opposite sex, it’s that I’ve learned when to fight back and when to shut up. This particular grainy moment is brought to you by the makers of Silence is Golden. So, I turn the key, drop into reverse and check the rearview mirror as I back out of the parking spot. Funny, but as I pull forward, my mouth shut, my mind on fire with thoughts and doubts and any number of things, I feel like I’m on the Titanic, undocking and leaving port. And seriously, if I’m feeling like I’m on the Titanic, then there’s an iceberg out there with my name on it, and that’s seriously messed up.

  Part II

  She was right. I know the way. I know the way as well as if I never left. But as I drive through Payton, I probably look like a lost tourist what with the way I’m looking around, craning my neck, doing double-takes. It’s probably my unguarded surprise at how much things have changed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a different town.

  “It’s so weird having you back,” Kristie says.

  “I’m not back.”

  “We’ll see.” She’s still staring out her window. I don’t think she’s mad at me, but it’s hard to be sure. She was always emotional, and despite the setbacks and disappointments she’s clearly lived through, nothing’s changed. Either that or things have stayed ironically the same.

  I concentrate on the road, on the street names, street signs, business names, vacant lots, and abandoned buildings. All these ‘places’ feel familiar, yet everything looks as different as me. I’ve been here for three days, but I still can’t get over how far Payton has fallen.

  “What happened here?” I ask quietly. “It’s like a ghost town.”

  She’s silent and doesn’t turn as she leans on her elbow and stares out the passenger-side window.

  “You there?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Then what happened?”

  She shrugs. “People started moving away.”

  “Why?”

  Nothing.

  I turn into the parking lot of the Days Inn and pull into an open parking spot in front of room 16.

  “Well…” I say, trailing off. “We’re here. I’m going to change.”

  “You want me to come in?”

  I stare at her. It’s not an advance, or maybe it is. Regardless, my thoughts are wandering—wondering about her motivation “Up to you,” I say as I kill the engine and open the door. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

  Twelve

  Yesterday

  “What happened to your face?” she asks, waddling toward me. Her thighs are vying for position as they rub together, her feet pointing sideways to support her weight. Kind of reminds me of a duck. The shirt she’s wearing is several sizes too small, and her shorts are too short, blue veins running a varicose maze I don’t care to see.

  “Terrorists,” I answer as I open the fridge and pull the milk. Popping the top, I smell inside. It doesn’t smell fresh, but it’s not sour yet either so I pour a glass.

  “That’s not funny,” she says. “Did you get in a fight?”

  “Nobody saw anything. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Who started it?”

  “What’s it matter? Jesus, Mom, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “Enough with the language.”

  “Don’t start. I already get hassled enough by Ritchie.”

  “Well, he’s right, and I still pay the bills around here, so as long as you’re living under my roof, enough with the language.”

  “That’s for about another ten days,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I
heard what you said, and if that’s the attitude you’re planning to take with me, then you might as well move down to Florida now.”

  “Georgia, Mom. Georgia. Why does everyone think I’m going to Florida?” I sip from the carton and wrinkle my nose. I was wrong. The milk is definitely past its prime. I start pouring out the rest.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s stale,” I murmur.

  “Figures. I thought it tasted kinda funny on my cereal.”

  “I’ll pick up some tonight.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “About what?”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “You’re worrying again.”

  “I’m your mother. That’s my job.”

  “Well don’t. Makes you look old.”

  “Thanks. I already get hassled enough by the mirror.”

  I smile. “Touché. And I didn’t mean it like that. You look great.”

  “I’m not stupid either.”

  “There’s nothing going on. It was a fight. Guys have an insatiable need to prove our male bravado when in the presence of the opposite sex.”

  “And I suppose you were just an innocent bystander who got caught in the middle?”

  “Bad timing.”

  “Seems awful convenient.”

  “Trust me, it doesn’t feel very convenient.” I kiss her on the forehead before turning to the living room. “Stop worrying.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Homework!” I call over my shoulder.

  “I’m worrying!”

  I smile, but say nothing as I head for the bathroom where I inspect my reflection. It’s bad. My face is swelling, and it’ll only get worse as the bruising darkens. My chances of getting laid a second time have been greatly diminished. Frowning, I reach over to turn on the faucet. The water stings, but I force myself to wash off the blood and clean the dirt from the two open cuts. When the blood runs thin and turns from red to pink, I shut off the water and dab my face with the towel.

  I miss Kristie.

  Maybe after Ritchie’s game I’ll head over to her place. Her dad doesn’t trust me, and her mom isn’t exactly ‘in my corner,’ but so far they seem to tolerate me, so that’s a win. Or at least it’s not a loss.