Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  “He looks…” Kristie starts.

  “Pissed,” I finish.

  In a way I feel sorry for him, and in a way I’m glad. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him Joanne’s not interested. It doesn’t matter how much Joanne’s blows him off. In his mind, they’re meant to be. Maybe this will be the wakeup call he needs. Then again, I’m not so sure Payton County is prepared for a Ritchie Hudson wakeup call.

  Ritchie stands, and I’m expecting him to charge Travis, but all he does is turn and walk away without so much as a word. He hurtles his can of beer into the Beaver and storms toward Payton, his huge hulk of a frame slowly being absorbed by the setting afternoon sun.

  Kristie smiles. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  I continue to watch after my fleeing friend. That was too clean. No words, no insults, no punches thrown. I know him too well. This isn’t over. This is just starting.

  Joanne and Travis are oblivious, making out and laughing and all those things that come in the first stages of any new relationship. She deserves this. At the same time, something feels out of place—like a missing ingredient to the perfect recipe or the missing piece to one of those replica toy models they sell as numbered plastic pieces in a cardboard box. I’m not happy about any of it, and I’m wondering if Kristie might have been onto something earlier when she said something’s happening—something’s in the air. Four days ago Ritchie was my best friend, yet now I feel like we’re just pretending. Kristie and I were in love, yet a part of me wonders if I’m also pretending about that too. I’m at a party where everyone is pretending to be happy, but nobody’s saying anything. Ritchie’s gone, and now Joanne’s staring after him, this ugly look on her face, almost like she did it on purpose.

  “Don’t think about them,” Kristie says, turning my head back so my eyes meet hers. She’s smiling the way only she can. “It’ll be okay.”

  I smile and try. I honestly try. I want to think that Ritchie finally got the hint and he’ll just let things go. After all, there are plenty of women in Payton that adore him. He’s a superstar in a small town, and maybe this will be all the encouragement he needs.

  He’s gone, having disappeared over the hill leading back into Payton. I should be feeling better. Instead, I feel anxious as though there’s a spider on my back that I can’t quite reach. Eight clammy feet slowly crawling along my spine, its touch ticklish—just enough to know it’s there.

  “It’ll be okay,” she repeats in a whisper, but I’m not so sure.

  Seventeen

  Today

  The rain hasn’t stopped. It hasn’t even slowed. It’s been raining like this for hours on end, feeling like it’s been raining since I got here. Maybe the rain will never stop. It’ll just fall forever.

  Change the channel.

  Another realty TV show. This one is all about a hoarder’s lifestyle. It makes me reflect on what a complex organ the human brain is, and how ostensively unique people are as a result. I normally don’t feel bad for people who suffer as a consequence of their own decisions, but I find myself feeling worse and worse, slipping into a pit of black depression as I finish my dinner.

  Change the channel.

  Another shampoo commercial. This time of day it’s either diapers, shampoo or some kind common cure for erectile dysfunction. It’s advertising for the unhappy housewife as if they’re the only sad souls watching this channel at this time.

  I wash my hands, brush my teeth, peel back the curtain and check to see what’s going on outside. It’s still raining.

  Change the channel.

  An infomercial on the world’s most prolific vacuum cleaner. It’s the biggest sucker of them all.

  I hate this. I hate television, and moreover I hate commercials. To top off my list of hates, I especially hate sitting still. It’s still raining, but I need to do something before I put my fist through a wall. However, having learned my lesson the hard way, I first peer through the peephole to make sure there are no bitter childhood friends lurking on the other side of the door. The coast is clear, so I open up, step outside and stand beneath the overhang while water cascades in front of me like a waterfall. The sky is muddy and foreboding, but it’s also silent in its own way. There is no thunder or lightning. Just rain. The air smells clean, the silence of the small town familiar.

  I start walking. I don’t have a raincoat or an umbrella, but it’s just water, and in a childish way, it’s nice just to feel something clean. It’s a warm rain, quickly plastering my shirt to my skin, flattening my hair to my head, and it’s a beautiful moment, a moment I’ll cherish. It’s a moment I can’t—

  “Hey, buttface.”

  My golden moment ends with cartoonish drivel, that swirling sound that goes lower and lower until there’s a ‘ploop,’ signifying the end.

  “What do you want?” I ask without turning.

  “I told you to leave. Why you still here?”

  I won’t turn around. I won’t let him see my fear. I’ve been through hell over the past few days, and the last thing I need is another scar to compliment the other myriad of scars I’ve earned since showing my face in town.

  “My car got wrecked,” I say slowly.

  “Yeah, I saw that.”

  “So, I guess I’m stuck here until the pencil pushers sort it out.”

  “That ain’t it,” Ritchie returns. “You got money, and you’re a hotshot working for some shithead somewhere. You got means.”

  “Are you planning on giving me a lift?”

  “Are you man enough to face me?”

  “What do you want?” I ask, turning around.

  “I want you out of my town,” he says. The rain is coursing through what little hair he has left. Ritchie has three chins now instead of one, and while he still boasts the broad shoulders of a one-time athlete, he exemplifies the complacent couch-potato who hasn’t pushed himself in more than a decade.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “I never did anything to you.”

  “You know why.”

  “That was twenty years ago. No one even remembers what happened here.”

  “I remember. And so do you. That’s why you came back.”

  “I came back because Kristie called me.”

  “Oh, come on. You ain’t given two thoughts to that bitch since you left. Are you really that hard up?”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I make the impossible possible, shit dick.”

  “Always with the colorful language.”

  Ritchie grins, one tooth cracked in half, and for a moment I see my former friend. “You think you got what it takes?” he asks, that smile tipping the corners of his mouth, that smile I remember from so long ago when we’d toss around the football or play video games or just hang out for no reason. I remember him smiling like this when we’d talk about girls or motorcycles or sports. It’s a big grin with lots of teeth and cheeks, yet it’s a façade, because I can tell there’s no life behind those dark eyes of his. There’s no empathy. Whatever we once had is long gone.

  “We got a rich history,” he continues. “We go way back. I love you like a brother, but I told you to stay away. And you shoulda.” Ritchie glares at me, but I swear there’s a gleam in there someone. Maybe he’s proud of me. Or maybe he found his excuse to unleash Hell. “Did you really come back for her?” he asks. “Just to dredge up old memories? See an old piece of pussy?” He shakes his head while pacing in front of me. “No one wants you here no more.”

  I have to blink the rain from my eyes. “Kristie wants me here.”

  “Kristie’s using you. If you don’t see it, then yer blind. She suspects you, and if she don’t, then she will.”

  I stare at him for a long moment, rainwater dripping along my face. “I’m responsible.”

  He eyes me through the rain. “Thought you didn’t remember nothin’?”

  “I believe you said I remember enough.”

  Ritchie frowns. “You got a smart mouth too. You keep stickin’ yer
nose where it don’t belong and diggin’ up old ghosts, and yer gonna find yerself in a word of hurt.”

  “I’m not here to dig up old ghosts.” The distance between us is wide, the rain coming down in torrents, flooding the streets, the water winding in currents toward the drains that thunder from underfoot. I wipe the rain from my eyes and stare back. “I’m here to bury them.”

  Ritchie eyes me for a long moment, and I can feel his gaze digging into my soul. Finally, he offers a doubtful grin. “To bury ‘em, huh?” He chuckles and begins pacing again. “And just what the hell do you plan on buryin’?”

  I stare at him a long moment before leaning back on my heels. “I haven’t decided yet,” I answer. “Maybe this whole goddamn town.”

  Ritchie scowls. “You know how much I hate that language.”

  “At this point, do you really think I care what you like?”

  Ritchie glares at me through the rain. “Despite what you might wanna think, that little whore don’t want you no more. She didn’t bring you back here to pick up where you left off. She brought you back to remember why she forgot about you in the first place.”

  I step forward with every intention of walking past him, but he holds up a hand and gently pushes me back. Apparently, this conversation isn’t over.

  “You don’t want to do this, Rich,” I say, but even I can hear the crack in my voice. “There are important people who will come looking for me.”

  “Do what? This ain’t nothin’. This is just a warning shot. A shot across the brow.”

  “Bow, you dumb shit.” I’m scared. As much as he was my protector when we were friends, he also scared the crap out of me with that smothering way of his.

  “This ain’t your home no more,” he grumbles.

  But it is my home, and I’m strangely aware that I’ve felt more alive in these last few days than I’ve felt in the past several years. I’ve begun to feel again, and it’s been ripe and painful and scary and beautiful. Old feelings are resurfacing, causing my heart to leap—some of it good and some of it bad. Good or bad, beautiful or terrible, it’s something, and something is better than nothing.

  “Go home, Rich.”

  “I ain’t goin’ home.”

  “Then what are you going to do? Kill me right here? Right out in the open where the whole town can see? Is that going to fix things?”

  “It might.”

  “Go home, Rich.” I turn away and make my way back toward the hotel. Worst case scenario has him chasing me down, bashing my head into the cement until things go dark. Best case scenario has him leaving me alone so I can return to my mundane life back in Atlanta. I’d go back to InteGREAT Inc. and my 8th floor perch where I’ll stare longingly out the window down into our inglorious parking lot before noticing a scuff on my loafer and licking a Kleenex to use as wax to rub it out. Best case scenario has me dying one day at a time instead of all at once. And one’s got to ask one’s self; what’s the point in that?

  “Boogieman is watchin’,” Ritchie calls. He’s been following from several paces back. I want to stop in my tracks, whirl and scream in his face that I’m not afraid, but I am so I don’t. The best I can do is duck my head and walk away.

  And that’s the best case scenario.

  Part II

  I’m happy to shut the hotel door behind me, draw the chain and turn the deadbolt. Water drips from my hair, my clothes soaked. I’m shivering with cold even though it’s warm in here. I slump against the door, feeling terribly small. The lamp is warm and bright, the TV cheery, a group of whoever busting out in laughter.

  —at my expense no doubt.

  Part III

  I change my clothes and dry my hair, and within ten minutes I’m exactly where I was a half-hour ago—sitting on the edge of my bed while flipping through the channels. My presence here is pointless. I’m not accomplishing anything. I’m a distraction—a speed bump. I know what it is I should do, but I don’t know that I can do it. I figured everything would just kind of work itself out when I came back. Somehow Kristie and I would stumble from one clue to the next until we were led by the hand exactly where we needed to go. But none of that has happened. There aren’t a lot of clues. There never were. There was a letter and hearing aid and a missing person. That’s it, and that’s what made the mystery of Joanne’s disappearance such a mystery. She was just gone.

  Then again, maybe my return home has nothing to do with Joanne. Maybe it has something to do with Payton County, reconnecting with Kristie, reconciling with Ritchie and getting square with all the guilt I left behind years ago.

  Guilt.

  Because there is guilt now that I remember. There is guilt, because I remember more than just bits and pieces, and I remember enough to know that I did something wrong, but I can’t quite…

  And yet I can.

  There are the things that I do remember. Things we said. Something we hid. Something I’ve never talked about. Not to anyone. This alone brings about a stab of guilt—like a hot flash reminding me what I have to do, not because I want to, but because it’s time. Kristie has a right to know, so I’ll take her there tomorrow. It’ll lead to anger and tears and regrets for pretending the things that happened never did.

  If I just up and left town the way Ritchie wants me to, then I could deny everything. I could avoid the grief by returning to my life in the big city. Tomorrow is Monday where things return to normal. Same city, same traffic lights, same streets, same buildings, same elevators, same desk, same coffee, same notes—same shit. I’m expected to show up for staff meetings, status meetings, change control meetings, quarterly earnings meetings and my one-on-one with the bossman himself. I’m supposed to be in his office at 9:30 sharp, and I’m already trying to think of what I’ll say when he calls wondering why I’m not there.

  Pacing.

  I can’t leave, because now there’s guilt. I can’t leave, and I’m afraid to stay. Tomorrow is it. No more secrets. No more lies. Tomorrow is only a few hours away, and it’s coming whether I want it to or not.

  7:22 p.m.

  Now that I’ve conceded, I just want it to be over. I want to give myself up, throw up my hands and walk into the Payton Police Department begging for forgiveness. And even as I pinch my eyes like a kid wishing on birthday candles, I’m still not sure I remember everything that happened the way it happened. I remember how it ended, but the things in between are fuzzy, like frosty glass. It’ll come back. Once we’re there. Tomorrow morning the rest will come back. That much I’m sure of. Once we’re there, I’ll remember. The big question is whether or not I want to remember.

  And then what? What will happen? To me? To Kristie? Will I be left at the side of the road thumbing my way back to the airport while the rain continues to fall?

  I flip through the channels one last time, and this time there’s a ballgame on. Baseball. The crowds, the field, the hopes and dreams of an entire city hinging on a 3:2 pitch with two outs and two on. Something’s got to give, and I’m reminded of the fourth row and the fourth seat of an event in my life a million and a half hours ago.

  I settle back against the headboard and cross my ankles, folding my hands behind my head. The pitcher adjusts his cap, a single bead of sweat rolling from his sideburn to his chin. It’s only the first inning, yet he’s 32 pitches in, the bases are loaded, and he’s already feeling the pressure. Reminds me of Ritchie in a weird way. Ritchie sweats in the middle of winter even when he’s sitting still, but on the mound he was a god. He lived for this kind of pressure. He would rather have three men on than have the bases empty. He was the rock the team relied upon, and it wasn’t until ‘that’ night, that he finally cracked.

  That night.

  I turn out the light but leave the T.V. on. I’m left to dwell within my own conclusions while the game plays out somewhat differently.

  Part IV

  9:37 p.m. Night is falling, but daylight hasn’t given up yet. Summer in Michigan seems to last forever. The game is only in the sixth, but
the score indicates the game ended a long time ago. The news is nothing new, and the Sunday night movie of the week wasn’t all that good even when I saw it in the theater some six years ago.

  I feel antsy, like a caged animal set to be fed to the predators waiting outside, but I can’t just sit around twiddling my thumbs. I need to clear my head even if that means getting wet or risking another encounter with Ritchie, so I undo the deadbolt and pull the chain. The air is fresh and familiar—the smell of Payton County after a summer rain. Not all of the memories flooding back are good, but they do remind me of a time that felt simpler even if in reality it wasn’t.

  Wandering the streets for awhile, probably looking like I’m lost, I decide to pick up a six-pack to pass the time. There’s a Gas ‘n’ Go kitty-corner from the hotel, so I turn back. The bell over the door announces me, and I offer the pimply kid behind the register a nod. He does not return the gesture. He just stares at me, a not-too-bright look on his face.

  There’s nothing good in the cooler, so I grab something domestic and plop it on the counter so Mr. Pimples can ring me up. He doesn’t even ask if there’ll be anything else, so I just pay and leave before stealing my way back to my room where I’m careful to pull the chain and turn the deadbolt. I kick off my shoes, crawl onto the bed and plop the six-pack between my legs.

  Time for some liquid relaxation.

  There’s still nothing good on TV. I flip through the channels thinking something should have ended and something else should have started by now, but it all looks the same. It’s as if the FCC is conspiring against the consumer. Then again, maybe bad beer makes for better TV. To test this hypothesis, I decide my entertainment barometer will be gauged by the decibel level of my laughter based on bad jokes an hour from now once I’ve polished off a few cold ones.