Payton Hidden Away (12 page)

“Gentlemen,” Ritchie says,
walking with long strides. “What’s up?” He’s intimidating as hell, and I envy that
in him. If I looked that bad ass, I’d probably go looking to pick fights too.

“Yeah, what’s
up?” the biggest of the three says as we draw nearer.

They’re seniors.
I don’t know them by name, but I recognize all of them. They’re bigger than us.
Bigger than me, anyway. Ritchie can probably hold is own, and judging by the
way his hands are twitching at his sides, he’s ready to throw down.

“None of this
concerns you, Hudson,” another says.

“You’re right,
it don’t,” Ritchie answers. “But it concerns my friend.” He thumbs in my
direction.

I frown.

Mandy turns to
me. We even lock eyes.

“We’re just
conducting some business,” the one guy says.

“Stock market’s
closed, boys,” Ritchie says.

“Good line,” I
murmur, wishing like hell I could pull stuff like that off the way he does.
Ritchie can hardly string together a coherent sentence until he wants to fight.
Then suddenly he’s Shakespeare. He lowers his head, lifts his eyes until they
gleam, his mouth turned downward, fists at his sides. Mandy looks shaken. Some
of her eye-shadow is running. She’s been crying.

“Just go,” the
big one says. “Before anyone gets hurt.”

“My friend is
also offended by your suggestion that he or I might get hurt.” Ritchie says.

“Well, your
friend is awfully sensitive.”

“I didn’t
actually say anything,” I whisper.

“Mandy?” Ritchie
asks. “You okay?”

She nods,
looking really small, and she’s looking directly at me.

“So, what’s the
problem?” Ritchie asks arrogantly, pacing with wanton energy. “You guys queer
for my ass, or are you hanging around here just for the hell of it?”

I know what’s
coming even before it happens. I’m about to be in my first real fight since I was
eight years old, and it’s all going to be over a girl I hardly know.

“Mandy,” Ritchie
beckons, “why don’t you come over here and stand by us.”

“She owes us
money,” the one guy interrupts.

“Not today she
don’t,” Ritchie answers.

I shift
nervously. Mandy keeps looking my way, and I can’t figure why. There’s a sound
off in the distance—like a drumbeat, and it takes me a moment to realize that
it’s the sound of my own thundering heart.

“One last time,”
Ritchie says. “Walk away. Now.”

“She owes us
money.”

“Not today she
don’t.”

The one guy
smiles, and that must be Ritchie’s cue, because he looks giddy, almost like
he’s happy. I know what’s coming, but before I can define, plan and execute a
brilliant intervention, Ritchie has already launched himself at the one that’s
been daring him to. I’m wide-eyed as I watch my friend pummel the guy
underneath him, which is all fine and dandy except now I’m standing in the
shadow of two bigger guys who don’t seem to like me very much. One of them even
has a tattoo of a scorpion on his forearm that looks to be hand-carved.

That’s cute.

“I’m just—”

The tattooed one
lunges first. I make a weak attempt to defend myself by throwing a fist, but my
wrist just slaps his shoulder. Microseconds later, there’s a white flash
followed by a searing pain in my jaw. Stumbling backward, I see him rushing at
me. I get angry. Then I get scared. Then Scorpion-tattoo-guy lifts me up and
drives me backward. We crash. Then we wrestle, and I do a lot of losing even
though I manage to land a few good punches. Scorpion lands more.

Scorpion’s fists
are doing a fine job of finding their target, and I’m tasting blood as it
drains backward from my nose into my throat, where it slips along the water
slide into my stomach. Yet, with a burst of adrenalin, I swing back and connect
with what feels like a concrete wall. This buys me a moment. Scorpion-guy
stumbles back. I look over at Ritchie, but he’s got his hands full, taking on
two at once.

My nemesis
rushes me. I’m convinced that he’s more than a senior. He’s a trained fighter.
These assumptions are based loosely on the volume of sheer pain I’m experience
from each blow to the side of my face. Scorpion throws a wicked punch. And then
another. And another.

And then the
punishment ends.

I open my
swollen eyes and see only the blue sky overhead. I don’t know where
Scorpion-tattoo-guy went, but then I hear groaning. Rolling onto my side, I see
Ritchie and Scorpion rolling over and over on the dusty parking lot. It’s an
equal fight, and an impressive sight to behold. They’re both big guys, but what
Scorpion hasn’t counted on is Ritchie’s fast ball. Ritchie lands a good one,
and Scorpion winces, gritting bloody teeth. Instantly, Ritchie’s back on his
feet, but so am I, and I rush in to intervene. I get between them, my hands up,
palms out, facing my friend and begging him to back down. But Ritchie’s not
buying. I’m not even sure he sees me given how intensely he’s glaring at the
other guys, a string of blood running from his nose along his lip and chin. The
other three are shouting, but they’re not rushing back in.

“It’s over!” I
shout.

“I’m gonna kill
you!”

“Stop it!” I
repeat.

Ritchie’s pointing
over my shoulder. “I’m gonna kill you, skin you, filet you and fuckin’ eat you!”

“Goddamn it,
Richie!” I scream.

This stops him
in his tracks, his eyes turning sharply on me. He doesn’t exactly soften. He
just redirects his hatred.

“Snap out of
it!” I holler in my toughest growl, shoving him backward.

There’s a
moment. It doesn’t last long. More like a flicker of light, but I think in that
instant, Ritchie hates me like he hates them. Then it passes, and he starts
pacing, fists balled at his sides, his eyes on the three hooligans.

 “It’s over,” I
say, not quite as loud.

“You want more?”
the big guy opposite us asks.

“You shut the
fuck up!” I snap at him.

“I ain’t even
gotten started yet,” Ritchie hisses.

I wipe a stream
of blood from my nose. “That goes for you too, Rich.”

Ritchie casts me
a dirty look while continuing his madman-like pace—his face red with rage.

I remain rooted
where I am, pinned in the middle, careful not to infringe on my friend’s
personal space. “We gotta get out of here,” I manage. “Now.”

Ritchie looks at
me, then them and then back at me. “I’m not done.”

“Yes, you are.”
I pause. “You got a game in less than an hour. You want to get tossed off the
team?”

Ritchie looks
around—maybe for a weapon? His mouth is curved downward, his chest heaving. He
looks on the verge of a heart-attack. “Let me kill ‘em,” he grumbles.

People always
joke about things like that. People say things like ‘you kill me’ or ‘it
kills.’ We use words as weapons until the meaning is so watered down that it
means nothing at all. But when Ritchie says it, it sounds different. He means
it.

“Not today,
Ritchie.”

“I swear I’m
gonna run you over if I have to,” he spits, blood running over his lip.

“Do you want to
pitch tonight or do you want to go to jail?” I keep my hands up, palms out.
“Let it go.”

He flexes, the
threads of his T-shirt pulled tight. His eyes are bloodshot, pink spittle running
from the corners of his mouth. If he decides to rush back in to finish the job,
there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I’m shaking—terrified. “Don’t do it,” I
warn, freaking out that he’s going to go ape-shit.

He lunges,
shoving me. Hard. I stumble, trip and roll. Scrambling to my feet, my hands are
already up again. Ritchie is baring his teeth, his eyes wolf-life. “Where’d she
go?” he growls, looking around.

Suddenly we’re
all looking for Mandy, but she’s nowhere to be found. Smart girl. She must’ve
taken off while we were being meatheads rolling in the dust to defend her
honor.

“Goddamn it,”
Scorpion mutters.

“Watch your
mouth,” Ritchie snaps.

“Enough,” I snap.

Ritchie stops
pacing. His chest continues to heave, but his hands are now on his hips, and I
can almost see the fight fleeing his body. Suddenly, he turns his back and
storms away. I wait for him to stop or turn around or come back or something,
but he doesn’t. He just storms across the parking lot toward the road. He’s
growing smaller and smaller—drifting as he goes. After a few moments I realize
I’m still standing in the shadows of three bigger guys who would just as soon
kick my ass, so I scamper after my friend even though I’m careful to maintain a
safe distance. Ritchie’s not right yet. Once he is, he’ll be a bucket of
apologies and a slew of excuses, but until then, it’s hands-off. I’m still weak
in the knees, my face feels like putty, and my stomach is like Jell-O, and I’m
pretty sure I’d soil my pants if Ritchie were to suddenly turn on me, but he
doesn’t, because the storm has passed. By now, he’s thinking about baseball
again.

Ritchie turns
around, walking backward, waving me forward. “What you doin’ hangin’ out way
back there? Come on, Triple A. It’s go-time. We got a game.”

The sun is hot,
the afternoon late. The hottest time of the day. No breeze and no relief. I’m
sweating and bleeding at the same time. I don’t know how it happened, but in
the course of the past thirty minutes, my life has shifted slightly off its
axis. Everything I knew yesterday feels more like someone else’s documentary.
I’m following my friend not because he’s a leader, but because I’m afraid not
to.

I have absolutely no idea where I
am. Nor do I know what day it is. It’s probably Saturday, but that’s only a
guess. The sun is beating against the shades pulled over the windows. There’s even
a tear that allows the sun to cut a yellow slit through the air leading to the
couch I’m lying on. Bits of dust float aimlessly through the thin shaft of
light before disappearing into shadow. Over on the coffee table, magazines are fanned
out with intentional carelessness, and the carpet underfoot is meticulously
vacuumed. Nothing appears out of place. The television sits quietly in the
corner, the refrigerator hums from the kitchen, and I can hear the shower
running from down the hall. The room smells clean—like Pledge.

Pledge. That’s
my clue. This is Kristie’s place.

Yesterday seems
so far off that it’s like a dream—or a nightmare, and many of the details still
seem so sketchy that maybe I only imagined them. Only my chest hurts, and my
face hurts, which means my rental car is totaled, and until Allstate figures
out what to do, I’m stuck here. I explore the bumpy contours of my ragged face
with my fingers while recounting the events of yesterday’s accident.

The shower shuts
off, reminding me that there’s someone else here. The door opens, allowing a
perfume of humid steam into the hallway. She emerges while drying her hair. All
she’s wearing is a robe, and she looks good as she pads barefoot across the
floor.

“Morning,” I say
from the couch.

“Hey,” she
responds, disappearing into the kitchen.

I remember the
promise I made to her the night before, and I’m starting to think maybe it was
a mistake. Nothing good can come from dredging up old memories. Especially
memories that were forcibly buried a decade and a half ago. Best case scenario,
we find nothing, which will satisfy no one and end nothing. Worst case
scenario, we find the bones of a dead girl.

I stumble into
the bathroom and squint at the bright light that burns at my swollen eyes. I
haven’t shaved in 30 hours, and combined with the cuts and bruises, I look a
fright. The great thing about getting older is the lack of conviction to care.
I wash my face, gargle some water and strip out of my clothes before stepping
into the shower. The water feels amazing, cascading over my body and soothing
me into submission.

Five minutes go
by. Then ten. I just stand there as the water turns cool before turning the
handle and shutting the shower off, the water dripping in a constant stream
until it slows to a drip, leaving me standing in a pool of water draining in a
tiny whirlpool.

I need to get
out of here.

Pulling the
curtain aside, I step out onto the rug before wiping my hand across the foggy
mirror and staring at the frosty image staring back. I pull a towel from the rack
and dry off before pulling on the same clothes I’ve already been wearing for
the last two days, shutting out the light and exiting the bathroom.

“Breakfast is almost ready,”
Kristie says as I enter the kitchen. She’s got the whole nine yards lined up
and ready to go as she divides scrambled eggs onto two plates that are already
boasting four strips of bacon and a healthy helping of hash browns. I haven’t had
hash browns since I was a kid. I was expecting coffee, but this is a royal
breakfast, a real dining room table and what looks like real flowers sitting in
a glass vase at its center.

“Sit,” she
orders with a smile, so I do. Setting a plate in front of me, she kisses the
side of my cheek.

“Thanks,” I
mumble. “This is amazing, but it’s way too much. Seriously, you could’ve gotten
away with some coffee and Lucky Charms.”

“I know,” she
answers with a smile. “But I remember your appetite.”

Digging in, I
realize I’m hungrier than I thought, and the plate is clean before I’m full. I
help myself to the remainder of the hash browns. Without thinking twice, I
pause to run the empty skillet under cold water, swishing the water around before
setting the skillet in the sink. She didn’t ask me to, but we’ve always worked
well as a team. We always did things for the other because they needed doing,
not because it was expected. She smiles as I take a seat and bury the hash
browns under a layer of catsup.

“Funny how
things work out,” I say.

She cocks her
head. “Have things worked out?”

I shrug. “I
mean, us being here, having breakfast together after all these years.”

Kristie stands
and carries her plate to the sink where she starts dishes while staring beyond
the window into the backyard. I’m left to admire her from behind. The way her
white robe hangs over her thin frame, the way her feet are buried in big, poofy
slippers, the way her wet hair clings in stringy strands to her neck. She’s the
same girl I remember falling in love with, but now she’s a woman I hardly know.

“I want to go
over to the old Johnson farm today,” she says, her voice soft.

“What for? You
already found the headband.”

“Which is why I
want to go back.”

I draw a patient
breath. “A hearing aid doesn’t mean murder.”

“Maybe not, but two
decades of silence does.” She washes her dishes, stacking them noisily.

I’m glad I’ve
finished breakfast, because I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I don’t want to go
back to that place. I don’t remember everything that happened there, but the
things I do remember weren’t exactly Kodak moments. Not a lot of spring picnics
out at the ol’ Johnson Farm.

Standing, I
cross the kitchen and place my plate on the counter. “If it’ll settle your
mind, then let’s go.” I touch her shoulder reassuringly and give a little
squeeze.

She reaches up
and pats my hand. “Thanks.”

There’s a robin
in her birdfeeder just beyond the window dipping his head and pecking at seed.
We stand quietly watching, and for a moment I feel comfortable just being with her.
Then I frown, noticing that the fence lining the backyard looks awfully
familiar. There used to be a pool here, but it’s gone now, though there’s still
a bit of a depression indicating the hole hadn’t been properly filled. “Isn’t
this where Sharon Daniels used to live?” I ask.

Kristie doesn’t
look up as she scrubs my plate. “Her parents retired to Florida. I heard she
moved to Chicago, but who really knows anymore.”

“That’s not what
I meant.”

“Then what did
you mean?”

I shake my head.
“Nothing.” I kiss the top of her head before walking away. “I should swing by
the hotel and change my clothes,” I say to cover the awkward silence.

“That’s fine,”
she calls after me. “It’s on the way.” She passes through the living room on
her way into the bathroom where she turns on the light and closes the door.

Collecting my
things from the end table beside the couch, I head for the front door, step out
on the porch and squint into the new morning sunshine. Everything smells
familiar, and Payton is as quiet this morning as it was last night. I stand for
a moment, asking myself if this feels like home. As much as I want it to, something’s
off. Frowning, I rock back and forth, testing the wooden planks underfoot. It
sags, feeling soft. And beyond the rotting porch, the sidewalk leading to the
driveway is cracked and overtaken by weeds. Her lawn is a patchy mess.

“Ready?” she
asks, pulling the door shut. But the door doesn’t close all the way, and she
has to pull hard and hold on before she can insert the key to lock the deadbolt.

“Ready.”

She tosses me
her keys. “You drive. You know the way.”

“I totaled my
car yesterday. You sure you want me driving?”

“You totaled
your car saving someone’s life.” She smiles. “I think I can trust you.”

I shrug. Fair
enough.