Payton Hidden Away (13 page)

There’s a reason why I don’t like
going to Ritchie’s place. It’s not the stench of dried animal urine in the
carpet or the flies buzzing around the dirty dishes in the sink or the general
dilapidated condition of the home. It’s the tension that seems to hover like
humidity, permeating the air like a stink that can be rinsed. Even if Mr.
Hudson isn’t there, that clammy feeling of dread that he could walk through the
door at any moment weighs heavily on everyone’s mind. There aren’t a lot of
smiles to go around.

“I think I’ll
just meet you at the stadium,” I say, hesitating at the edge of Ritchie’s front
lawn. To go any further would be to temp fate. The end of the sidewalk and the
start of the grass seems to mark a line better left uncrossed.

“Don’t be a buttface.
The cockroaches are asleep this time of day.” He winks. “Come on. I’ll only be
a sec.”

Reluctantly, I
follow, but not before looking for any sign of Mr. Hudson’s big rig. The
driveway is empty, and the road either way is empty as well. I follow Ritchie
up the driveway, through the open garage and into the house.

“Hey, I’m home,”
Ritchie calls. “Ma?”

“The trash needs
to be taken out,” she hollers from her perch in the broken recliner in the
living room. “They’re gonna come in the next half hour, so you’d best get it
out now before your father sees it.”

“Dad ain’t
supposed to be home ‘til late.”

“The garbage man
comes early.”

He frowns,
glaring at me. “Fine,” he calls. “Where is it?”

“Right there in
the kitchen,” she answers. “You’re probably tripping over it.”

Ironically,
Ritchie isn’t, but I am. I do my best to sidestep the open bag where two or
three flies are hungrily buzzing around the empty tin cans piled near the
surface.

“I’ll take it
out on my way out.”

“Don’t forget.”

“How could I…”
he grumbles under his breath before rolling his eyes, shaking his head while
beckoning for me to follow him through the kitchen to his bedroom where he
strips off his shirt and pulls on his Pirates jersey. “Check it out,” he says,
nodding toward his bed. “My dad’s new Playboy.”

“When’s he home
long enough to read them?”

“He takes ‘em
with him on the road. Beats off in the parking lot of rest stops.”

“Who’s this
month’s playmate?”

“Some broad. Who
gives a shit? It’s a magazine. You’re off banging Kristie while my dad and me
are jerking off to Playboy.” He shakes his head. “The same copy I might add.”
He’s holding the bottom half of his Pirates uniform in his hands. “I gotta
change.”

I turn my back.
“Does your dad know you look at his mail?”

“’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.”

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.