Payton Hidden Away (16 page)

The houses are thinning on either
side of the road as we head out of town, and the sun dips behind some fast
approaching clouds like an ominous omen as if warning me to get away. Bolt.
Run. Go. I wanted so badly for all of this to feel like home. I wanted so badly
to remember, but it doesn’t, and I don’t. And now I’m starting to actually
feel
like a tourist in my own hometown.

“Looks like
rain,” I say.

Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.

Route 89 is even
more familiar than Payton, probably because not much has changed. No new
businesses have sprung up, and none of the old ones have closed down. I could
drive this route blindfolded while following the sound of the cracks beneath
the tires.

Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.

“Just over this
hill,” she whispers.

I know it’s just
over the hill, but if navigating gives her something to do other than nag, then
I won’t say anything. I already know where I’m going. I saw it on my way in,
and sure enough, as we crest the hill heading out, there it is again. The old
Johnson farm. It’s been close to twenty years, but it looks almost exactly as
it did when I left. The roof has collapsed on one corner, and there are trees
growing through the porch, but the lawn was overgrown before, and it’s
overgrown now. That old rusty pickup is still parked in the driveway as if
loyally waiting for its owners to climb behind the wheel and fire her up. Not
that there’s much of a driveway. Poplar trees have taken over everything, springing
several feet tall and swaying in the breeze. Even the grass is three feet high.

I pull into what
used to be the driveway and roll over the tall grass and small trees, driving as
far inland as I can get. We’re within twenty feet or so of the rusted out truck
when I decide that this is as far as I dare go lest I get stuck, so I put the
car in park and kill the engine. Kristie and I sit quietly for a moment before
I undo my seatbelt and open the door. Thunder rolls in the distance, the sky
overhead growing increasingly dark.

“Let’s look in
the barn first,” Kristie whispers, shutting her door. “Where I found the headband.”

The barn has
fared far better than the house. It stands coldly against the orange, red and
gray backdrop. We traipse through the tall jungle-like grass, which slaps at my
arms and legs with snake-like fingers, making me feel caged. I pull open the old
door, the rusty wheels squeaking along their track, light bleeding across the
dusty floor. Ironically, once inside, I actually feel a bit of relief. There’s
a quiet harmony in here, secrets playing hide-and-seek. The floor is sandy, and
the barn carries that ever-present smell of dry hay. The roof is still
relatively intact, so everything inside is mostly dry. Nothing’s changed, so
it’s hard to believe that it’s been half my life since I was here last, and I’m
oddly aware of how at home I feel, which is a bit unnerving considering how out
of place I felt back in Payton.

Over here,” she
whispers, motioning me toward the corner. As I draw closer, my attention is
drawn to the dull graffiti sprayed on the walls. Had someone asked me about it
last week, I would have shrugged it off. I wouldn’t have remembered a thing.
I’d have dismissed it as ‘probably’ something I did as a kid, but now, seeing
the familiar words splashed over those old wooden boards, I remember it like it
happened yesterday. I remember me and Ritchie stealing those cans of spray
paint from the local True Value and immortalizing ourselves in the corner of an
old barn.

44

The Rejects

RH + JL

AAA + KLL

Something’s
wrong.

“Boys will be
boys,” Kristie giggles.

I say nothing. I
don’t even smile. I just stare at that last line.

“What is it?”
Kristie asks. “I thought it was sweet.”

I shake my head.
“I didn’t do that.”

“What? Which
part?”

“The last line.
The Triple A plus Kristie Lynn Lambert part.” I remember spraying the number ‘
44
’
and ‘
The Rejects
,’ but I don’t actually remember the rest. “I didn’t add
that.”

Her smile fades,
and she turns back to the wall. She stops as well and reflects. “Then who did?”

I brush past
her. “Ask my good buddy the next time you see him.” I stop in the corner and
kick around some hay and loose dirt. “You found the headband here?”

She approaches
me, tucking her hands in her pockets. “Yes.”

Crouching down, I
start poking in the dirt. Suddenly, I’m a television detective with all the
right dialogue and all the right facial expressions, and I’m sporting a poker
face worth millions in Vegas, but I see nothing, and what’s more, there’s
nothing to be seen. I use a small twig to cut through the dirt. “The topsoil is
loose,” I murmur, “but it’s solid underneath.”

“What’s that
mean?”

I turn to her.
“It means her body isn’t here.”

Her eyes get
misty, and she stands with her hands on her hips. “It’s been almost twenty
years.”

“There haven’t
been any animals or people in this barn to pack the ground down, but it’s hard
as rock. Even if she was killed here, and I’m not saying she was, but if she
was, her body isn’t buried here.”

“There’s a
shovel over there,” Kristie whispers.

I stand. “Knock
yourself out. She’s not here.”

Her mouth curls
sharply downward, and she lowers her head, covering her eyes with her hand. I
hold my tongue. The loss of her sister is not my responsibility, but it’s clear
that she’s still hanging on. “It doesn’t mean we can’t keep looking,” I
whisper. “All I’m saying is she’s not here. At least not in this spot.”

Kristie keeps
her face buried in her hands, and it’s the same thing all over again. I thought
she’d gotten past this stage years ago. The tears, the grief, the condolences.
Not sure what else to do, I wrap my arms over her shoulders and pull her to me.
“Maybe the headband was just left behind,” I try.

She’s already
shaking her head. “She can’t hear without it.”

Can’t
.

Not
couldn’t
.

Kristie’s
speaking about her sister as though she’s still alive. Joanne’s dead. And if
she’s not dead, then she’s gone. And if she’s gone, then she’s not coming back.
The cops did their job. They searched everywhere and interviewed everyone.
Either she hitchhiked her way out of town, or she disappeared into the Bermuda
Triangle.

Kristie’s not
satisfied. She frantically begins looking around. Nothing in this barn has
shifted in a century or more, but she’s a girl on a mission, and she’s out to
prove me and the rest of the world wrong. She’s determined. She’s so
determined, in fact, that she’s risking her life by climbing the rickety wooden
ladder leading into the loft.

“I don’t know if
that’s such a good idea,” I murmur. “That ladder’s more termites than timber by
now.”

“I have to
look.” Kristie reaches the loft and disappears. I can hear her shuffling
around, and I recognize the futility of her search. Another rumble of thunder
overhead causes me to look up. “We should probably go.”

No answer.

“See anything?”
I call.

“No,” comes her
distant return.

Of course not.
There’s nobody up there. Who would be dumb enough to kill another person and
then drag the body up a rickety ladder and bury it in the loft of a collapsing
barn? But Kristie has to be sure, so I guess I’m stuck here until she’s
satisfied.

Kristie
re-emerges and begins to descend the ladder. “She’s not up there.”

“You sure?”

Pause. “Yes, and
thank you not the sneer.”

I pace with
hands in pockets. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I want to check
the house,” Kristie says, hopping off the latter.

“Even though you
found the headband in here?”

“Yes.” She waits,
but I don’t bend. I just kind of casually wait. “Is this how you help?” she
asks.

“We’ll check the
house.”

The world outside
is completely calm as we exit the barn. There’s no wind—no breeze. Nothing. The
sounds of insects are all around us, but nothing’s moving. It’s still-life, and
it’s messing with my head.

“Let’s go,” I
say, leaving through the open barn doors and carefully navigating my back into
the tall grass leading toward the house. Kristie follows, and we gingerly step
through the grass while watching for snakes. Or glass. Or nails. Once we reach
the house, I insist on climbing the stairs first. I test each step, gently
applying pressure, half-expecting to fall through. Reaching the top, I usher
her forward.

We enter the
house together, treading carefully. The place is in terrible condition. Even
so, I’m fascinated with the way things were back then and how well the place
has held up. It’s like a step back in time—better than a museum. Even though two
decades have passed, nothing has changed. Nobody’s moved anything, despite the
hundreds of people that must’ve come and gone. Everyone has respected the
sanctity of what once was, and they’ve left everything alone. An old couch and
coffee table, the rotting magazines, the television. Nobody moved anything.
Even the old grandfather’s clock is still in the corner where the world stopped
at 5:23. The refrigerator and stove are still in the kitchen and glasses remain
stacked in the cupboard. The previous owners must have left in a hurry, because
two glasses that had been washed years ago are still sitting on an old rag upon
the countertop where they had been left to dry. Pictures still cling to the
walls and an old pot filled with dirt sits in the center of the kitchen table
where I imagine a plant once thrived. Opening the pantry door, the canned goods
have been wiped clean, but I guess that’s okay. Better than going to waste.

The bathroom is
scary. The porcelain toilet broke in half years ago, and there’s a black slime
growing on pretty much everything. The old shower curtain has some kind of
green vine creeping toward the ceiling, and I marvel at how quickly nature
takes over.

Kristie heads up
the stairs leading to the second floor, and I follow not out of curiosity but
rather to make sure she doesn’t slip and cut herself on a rusty nail or worse.
The house should be condemned. I’m actually a bit surprised that it’s still
standing.

“They used to
sleep up here,” she whispers as she steps into the master bedroom. The bed is
rotting, but the blankets—rumpled and used—are still on top of the mattress.
This is the corner of the house where the roof caved in, so what was once a
beautiful space is now rotting away. The dresser has been spilled and clothing
is scattered around the room. People used to wear these clothes, and people
used to sleep in this bed. The shattered window and the rotting drywall is a
reminder that all dreams come to an end.

We leave the
room and step gingerly along the hallway toward the next open doorway—a boy’s
room judging by the broken model airplanes and toys scattered about. Everything
is exactly as it was the last time I saw it. It’s almost as if it’s waiting for
a little boy to come back, pick up his coloring book and go to work as though
not a day had passed. The dresser is still standing, and upon opening the drawers,
clothing is still neatly folded inside. Broken glass litters the floor where
the window was broken out. The closet was torn apart—the closet door lying in
two pieces upon the floor. Everything else is neat and tidy. I wouldn’t have
expected this kind of cleanliness. Not from a boy, and certainly not after this
many years. It makes me wonder what happened to cause the Johnson’s to just up
and disappear. There were rumors, of course. One was that Old Man Johnson took
his family to the back field and shot them one by one before turning the gun on
himself, but nothing was ever found. Nothing. They were just gone. Another
theory had them kidnapped by aliens—beamed up into some spaceship before being
whisked away and used as experiments.

Kids make up the
stupidest stuff.

The last bedroom
is where the little girl slept. Her room looks like it might as well have been
straightened yesterday. Everything is its place including her dolls and stuffed
animals. The curtains are still hanging in rags in front of the window that
remains intact. It’s like nobody’s even set foot in this room since the door
was last pulled shut. Even the dust remains undisturbed. The wallpaper is
slightly moldy, but the room feels ‘safe.’ It’s as though the spirit of a child
is still here.

“She’s not in
here,” Kristie whispers, pulling the door shut. She turns to me and wipes her
eyes. “Jo, I mean.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nods, draws
a breath and forces a timid smile. “I want to check the basement.”

Whatever makes
her happy. Whatever she wants so we can leave. Whatever.

We make our way
back down the rickety stairs to the main floor. Kristie pulls open the door
leading into the cellar where I can smell the stale, pungent scent even from up
here, but we head down anyway. One stair at a time, each step creaking,
threatening to give, and even when we reach the bottom, I don’t feel any safer.
The house could come down at any time. We’d be buried. No one would even bother
digging us out, because no one would know we’re down here.

Lightning
flashes, spreading our shadows across the floor.

“Happy
Halloween,” I murmur.

She glares at
me, apparently in no mood.

There’s more
sand than concrete on the floor. The walls are damp with condensation, and it’s
not that I’m afraid of spiders, but the big furry monsters down here are enough
to make even me squeamish. They’re albino white and sitting still as if waiting
to spring.

“Well?” she
asks.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you
leading?”