Payton Hidden Away (26 page)

“Tony,” she says softly. “You’re
scaring me.” But she’s not scared. There might be some anger and confusion and
sadness, but she’s not scared. I’m the one who’s scared, because I know where
we’re going, and I know what’s waiting for us once we get there. If she was
scared, she wouldn’t have gotten in the car, she wouldn’t have started the
engine, and she wouldn’t be following my instructions. But here we are, almost
out of town where Lincoln Street turns into Route 89.

Thump-thump,
thump-thump.

“Where are we
going?” Kristie asks, but I don’t need to answer. I suspect she already knows
where we’re going. There’s not a lot on this road. Trees, road, more trees and
more road. Other than the old Johnson farm, there’s a lot of nothing, which is
why I suspect she knows where we’re going.

Thump-thump,
thump-thump.

“Did you kill
her?” Kristie asks again in a sheepish whisper.

I don’t answer.
It’s not that I’m ignoring her. I’m trying to remember what actually happened.
There’s still so much that doesn’t make sense.

Payton fades in
our mirrors, leaving a rolling landscape of green. It would have been a long
walk back then, but when you’re too young to drive, five miles each way is a
good way to kill a Saturday afternoon. The old Johnson farm stood like a
lighthouse at the edge of the county line—a beacon signifying the point of no
return. It was also the one place accessible to teenagers where parents
wouldn’t think to follow and cops wouldn’t bother to patrol. Everyone would
rather turn a blind eye and let boys be boys than worry about what goes on out
at an abandoned farmhouse. Break a window, build a fort, whatever. It’s kids
being kids. No harm, no foul.

“Why are we here
again?” Kristie says as we draw closer. “We were just here yesterday.”
            “We missed something.”

She turns and
looks at me. “Like what? My sister?”

I don’t answer.

“Did you send
the letter?” Kristie continues. She shakes her head and drives. “I swear to God
if you did, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

I remain stoic.
“I didn’t send the letter. I had no idea there even was a letter.”

“Then who did?”

“Turn here,” I
answer, though Kristie probably doesn’t need to be told. We’ve reached the
farm, and she’s already pulling into the overgrown driveway. Just like
yesterday, we drives as far inland as we can get. Overhead, the sky is ugly,
bloated and uneasy. There’s even a rumble of thunder in the distance. There’s
going to be a storm for sure. Not like the spring rains we’ve seen these last
few days. A real storm. The kind that buries things—things that need to be
buried. The kind that drowns the world.

“You ready?” I
ask.

She turns to me.
“Why? Are you going to kill me too?”

“Nobody’s
dying.”

“Did you kill
her?”

I shift
anxiously. “Come on. It’s going to rain.” I open the door and climb out as
lightning flashes overhead. As if on cue, fat raindrops begin to splatter like
broken eggs. It’s slow at first—mini grenades—nature’s way of saying that we
have less than thirty seconds until all hell breaks loose. I trot to the porch
and jump the steps two at a time before turning. She’s still in the car, eyeing
me from behind the rain-splattered windshield. I wave her in, and when she
doesn’t move, I point up at the sky. Finally, her door opens, and she steps
out. She doesn’t run. She just walks, and she’s about twenty feet from the
porch when the skies open up. She continues to stare at me through the rain,
her eyes fixed as she walks through the tall grass to the rotting porch. Her
hair is plastered to her neck, her skirt glued to her legs by the time she
climbs the steps.

“What happened
here, Tony?” she asks harshly as she climbs the rickety steps. “You owe me that
much.”

“As naïve as it
might sound, trust me when I say we’re both about to find out.” Thunder. “Come
on,” I say, motioning her inside.

Kristie stalls.
“I found the headband in the barn, not the house.” She blinks away raindrops.

“It’s not in the
barn,” I answer.

“It?” she asks.
“Or
her
?”

A jagged bolt of
lightning creases the sky and the whole house shudders.

“It,” I answer.
“The answer you’ve been waiting twenty years for.” I turn away and step into
the house. “Come on. You’re getting soaked.”

Even though
we’re inside, nothing is dry. Half the roof rotted away years ago, and the rain
is already making its way through the ceiling overhead and onto the kitchen
table. Water streams along the inside of the intact windows—inside out—before running
along the kitchen counter like a snaking river toward the edge where it spills
over the edge onto the floor. Water runs in bubbles under the old wallpaper and
soaks what’s left of the chewed up carpeting. Drips bounce off the silent
grandfather’s clock, ticking against the old brass pendulum.

Opening the
basement door, I hesitate, making sure she’ll follow. Part of me wants her to
run. Part of me wants it to end, and the only way it can end is down where it
started, so I take the first step. The stairs are wet, rainwater dripping from
one step to the next like a slow Slinky. I don’t turn to see if she’s
following, but I can hear her footfalls behind me.

“Why are you
bringing me here?” she asks, her voice shaking. “What is it you didn’t show me
yesterday?”

“I didn’t
remember.”

“And now you
do?”

“Some of it.”

Thunder cracks,
the entire house shuddering. The basement is damp and dark, the old bricks wet
with moisture and moss. It even smells wet down here. There are spider-webs
stretched among the joists, soulless corpses trapped in the stringy goo, and
had we not been down here just twenty-four hours earlier, I’d swear nobody had
for years. Instead of heading toward the canning room, I step into the coal
room where the floor, still covered beneath a small pile of dusty coal, reveals
nothing. The door had been removed a long time ago. It’s leaning up against the
wall, and other than a small pile of coal, an old pair of rubber boots and a
shovel in the corner, there’s nothing in here.

Kristie
hesitates just outside. “Why did you bring me here?”

Instead of
answering, I look down at the floor and kick away a few bricks of coal. Then I
pick up the old shovel and begin shoveling away the dusty chunks, revealing a
sandy floor.

“I don’t
understand,” Kristie answers.

I look at her,
lightning flashing through the tiny basement window over my shoulder.

I try to convince myself that I
have no idea which way Joanne went, but I do. When someone threatens to leave
town, there’s only one way out: Route 89. Of course, along that desolate road
running along the edge of town, there’s only one place to stop and rest. The
last outpost—the point of no return. Battered, weathered, and scorned, the old
Johnson farm, as mysterious as it is charismatic, marks the end of the line.

My bike is a
piece of shit. I bought it at a garage sale for ten bucks a few years back, and
it was bad then. It’s worse now. I’ve invested exactly zero dollars into its
maintenance, and after a few years of neglect beneath our less-than-weatherproof
porch, its condition hasn’t exactly improved. The chain is rusty, the spokes
worn, the tires half inflated, the paint rusting away. It still rides, but it
certainly won’t win any beauty contests. Or races. But I pedal my ass off
anyway.

Squeak, squeak,
squeak, squeak.

I zip through
town, across the football field, shortcut around a scattering of cars in the
school parking lot, and through three backyards. I pedal until my calves feel
like bursting and the houses begin to thin. Then I pedal some more. Eventually,
the houses disappear altogether, leaving nothing but pines and maples on either
side of the two-lane road. There’s hardly any traffic once I make it past the
city limits. Of course, it wouldn’t matter what time of day, what day of the
week or what the weather is like, because there’s hardly ever any traffic on
Route 89. Certainly no big rigs, no buses and no cabs. It’s just a lonely
highway stretching toward the horizon. Once I crest the hill, I’ll see the old
farm on the other side.

I keep pedaling,
pumping my legs, sweat raining down my face. The old bitch is squeaking and
whining, and I swear she’s going to fall apart at any second. Ironically, it’s
at that perfect moment when I’m cresting the top of the hill that she finally
does. The chain breaks, leaping from the sprocket and whipping me sharply
across the leg before getting tangled in the spokes of the front tire.
Logically, this seems impossible, but I only have a few tenths of a second to
ponder physics while considering what I’m going to do once I’m propelled over
the handlebars. Sadly, once the tire locks up, the bike stopping on a dime, I
realize I’m not going fast enough to clear the bike altogether. Instead, I
slide over the handlebars like I’m wave surfing. The bike follows suit, the
front tire skidding, the back tire more than eager to keep going. We both go
head over heels, and I land hard—skidding across the cracked asphalt. For the
briefest of moments I’m convinced that I landed gracefully. Then I’m pretty
sure I didn’t. First the pain is limited to the palms of my hands which were
shredded when I used them as landing pads. Then the side of my face starts to
burn. I can already feel blood running along my cheek. I’m sprawled on my back
in the middle of the road, but I can’t feel much of anything else aside from
searing pain.

I hear someone
shouting, and the voice is drawing nearer, but I can’t breathe very well given
my state of shock. Breathing hurts, and that seems more important than
listening. Besides, all I can do is lay quivering in the middle of the road
while hoping I’ll either die or the pain will go away.

I open my eyes to see Kristie
hovering over me, tears racing down her cheeks. She’s shouting my name, asking
me what I was thinking, calling me a stupid ass while wondering if I’m okay. Her
voice sounds funny. She has a slur—as if she’s got a fat tongue. Which means…

“I’m fine,” I
croak. I need to get off the road and into the shade or something.

“What happened?”
Joanne asks.

“Help me up,” I
say, not that I know if I can actually stand or not.

“You’re bleeding
everywhere,” she cries. “Oh my god, your hands!”

“Help me up,” I
repeat. Maybe she didn’t hear me. She just keeps panicking, so I roll onto my
stomach and push myself up, my hands raw, the blood hissing on the burning
pavement.

Standing feels
no better than baking on the blacktop, but at least I’m up, and she’s wrapping
my arm over her shoulder and helping me limp down the hill toward the Johnson
farm. We manage our way through the tall grass and up the steps of the rotting
porch leading into the open door where she leads me to the old couch still
sitting in the living room beside the silent grandfather clock.

“I’ll find some
water to clean it,” she says with motherly care. “Don’t you dare move.”

Then she’s gone,
and I have a moment to study the damage. The skin is broken, and tiny stones
are imbedded within the meat of my palms. My hands look like cotto salami. I
expected worse, probably because of her reaction, but I remind myself that she’s
never been a boy, so she doesn’t understand that bad injuries as a consequence
of stupid stunts is what we excel at. Especially when it comes to impressing
girls. I’m only hoping my face isn’t as bad. I don’t want her to think I’m hideous,
because if I’m—

It suddenly
occurs to me that I’m worrying whether or not Joanne finds me attractive. Joanne.
Not Kristine.

She smiles as
she returns with a wet rag. “Rain water.” She shrugs. “Should be clean…ish.”

“Your confidence
is overwhelming,” I answer.

“Don’t move.”
Gingerly, she taps the wet rag against the side of my burning face. Each time
she does, I wince, and she winces empathetically before giggling. At this point
I’m pretty sure she has a crush on me, and she’s probably had a crush on me for
some time. I never saw it. Not until now. What’s worse is I think I have a crush
on her too, which makes me feel dirty and disloyal and sad. I think I want her
more than I want Kristie. I think I want her so bad that I’m willing to do
anything for her, and it’s at this vulnerable moment of narcissistic clarity
devoid of altruistic intention that our eyes suddenly meet, and she stops
dabbing at my face. She’s not Kristie, but in a way she is. She’s just as
beautiful, twice as smart, and more romantic. I tell myself this is wrong, but
in a way, nothing has ever felt more right. I have genuine feelings for
Kristie, but there’s always been this…
thing
, or at least there’s always
been
some
thing. Joanne was right. She and I have more in common, and we
can relate on levels Kristie and I never could. We can talk about science and
math or English or politics. I can’t do any of that with Kristie. Not that
Kristie’s stupid. She just has different interests.

Joanne’s giving
me that look. It’s the same look her sister gives me when she wants me to kiss
her. Lips slightly open, eyes dancing up and down, her breaths coming quickly.
“You came for me,” she whispers.

“I don’t like to
see you and Kristie fight.”

She rolls her
eyes. “Can we not talk about my sister for once?”

“I just hate to
see you two like this.”

“Well, I’m angry
with her,” Joanne says. “Sister’s fight, Tony.”

“I know. I get
it.”

“Do you?” She
slides her hair behind her ears. “You’re an only child. You don’t have any
siblings.”

“I still don’t
like seeing you fight. You both mean a lot to me.”

“Which one means
more?”

“You don’t
honestly expect me to answer that, do you?”

“She stole you
from me.”

“What?”

“She knew I had
a crush on you. She didn’t even like you at first. I did. And since she thought
I always got all the attention due to my hearing problems, she was jealous.
Once she found out I liked you, she swooped in like it was a competition.”
Tears spring to her eyes. “I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t talk to you. I
couldn’t talk. I have this fucking slur, and she has a cute voice, and none of
it had anything to do about love with her. She just had to have something I
wanted.”

I feel the air
leaving my lungs, the hairs on my arms standing up, and an overwhelming squeeze
on my heart. “I…”

She takes that
as an invitation and leans in, her lips touching mine, her arms suddenly
wrapped around me and pulling me to her. If it didn’t feel so good, I would
push her away, but it feels just right, and she’s so soft and alive—so hungry
for
me
. I’m always fighting for Kristie, but Joanne isn’t making me
fight. She’s throwing herself at me. Right here. Right now. So, I kiss her
back, the excitement intoxicating. I’m scared, but at the same time, I feel more
alive than I’ve ever felt. Something inside me has switched on, and I knew it
the moment she tried to kiss me back at the house. I think I’ve always wanted
Joanne, but it was Kristie who showed me attention, so I convinced myself that she
was the right one—the
only
one.

It’s perfectly
silent around us save that of the rusty springs of the ancient couch as we
hungrily—urgently—consume one another. The old couch squeaks, she giggles, and
I realize how much I like her sound, not because it’s perfect, because it’s
not. That slur is flawed, her voice far from cute the way her sister’s is, but
I love it anyway because it is uniquely hers. She and I are so desperately into
each other that the sounds of summer outside are lost, and the discomfort of
our perch is forgotten. Maybe I didn’t ride all the way out here to save the
relationship between her and her sister. I think maybe I came out here for me.
I came here for her.

In my mind I
suddenly see Kristie, and I see her eyes welling with anguish at my betrayal.
All of our conversations, all of our promises—and every time she cries from
this moment forward, my heart is going to break knowing I did this to her.

“I can’t do
this,” I whisper, breaking away.

“What’s wrong?”
Joanne asks. There’s panic in her voice. “Is it me? What did I do?”

“It’s not you.
You didn’t—”        

But she’s cut
off mid-sentence by another voice, a menacing growl that carries throughout the
room, startling us from our secret little world.

“What the
fuck
?”

Ritchie’s
massive frame fills the doorway, his face flaming red—his fists clenched at his
sides. His eyes are bloodshot with rage, his chest heaving. He must have
followed me. Joanne instinctively rolls away and sits calmly with her hands in
her lap, but it’s too late. He’s already seen us together, and I’ve already
seen that look on his face. He’s not here to sort it out. It’s sorted. He’s
here to make things right—according to him.

Standing, I take
a step toward him, my hands up defensively. “It’s not what it looks like,” I
say calmly. “I don’t want to fight.”

“One ain’t
enough, is it? You gotta have ‘em both.”

“It’s not like
that, Rich” I answer, but even I realize it is.

“No?” he storms.
“What do you think Kristie would say if she saw you like this?”

“Did you follow
us here?” I ask.

“Would she turn
the other cheek?” Ritchie continues. “Look the other way?”

“Did you follow
us here?”

“One whore ain’t
enough?”

“Don’t go
there,” I snap.

“You gonna make
me, Triple A?” he growls, and it may be a million degrees outside, but the
blood in my veins just froze.

“Ritchie,”
Joanne says, standing behind me. “This was our choice, not Kristie’s.”

His eyes go from
me to her—slits glinting in the light. He looks powerful, like a full grown man
instead of the boy I feel like. All of that nervous tongue-tied energy he
struggles with every time he’s around her has been replaced by hatred. He’s
cool—calm. Too calm. “This ain’t your house, bitch,” he growls.

“Ritchie!” I shout.

He turns back.
“What’s she gonna do when she finds out?” He shakes his head, tears spilling
down his cheeks. “Will she get angry?” I’ve never seen him cry before, and I
think that scares me more than anything else. “Or is she gonna cry?” he asks,
his voice growing deeper. “What’s she gonna do?”

“Ritchie,” I say
softly as I try to conceal the fact that my hands are beginning to shake.

“I wanna know.”

“It’s not—”

“I WANNA KNOW!”

“You’re freakin’
out, man. Relax. Let’s talk this through. No one needs to get hurt.”

“Oh, I guarantee
you someone’s about to get hurt,” he grumbles, the blood returning to his face.
“You were supposed to be with Kristie. I was supposed to be with Joanne. That’s
the way things work between
best
friends, asshole!”

Joanne begins to
whimper. Ritchie’s on the brink. For him, fighting is an outlet. It’s a game.
But not today. Today he’s not playing.

“That fuckin’
whore’s mine,” Ritchie growls as he faces her.

Joanne looks
paralyzed with fear. She’s standing beside the rotting couch, under a sagging
roof, scared stiff. Even I’m terrified as I turn back to Ritchie. “Don’t do
it.”

“Yeah?” Ritchie
answers, a small smile curving his lower lip upward. “What you gonna do? You
think you got what it takes, small time?”

The time for diplomacy
is over. Ritchie doesn’t negotiate. Not with his enemies, and apparently not
with his friends. Something in him has snapped. Snapped like a rubber band, and
now that it’s broken, he doesn’t have the pressure of considering options.
Whatever he and I ever were—the very best of friends—is long gone. All I am now
is the last obstacle standing between him and redemption.

Ritchie smiles.

“Run,” I
whisper.

“What?” Joanne
asks, frantic.

“Run,” I repeat.

In circles.