Payton Hidden Away by Jonathan Korbecki

playing with a wayward bang that refuses to be
tucked behind one of those cute little ears. “That was one of the things I always
liked about you.” She takes a sip of water, careful as she sets the glass back
down. “You loved your mom. You took care of her.”
    “She and I have had
a unique relationship ever since Dad died. I was pretty young, and I don’t
remember a lot, but even then I remember us having good and bad days.” I smile.
“But she’s still my mom.”
    “Sounds comfy.”
    I wag a finger
at her. “Don’t start, Kristine.”
    She wrinkles her
nose. “God, you know how I hate that name.” She takes a bite and smiles as she
chews, but I know her. I know how her mind works. She’s thinking about how
she’s going to tell me why I’m really here. “So, when I called you,” she says,
swallowing before taking another sip, “why’d you come back? I mean, if you
don’t remember anything, and since there’s no one left here...”
    Guilt Trip #3.
    “Except…” she
says, awkwardly.
    “For you,” I
say, filling in the gap.
    “For Ritchie,”
she suggests.
    I go rigid.
    “Hmmm.” She
smiles. “Touchy subject?”
    “Sort of. We
haven’t spoken since I left either. Things didn’t really end well between us.”
    “So, you do remember?”
    “Enough.”
    “Of what?”
    I smile, but
there’s nothing funny about it. I do remember something. A number painted on an
aluminum bleacher. The kind you’d see in a stadium. The numbers are blue, the
paint worn, but there it is, just like a tattoo that won’t wash off. The number
44.
    “You were best
friends,” she continues. “How do you just…do that to your best friend?”
    “You were my
best friend, and I did it to you, didn’t I?”
    She leans back,
wiping her mouth. “Yeah, I guess you did.”
    I set my fork
down. “I’m sorry.” I look at her and realize I might be the world’s biggest turd
for leaving her all alone to fend for herself for the past twenty years. I’m
out of things to say. The waitress comes by, and yes, everything is fine, but
she tops off our nearly untouched glasses of water anyway.
    “What am I doing
here?” I ask once we’re alone again. “You called me, asked me to fly halfway
across the country, and whether it’s guilt or amnesia or God knows what, here I
am.”
    She gingerly
picks up her  and picks up her purse, which she places on her lap—under the
table and out of view—before leaning forward. “I found something.” Her voice is
barely a whisper.
    “That’s what you
said on the phone.”
    “Remember the
old Johnson farm?”
    Suddenly my
steak has lost its appeal, quivering on my white plate in a pool of red blood
mixing with A1 sauce. Yes, I remember the old farm. I passed it on the way into
town, and I reflected on it then, but now that she’s bringing it up, I’m
wondering what it has to do with anything. “Sure,” I answer, and sure, I
remember. Sure, I remember that Ritchie and I used to shoot bottles out there
to kill lazy afternoons. Sometimes we’d even get lucky enough to have a rabbit
or squirrel serve as a moving target. And now that I think about it, sure, I
think…I think…
    “Tony?”
    Route 89. That
was the way out of town. Route 89 led all the way to the edge of the Earth and
beyond. You didn’t take Route 89 unless you never planned on coming back. To us
kids, the farm marked the final outpost, or as we called it, the point of no
return.
    “I was over that
way the other day,” she says quietly.
    “I passed it on
my way in,” I say, chewing again, but this lump of meat isn’t going anywhere.
“I was surprised to see it still standing.”
    “That place
always gave me the creeps,” she says. “I remember as a kid thinking the Devil
lived there. Its peacefulness was like bait. It lured us in.”
    “Then why’d you
stop?” I interrupt, washing the bit of meat down my throat with a gulp of
water. I keep my tone light, the conversation casual. Not that I feel