The Infinite Onion

by Alice Archer

  If Grant were as lost as he seemed to be, the challenge would be the timeline. I needed him out of my hair before my August break. I also needed him to stay outdoors so he wouldn’t interrupt my painting process.

  I decided to offer Grant five weeks of my attention, plus the use of the courtyard, but only if he earned it. He wouldn’t like my terms any more than he liked the interview. He wouldn’t like me. Well, so what? Grant would play by my rules or he’d leave. Either way, by the end of July he’d be gone and I’d have August all to myself before fall stormed in with after-school art lessons.

  I counted on Grant’s desperation to close the deal. He seemed one bit of bad news away from vibrating himself into a puddle of grubby outrage. Or coming down with a terminal disease.

  My first goal for the interview was to get a rise out of Grant, to see what he reverted to when pushed. A five-week program wouldn’t have a lasting effect unless I could gain access to Grant’s psyche beyond his bluster. While he barked out his “pretentious jerk” speech, I lined up my next push.

  After he’d had his say, Grant sat down and shot me a blood-tipped dagger of a glare.

  I pointed over my shoulder to the bathroom. “Want to freshen up before we continue? Smooth your hair? Stuff wads of toilet paper under your armpits to staunch the anxiety sweat?”

  “What would you know about anxiety?”

  “I’ll take that as a no. Let’s continue, shall we?”

  “Goddamned jerk.”

  I ignored the insult. “Before I make a decision about your application, I require you to answer a few more crucial questions. Your honesty will be the deciding factor in this interview. Do you understand?”

  “Go to hell, Professor Bureaucrap. Yes, I understand the unnecessary and condescending requirements you impose for your own entertainment.”

  “Excellent.” I picked up my pen and doodled a quick impression of Grant’s disapproving mouth. When fearful, his default response seemed to be hothead. I needed to know if that was the only response to discomfort in his repertoire.

  “First question,” I said. “Why were you sleeping in that ditch?”

  The circles under Grant’s eyes seemed to darken as he sagged.

  I flipped the page and began a sketch of Grant’s shoulders curved around his heart. His physical fragility concerned me. He seemed too skinny for his broad frame. The man desperately needed to be rescued from himself.

  Meanwhile, Grant seethed at me from the other end of the table.

  I waited him out.

  “Kai and I went for a walk,” Grant said with a croak. He swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice had moved into a deeper register. “I hadn’t seen Kai in years. He’d grown six inches, but he looked… not good.”

  Grant’s pause lengthened.

  “Go on,” I prompted. “Get to the point.”

  “Fuck off. I lost my job in Seattle. Came to Vashon to squat on Mitch’s Vashon property. Didn’t notice the security camera. Mitch didn’t have my phone number, so he had to come over from Seattle to evict me. He brought Kai. Kai and I went for a walk.”

  Grant’s staccato burst of sentences faltered.

  “It was just us, me and Kai, on the walk. I thought he was working up to telling me something. I didn’t know how to help him get it out. Then the sun came out, right in front of us. Kai stared at that bolt of sunshine with… I don’t know what. Longing, maybe? On impulse, I picked him up and hugged him. Poor kid started to cry, wrapped his arms around my neck, and held on tight. My back hurt after a while, but he wasn’t done crying, so I sat, then lay down. It didn’t seem like a ditch. I rubbed Kai’s back, tried to let him know I was there for him.”

  I sketched without looking down at the notepad. I didn’t want to take my eyes off Grant and miss anything. I drew the concern on his face, flipped the page. I couldn’t fucking draw fast enough.

  “The sunlight made Kai’s hair shine.” Grant’s voice took on a flat tone, as if he’d lost himself in the memory. “He has the same hair as my ex-wife, that cornflower yellow. I put my hand on his head to try to settle him, and he fell asleep.” He shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea to let him rest. I closed my eyes against the light—”

  “And the next thing you knew, some stranger was waking you up,” I said.

  “I never did find out what was bothering him.”

  “You want to be there for him.”

  Grant nodded.

  “But not in the state you’re in.”

  “Correct.” The hothead made a comeback in Grant’s furrowed brow and tight lips. Of course he was angry. From his perspective, my “games” kept him from getting his act together sooner, so he could help Kai sooner.

  Grant waved a hand at me. “Hurry up. Next question.”

  “Thank you for your answer,” I said.

  “I still think you’re a cruel dickwad.”

  “I’m sure you do. Now tell me the top three worries that keep you up at night. First thoughts. Don’t edit. Go.”

  With a pained sigh, Grant gave me the finger, picked up a pen, and bent over his legal pad. When he’d written for a few minutes, he made three circles with his pen, lifted his eyes, and said, “I’m not telling you those.”

  “Answer the question or no deal.”

  Grant’s sharp jaw firmed up, as if he was grinding his teeth.

  I started another drawing. “And be honest.”

  We both paused for another stare-off.

  I wasn’t going to budge. There was too much at stake for Grant. “I’ll know if you’re not being honest.”

  The three circles on Grant’s pad took some abuse from the pen after that, until the paper ripped and Grant threw down the pen. He folded his arms and said, “One. No matter how hard I try, I don’t ever succeed. Two. Even if I started succeeding today, I’d never catch up.”

  “Catch up on what?”

  “Like…” Grant looked around the room. “Owning a home. Being able to retire at some point. I turned thirty-nine last week. The future is barreling down on me and I can’t… move.” He rubbed his forehead and his voice descended to that lower register again. “I really, really hate you right now.”

  “That’s fine. What’s number three?”

  “Three is the complaint I’ve heard from people all my life—that I’m afraid to try anything new. I’m not impressed with where that trait has gotten me. And that’s the only reason I’m doing this, doing your absurd interview—to try something new.”

  “How’s it going for you so far?” I couldn’t help my snide tone.

  Grant’s lifted eyebrows and facial expression clearly conveyed You suck, so it’s going like crap.

  I doodled and considered, sketching a picture of a forlorn Kai curled inside Grant’s chest.

  A hard knock on the wood of the table startled me and I looked up.

  “What are you waiting for?” Grant asked. “Don’t stop at a partial evisceration. Come on, man. Kill me all the way. Lob another one. I can take it.” He pulled a tissue from his front pocket to wipe his nose and his eyes, jammed it back in, held my gaze.

  The fact that Grant had owned up to getting teary while he answered my questions made up my mind for me. “You’re in,” I said with a nod.

  Grant’s cheeks pinked and his forehead relaxed.

  The stark hope in his eyes made my heart hurt.

  Chapter 23

  Grant

  It was silly of me to feel proud when Oliver told me I’d passed his interview, but I did. I expected him to move on to the officious details. Instead, he said, “Now it’s your turn to interview me.”

  I sighed. “Listen, Professor Doobie, I appreciate the offer, but you really don’t get it. I’m unemployed, broke, and camping somewhere I shouldn’t. All I want is a little time to think about my trajectory, so please, please get to the point h
ere. What does ‘You’re in’ mean? I’m guessing it’s more than a simple trade. Spell it out for me. What can I count on and what do I have to do to get it?”

  The whole time we talked, Oliver took notes. Nothing I said was that interesting. I suspected his note-taking was a ruse to keep himself in character. He glanced up at me and wrote some more, and I became aware again of the man behind the role. The rust threads of his jacket brought out the rust in his coloring. Oliver’s beard and moustache, glossy and neat, caused a surge of physical desire that clashed with my irritation.

  “I require a five-week commitment,” Oliver said.

  My disbelief erupted in a laugh. “Get real. I can’t afford to goof off in the woods for a week, much less five.”

  “Then no deal.” The shrewd look Oliver sent me didn’t bode well. “Also, you’ll have to earn each amenity. I won’t give them to you all at once.”

  “That’s… Jesus. Why would you do that? You think since I’m homeless and jobless I should be taught a lesson, or cured, or something? I’m not asking for that.”

  Oliver leaned back in his chair. “Well, you’re under no obligation to accept.”

  I felt messed up. My crush on Oliver and my hatred of him scrambled my brain, which imploded with a whimper of overwhelm and indecision.

  Help.

  Chapter 24

  Oliver

  Grant would accept my offer. I knew he would.

  “As soon as you sign the contract,” I told him, “you’re welcome to take water from the outdoor faucets. I’ll give you one new amenity per week, in exchange for a few hours of labor and doing some assignments.”

  With a blink of confusion, Grant said, “Assignments?”

  “One big assignment per week, plus two assignments you’ll do for the duration: examine the rules you live by, and write in a journal every day.”

  Grant surged to his feet. “The hell I will. I didn’t sit through this freak show to become an experiment, you goddamned busybody.” His face turned a lovely shade of pink. “This is my life you’re talking about. I’m trying to… I’m just trying to…”

  To my surprise, Grant seemed on the verge of crying. I could tell from his scowl that he blamed me for his misery.

  “You’re trying to what?” I asked.

  Grant’s eyes went blank. If he’d had a straight shot to the front door, he might have sprinted out of the house, but he had to navigate around all the furniture.

  I hurried after him. “Hey. Wait. You’re just trying to what? What are you trying to do? Tell me.”

  By the time I reached the door, Grant was crossing the yard, and he wasn’t slowing down.

  “Please,” I called out.

  Beyond the stomp of Grant’s footsteps, I located a gust of soft words. “I’m just trying to stay alive.” Like a telepathic thought we shared.

  I want to help you. I sent the thought out into the woods, then stood on my porch and watched the shadows, alone again in my tiny world.

  Night came and went. And then another day and another night.

  While I waited for Grant to change his mind, I passed the time with preparations for the Ophelia painting. The dining table with its added leaves gave me the idea of doing the painting as a mural. I spent hours drawing on white butcher paper unrolled across the table—my attempt to replace the images that came to me at night, of Grant dying of hunger in the woods because I’d refused to give him what he thought he wanted.

  Absorbed as I was in a clump of top-heavy sedges over Kai’s back, the knock on the door startled me. I yelped, threw the pencil into the air, and rushed to the door, expecting to see Grant.

  It took me a moment to bring Freddie into focus. I watched him shake out his umbrella and stomp water off his shoes onto the mat. “It’s raining?” I asked.

  With a chuckle, Freddie closed the door and put his arm around me. “Yes, Oliver, it’s raining. You must be working on something big if you haven’t noticed. What is it?”

  I glanced back at the dining table. Before I could stop him, Freddie steered me toward it. I was tempted to tell him to leave so I could keep working, but as I emerged from hyper-focus and registered Freddie’s familiar smell, time scooted forward and I decided I could use a break.

  Freddie must have sensed my decision. “That’s it,” he said and moved in to kiss me on the mouth. He didn’t pick up where we’d left off the last time he visited me, with my accusation of hypocrisy and his outrage about Grant. That wasn’t Freddie’s way.

  I put a hand on his chest. “Hold up, Casanova.”

  “Not there yet, huh?” He moved behind me, wound his arms around my waist, and rested his chin on my shoulder. “So, let’s see what you’ve been up to.”

  A shrug was all the comment I had. Freddie could see for himself, and I didn’t have words enough to explain.

  “Whoa. Ollie,” Freddie exhaled.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Well, then, whoa, Oliver. This is stunning.” Freddie let me go to walk around the table.

  I picked up the pencil and rolled it between my fingers, itching to finish that clump of sedges. “It’s for a mural.”

  With his hands clasped behind his back, Freddie leaned in for a closer look at the roughed-in faces. “Who’s the guy? He almost looks like…” He shook his head. “It’s not me. Is it?”

  “I haven’t decided.” I had decided, but Freddie didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

  I could tell from his tight mouth that he didn’t like my answer, but he didn’t push.

  “It’s a riff on Ophelia,” I told him.

  In high school, Freddie and I had sat beside each other in English class. I gave him a moment to remember the paper I’d written about Ophelia, Shakespeare’s forlorn noblewoman who died in a brook.

  “Hamlet?” Freddie asked.

  I nodded.

  “Ugh. I hated the tragedies. If you’re going to paint something huge and in your face, why not do one of the comedies?”

  Freddie’s discomfort probably had more to do with the unspecified face of the man in the drawing than my choice of Ophelia for the subject matter. I didn’t call him on it, since I wasn’t being completely honest either. “I’ve always had a thing for Ophelia.”

  We stared at each other across the table, neither of us willing to be the first to veer into new territory and expose the stalemate of our relationship.

  “Okay,” Freddie said, like he agreed not to acknowledge the deeper issues.

  But his gaze wandered back to the placeholder face, and the whiff of jealousy coming off him was new. It made me wonder if Freddie had reached a point of readiness for the committed relationship he’d once told me he eventually wanted.

  I mentally stepped back to feed myself a dose of reality. Freddie always leaves. He likes me, but he sleeps with other men when he’s away on his trips. He’s more at home in Japan.

  I hadn’t conceived of the mural to shove the impasse of our situation in Freddie’s face, but I could see how he might have interpreted it that way. I scanned my drawing as I tried to think of something to say. The pencil in my hand moved to the paper before I’d made a conscious decision to bend over. I blurred and extended the shadow under Kai’s wrist, which rested on Grant’s hip near a bunchberry.

  Freddie came around the table and took the pencil out of my hand. “Come here.” He pulled me close and squeezed me tight. “I’m sorry. I’m being weird. Your drawings are phenomenal. It’s going to be breathtaking as a painting.”

  The timeless space I’d languished in all morning faded under a wave of relief, the hollow feeling in my abdomen sorting itself into simple hunger. “I’m starving.” That made me think of Grant, who was maybe literally starving. It occurred to me I could try to find his campsite, to make sure he was okay. “I’m hungry,” I revised, which felt more true.

 
Even with Freddie in the house, my thoughts returned to Grant and how gaunt he’d looked. My curiosity had deepened as I’d explored him with my pencil. I wasn’t attracted to Grant, not really, not even as a potential friend—his hair-trigger judgments and lack of self-awareness were deal-breakers for me—but I was concerned and intrigued. My mind kept playing out different options for solving the problem of his broken life.

  “What wall will you paint it on?” Freddie shuffled to turn us in a circle. “Not much free space.”

  “There.” I pointed to the wall between the stage and the French doors to the side porch, a wall covered with framed art by my students.

  “Really?” Freddie asked. “You want a dead guy front and center in your living room?”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “He looks dead. With a dead kid lying on top of him.”

  “They’re not dead.” My stomach growled again. I extracted myself from Freddie’s embrace and headed to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

  He followed me and gave me a speculative look. “Most definitely.”

  I took a deep breath, considered what Freddie had wordlessly asked, and realized I was willing, though I might need an assist. I remembered a fantasy I’d concocted over a long February evening and reeled out the scene in my imagination.

  We’re two strangers.

  Freddie kissed my neck. “Mmm.”

  We meet at the buffet table at a gallery opening.

  Freddie peeled off my shirt off. He ran his hands over my skin and pressed me against the kitchen counter.

  The stranger presses me against the wall in the back hallway, where we’ve gone to escape the crowd. He opens the bathroom door, hustles me into darkness and privacy…

  My fantasy spun out into mental nothingness. The tasteful charcoal gray of the bathroom walls in my mind’s eye interested me more than the stranger’s touch. Too bad. That fantasy usually worked. I tried again.

  He pulls me toward the bathroom.

  My hand lands on the emergency exit bar.

  Alarms ring in my ears as I flee into the night.