Axis of Aaron

by Johnny B. Truant

  “Fuck it.”

  Adjusting a few degrees for the sun’s location as best he could, Ebon entered the swamp. It was wet but pocked with small relatively dry islands. Natural catwalks. The damp ground tried to suck his shoes off, but Ebon kept trudging, gripping his feet into fists to hold them.

  He was definitely heading west now.

  Ahead, Ebon could hear the beach. He turned around, saw the sun behind him and slightly to the left, where it should be. The wave sounds grew louder. He trudged, fighting to hold onto his shoes, now sure that this was a saltwater swamp fed by the nearby bay. He’d exit in its mouth and then scan the coast, surely seeing something familiar. Even if he didn’t see homes he recognized, Ebon had to get far enough from the Canal River’s confusion to flee its snare, then duck back between the more conventionally placed cottages and West Shore Road. Even if he was way the hell on the wrong end of that road, he’d at least know where he was and be able to find his way back.

  It might take an hour or more of walking. In the hot sun. With no water.

  He paused to re-grip his shoe in a puddle of muck and pull. It came out with a squelching. Yes, the sun would be hot. But he wasn’t in a desert; he was inside a community. He could knock on someone’s door and request a glass of water. That kind of thing had to happen all the time. Aaron had a quaint little town center and populous shores (in the summer anyway), but the outlands were mostly undeveloped areas and farmland.

  The brush parted, and Ebon found himself standing at the rear of the bicycle rental shop attached to the Aaron Historical Society.

  He blinked, making his way through the cut grass in a daze. The town center should have been behind him and to the south. Ebon was heading west, toward the beach. He’d even heard the waves. Minutes before the sun had been at his rear.

  He must have somehow crossed the island while fighting the tangle of Canal River. That hardly made sense, because he’d have had to cross the island’s center to the tune of several miles, then got turned around. He and Aimee had gone to The Wheel restaurant on the north end last night and hadn’t passed through a large swatch of east-west Canal River absurdity.

  And even that didn’t jibe now that Ebon thought about it. Coming out into the middle of Main Street to be sure, he looked north and realized that he’d come from the west, not east. The bike rental shop faced east; he could even see the way its front face was washed in sun as the clouds parted and blue returned to claim the hot sky. He’d come from the rear. From the west. From the direction he was sure he’d been going.

  But the sun had been behind him, and now it was more or less ahead.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Ebon rubbed his forehead to wick away sweat.

  He looked up the street. Two women were emerging from the liquor store, holding cases of beer. A few people were watering their flowers and lawns. Several were putting small boats away at the sides of their cottages, removing the masts from one-man sailboats and laying their hulls against the houses at an angle to keep water and bugs out. A lot of people were sitting on their decks, sipping coffee. He could hear birds singing — mostly gulls, circling for garbage.

  Just up the street from the bike shop there was a public restroom. Ebon, feeling tremendous gratitude, walked briskly to it, entered the men’s room, and began to drink from the sink by handfuls. Too late, he wondered if the water was potable, but no signs were posted. Safer than dehydrating anyway.

  The bathroom was air conditioned. Ebon splashed water on his head, let it sit without wiping it away, and waited for cool air to lick heat from his skin. He drank more and, with a clearer head, reemerged onto the street.

  Well. Whatever. He’d got lost, but now he knew where he was. He was hungry, but he could be back at Aimee’s cottage in ten minutes. He wouldn’t try to take any shortcuts, or pursue any women in red dresses. He’d head back down to Sweetums, then take the beach access like before. Soon he’d be walking up the sand toward Aimee’s, and if he knew Aimee, she’d probably have breakfast on the table by the time he arrived.

  Still, Ebon couldn’t help but stop at the Sweetums window. He still really wanted salt water taffy. He’d definitely have to grab money after breakfast and return. He’d get a bunch and bring it back for Aimee. Of course it’d be for both of them, reminding them of youth gone by, and somehow he doubted she’d had much after their final summer together. It hadn’t taken long after that, according to what Aimee had already told him, before she’d moved out. Eighteen and on her own; probably not a lot of budget for sweets.

  He wondered how much the taffy cost, but didn’t wonder long. A sign in the window’s corner crowed in all caps: SALT WATER TAFFY SPRING SPECIAL — JUST $1.49 A POUND!

  Only $1.49? It seemed so cheap. Ebon remembered paying the same sixteen years ago. Now an adult, he wanted to buy a hundred pounds at that price as a joke, if they had that much on hand. One hundred and forty-nine dollars, and he and Aimee could roll around in it if they wanted. Why not?

  Ebon turned and walked back to the beach access. The same cottage DJ was still spinning “Wonderwall,” still apparently on endless repeat. He still couldn’t tell where the music was coming from, but he wanted to track it down. The entire album was great, and Ebon wanted to hear more evocative tunes from his youth. But there was no time for arguing with natives. He had to get home and refuel. Then he could head out again, probably with Aimee.

  Halfway down the meandering beach access, Ebon felt a small rock rolling around in his shoe. He couldn’t kick it away. He’d need to stop at the boulder where he’d sat before and remove it.

  But he came out on the beach and the boulder wasn’t where he remembered.

  This wasn’t even the same section of beach.

  Ebon hadn’t been as distracted when he’d come in (before seeing the woman), and was quite sure he’d had his bearings at the time. He should be where the half-buried boulder had been hunkered in the sand. Farther to the north was Redding Dock, where Ebon had spent much of his alone time — reading, writing in a journal, or simply thinking. Redding was long and winding. It felt like an adventure path in the middle of nowhere. But thanks to the sandbar nobody docked there, and Ebon never really ran into many people anywhere near it. It felt like his place. His refuge during those turbulent, uncertain years. Finding himself in the wrong place now was disorienting. He’d walked this stretch of beach over and over and over again as a kid.

  Well, not this stretch. He didn’t think he even knew this stretch.

  Ebon blinked into the bright sun, now realizing that its presence (higher in the sky; it must be after ten) meant he was on the island’s east side. But that didn’t make sense; he’d taken the path that came off of McComb, running up to Sweetums.

  He’d come the wrong way, that was all. He was still a bit dehydrated, tired, swimmy from lack of food. He sometimes got low blood sugar when he didn’t eat in the morning. He had to get home to Aimee’s. Which was in the other direction, so he turned back.

  When Ebon reached the other end of the beach access, he found himself facing the inn, where an old man with thinning but coifed hair was looking at him in obvious disapproval. The public restroom building was across the dirt street. He’d come this way by mistake.

  So hungry.

  Down Main to McComb. Past Sweetums, where he tapped the window with its entreaty to get taffy before summer ended almost superstitiously, as if to prove it was still there. He heard Oasis again, shoving aside his own certainty that he’d just heard it when taking the wrong/correct path toward the beach a few minutes ago, and made for the boulder because he still hadn’t removed the rock from his sandal.

  The access wound and doubled back, through trees and patches of poison ivy. The foliage was beginning to yellow as it died at autumn’s approach. He reached the end and found himself at a rundown cottage. To each side was a rundown shack that looked exactly the same, save for several small details, like the three giant terracotta pots. A signpost ahead showed BEACH ACCESS written on a
faded white arrow pointing directly behind Ebon, down the path. The cross street, according to the same signpost, was Canal River Holly.

  Ebon blinked. He must be dehydrated. He hadn’t drunk enough water in the restroom. He might have been out here, in the sun, for hours. Maybe he’d passed out somewhere from the heat. That would explain his weak mentality and the fact that a few handfuls of water weren’t enough to erase it. It could happen out here on Canal River Holly, where all the cottages had been abandoned decades ago. Or on the crossroad to the right: Canal River Regret.

  Sigh. Exhale. Eyes closed.

  Begin again, and stay calm.

  Ebon had to reach the restrooms behind him. He could get more water, splash more coolness on his face.

  He opened his eyes and found himself standing in front of the public beach access across from Sweetums. Oasis was no longer playing, and the beach was quiet. A cloud had again stolen across the sun and turned everything grayish. Now it was possible to believe that even these homes were empty, despite the fact that year-round residents owned them.

  Another deep sigh.

  Feeling as if his world had gone slippery, Ebon took deliberate steps down the path. He neared its end and looked at his feet, unwilling to see where he was going lest he find it wrong. He watched sand-strewn grass surrender to pure sand, and only then did he slowly raise his head.

  The boulder was before him, exactly where it should be. Its shadow was short but pointed toward the lapping water, because it was morning and Ebon was on the island’s west side.

  Now back in the correct neighborhood, part of him wanted to race up the beach to Aimee’s. But he made himself stop, sit on the boulder, and fumble the rock out of his shoe. He breathed slowly, taking in the waves and the water.

  He must be more unhinged than he’d realized. His life had ripped at the seams, opening like a bloom to show its blight. Nothing in Ebon’s life had turned out as it seemed. His apparent security had been an illusion. His lovely wife had actually been a cheating whore. His new family had exploded in glass and steel. It was appropriate that he’d wanted Aaron to help him forget because what was so recently behind him was now all gone. He probably didn’t even have his job anymore, and if he let his apartment rent lapse, he’d have no place to live. He could be a part of Aaron’s small community forever instead, and become one of the locals. He could make sandals or baskets for shells, then sell them to summer tourists.

  Ebon stood. One step at a time, both literally and as part of his larger, fucked-up life.

  He passed the cottage with the rocks out front, again feeling entirely too close to the home’s front porch. There were people moving around inside. That was good. People grounded everything. Proof that you were where you needed to be, because they’d notice if things were wrong and let you know. When you were cracking up, paths might sprawl in the wrong places, east and west might even swap spots, but at least right now there were others with him. Others who might not be stressed out, juggling six traumas at once. Others with an opinion about the beach being more or less sideways.

  Ebon almost came to a halt when he saw the slanted beach ahead, but wouldn’t allow himself to stop completely. He had to get back. Home. Where he belonged.

  He hurried on, fighting a delicate line between forced normality and a suspicion that he was totally losing it. If his feet stopped moving, he felt certain, the sense of tipping horizon would assert itself as literal. Right now, the people in the cottage behind him didn’t seem bothered by the way the coast had turned sideways, and right now his feet were still sticking to the beach, the rocks remaining rooted in the sand. It was only his head spinning though; if the world had really tipped, the water wouldn’t stay put. It would spill down toward the new gravity source, draining the ocean.

  Ebon made his feet go faster, edging closer to panic. He’d taken high school physics, but wasn’t sure if that had been a month ago or half a lifetime before. He understood Gravity 101. There was no true up or down in an objective sense. Water, sand, and beachcombers losing their shit would all stick to the planet whether it seemed to be below or not.

  Ebon closed his eyes, clawing for equilibrium.

  He was exhausted, and thoroughly stressed. No wonder he couldn’t figure out which streets led where and which way was up. His life no longer had those touchstones. He was Ebon Shale. He’d always lived on Aaron, with Aimee. There had never been anything else worth remembering.

  He opened his eyes, and found that everything was back to okay. He sighed an exhale, then kept walking. He passed Pinky Slip, again going the hard way and regretting it, staying close to the water. He had to reach Aimee’s. He needed to sit and get some food and caffeine into his body. Then things would be fine. He could unload some of this mental baggage that — of course, he saw it now — was weighing him down because he’d been stubbornly keeping it inside. He’d given Aimee the kiddie version of his life in the city and what had happened with Holly (how she’d had an unfortunate car accident, nobody’s fault and tragic) but not the details. He hadn’t even told her much about his job (he worked at a movie theater collecting tickets after school), his apartment (above the garage) or anything else.

  But before Ebon could straighten all of that out, he had to get back.

  Ebon came over the rise in the dunes and saw Aimee’s cottage as it had always been: gray-blue cedar shingles, a roof that almost matched, charming windows with shutters that were hung with welcoming drapes, stretched canvas furniture out on the wide porch, one chair occupied by a broad-shouldered visitor with reddish-blond hair who must have arrived while Ebon was away. The color of the scene was bright and fresh, the windows polished to near invisibility. The sandy grass, such that there was any behind the dunes, was neatly mowed; the shed to one side was pristine, secured with padlocks at both the top and bottom. It looked brand new. Brand new.

  The door opened, and Ebon saw Aimee emerge, running toward him with her feet bare, her messy blonde hair somehow longer than it had been when she’d met him at the boat. That made sense because it wasn’t actually Aimee coming forward; it was a girl in her early teens who’d been staying with Aimee that Ebon had forgotten about, and the girl wasn’t coming to rescue him or offer him coffee; she was coming to play. And it wasn’t really morning; it was late afternoon, and the vibrant blues and hot yellows had surrendered into evening’s inevitable oranges, Ebon’s shadow stretched toward the cabin rather than away from it, the sand tangerine in the light rather than the color of mud, the face of the cottage and the girl almost washed away in a spray of near-sunset sunshine that hit the world head on, the girl’s smile wide, one tooth crooked and a beauty mark on her chin. As she came closer Ebon wanted to greet her (of course he did; he always did) but he felt the air flee his lungs, and the last of his footing slipped away. He fell facedown on the dune, one eye open and able to count individual grains of sand as he watched the way they moved under his smashed nose’s exhale.

  “Ebon, you’re back!” said the girl, coming to stand above him.

  He tried to roll over and reply, but he was rooted, unable to blink. All he could see were her small, dirty feet at the edge of his peripheral vision.

  “Let’s build a sandcastle,” she said.

  She ignored the way he’d fallen, the way one arm had awkwardly bent beneath him and been pinned by the sand, and the way the coastline had again tipped and was now revolving around them both.

  Ebon watched her legs cross as she sat near his crumpled form, Indian style. He groaned, somehow delighted.

  And then there was nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Meaning in it All

  EBON SAT CROSS-LEGGED IN THE sand, seven dollars in the pocket of his slippery black gym shorts (the ones his mother had packed — perfect for soccer practice, kind of wrong for the beach), using his fingers to make long parallel furrows like a miniature, arid farm. Seven bucks was enough for two carnival admissions (that was intentional; Grams had thought he might have, make, or
run into a friend), but Ebon didn’t know a soul on Aaron. He’d pay $3.50 for a solo ticket, then use the other $3.50 for a hot dog or cotton candy or an elephant ear, whatever he could afford. That had been the plan until he’d met this bossy girl on his walk to the pier. Now that he was apparently stuck here, he might have seven bucks to himself — or none, if he admitted the truth to Grams and had to give it all back, unused.

  “Go get more wet sand,” said the girl.

  Ebon considered telling her to get it herself, then decided there wasn’t a point. The sandcastle they were apparently building together (he hadn’t agreed to do it and so far hadn’t really participated, other than being her gofer) needed wet sand if it was to turn out spectacular, and the girl — “Aimee with two e’s” — was busy sculpting. Besides, she was fourteen, and he was only twelve. She had the bloom of proper girlhood all over her, small indentations peaking her shirt where the girls Ebon knew at home had none. She certainly acted like she was in charge.

  Ebon stood, approached the water’s edge, and used a garden trowel to fill the bucket with the exact kind of wet sand she needed: the hard-packed stuff where the water had washed up a while ago and then retreated, not the sopping goop down by the lapping waves. He’d made the mistake of bringing her the wrong kind before and had been sent back to get it right.

  Ebon returned and sat beside her, then took a moment to look up at the girl, knowing her focus was on the sand. Her straw-blonde hair was an absolute mess. He’d mentioned it before, and she’d said that her dad wanted her to brush it but that she didn’t give a S-H-I-T. She’d spelled it defiantly, eyeing him to make sure he understood that she was serious about such S-H-I-T whether he was or not.

  “If you don’t pack that tower tighter,” she said, pointing at a section of the castle that was under Ebon’s assigned jurisdiction, “it’ll fall apart and ruin everything.”