Axis of Aaron

by Johnny B. Truant

  Ebon spit into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and looked up into the mirror. Time had marched on, but the same old questions lived in his eyes.

  Who are you?

  Who were you, and what have you become?

  Why did any of this happen to you? Why did she hurt you? What did you do to deserve it?

  Some of those questions had answers. Some didn’t. A few had once had answers … but the longer Ebon spent on Aaron, the more those old and troubling answers faded, drifting away like blown smoke, leaving the air clear and clean for him to breathe.

  He came downstairs to find deep quiet like a tomb. The house was closed to the night chill, and the beach deserted outside. Aaron thrived until Labor Day, but then the island’s population fell to a fraction of its summertime bustle. He looked at the calendar nailed to the side of a kitchen cabinet. Ebon laughed as he looked. Was it September 18 or September 19? Wednesday or Thursday? It didn’t matter. He was on island time now.

  Ebon walked through the living room, opening windows. He had to dodge plaster and trowels (and strange art miscellany that had oozed from the door of Aimee’s studio like guts from a smashed pumpkin) to reach most of them. Renovating with Aimee was a bit like doing any project with Aimee; she flitted from room to room, starting the next shiny stage of the process before completing the first. Every room had ended up under construction at once, just like every project in her studio was in progress at once. But what the hell; they had all the time in the world now that Ebon didn’t have a job or a wife. And he was having fun just being with her, stitching that old wound tighter by the moment.

  With the windows open, small sounds slowly filled the room with life. The glass was dusty from construction, and lifting the sashes allowed purer light to spill in and brighten the colors. Aimee was an artist, and even her mess held its own strange beauty. There was a can of red paint, left open by mistake and ruined, in one corner. She’d set a deep-purple orchid on the kitchen table despite the fact that the kitchen table was inaccessible thanks to the nearby presence of an air compressor. Once, when Ebon had taken a beach walk, he’d returned to find that she’d opened a can of yellow paint and used it to write on the old, peeling wall. It had read, DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY. Seeing the message, Ebon had told Aimee that he was surprisingly happy already. But at first she hadn’t understood, because she hadn’t written the message for Ebon. It had been for herself, to make her smile as she worked.

  He went to one of the front windows, dodging a boxed kitchen cabinet that had no home or business being in the living room. He put his forearms on the window sill and stared through the glass, drawing ocean air into his lungs. He listened to waves beating the shore and the screeches of gulls flying above. There was potential in the air, bright in the early hours, promising another warm day. Those warm days would dwindle, and soon they’d vanish into chill and snow. He’d never seen a January on the island — not even in photographs — but somehow the idea intrigued him. He liked the idea of the unblemished white extinguishing all the colors he loved. He liked the idea of short days and dim skies, of being able to use the musty old wood-burning fireplace he’d never seen lit. He liked the idea of isolation, of knowing that even the ferries weren’t running. It didn’t feel claustrophobic. It felt beautiful, as if he were in a capsule of his making, defiantly determined to stay inside and ignore the world outside.

  The ocean air. The sounds of waves and gulls.

  In the distance — impossible to say how far; sound carried shockingly well out here — Ebon could hear someone playing “Wonderwall” by Oasis. The song always took him back. When had it been released? Nineteen ninety-five? That had been the year of his first summer on Aaron. The summer when life had changed — when it had marched into what it was supposed to be, what it was later derailed from, and what it was finally back on track toward becoming.

  He let the song finish, then listened as it began again. It was repeating on a loop. That was a shame, because he craved the next song. He and Aimee had listened to the (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? album over and over that first summer and the next, splitting a pair of earbuds between them when Richard was feeling stodgy, playing it through the small CD boom box’s speakers when he’d been permissive — or on the exceedingly rare occasions he’d gone away.

  Ebon sighed. Now that enough time had passed, his resentment toward Richard had mostly melted away. Every one of the man’s actions, no matter how ill conceived they’d sometimes seemed to Ebon and Aimee, had been taken in the pursuit of a single, pure-hearted goal: to protect his little girl and keep her safe. It wasn’t Richard’s fault that he’d been born as flawed as any man or woman. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been born human, with his own demons to wrestle.

  The song ended and began again. Ebon stood and turned from the window, frowning.

  He moved back toward the room’s center, where the renovation debris was thickest. Twice now, he’d been forced to act as a reluctant foreman, reining Aimee’s renovations in and narrowing her focus. She was a hard worker and a knowledgeable handywoman (she must have got it from her father; Richard had been a talented carpenter once upon a time), but she was as flighty in remodeling as she was in the studio. Aimee could work, and Aimee could have all the grand plans in the world, but Ebon would need to do a lot of the necessary grunt work required to keep things moving, in scope, and achievable. He didn’t mind. All he had was time.

  He’d need to haul the old plaster and paneling out to the trailer, then run it down to the dump. He’d need to take inventory of her projects and assess their practicality (Don’t order a picture window! We’ll never get that far!), then lay out the next few days’ work. After those few days, he’d need to do it again. At this rate, they’d get the kitchen done and the living room mostly patched by winter, but doubtfully anything else. There was no reason to tear up her father’s room yet or the bunk room or the upstairs bathroom with its perilous toilet. If Aimee really wanted to dedicate the time required to do the entire cottage project herself as she’d been saying for ten years or more (since back when she’d still mailed the occasional paper letter), it would take more than a single season. So he planned. And she dreamed. And so far, though only a week had passed, it seemed to be working.

  Ebon looked around the room and laughed. If the project would take years to complete, maybe he’d take those years with her. He could let his apartment lease lapse, hire a mover to schlep his city belongings into storage. Maybe he should have taken those years with her from the beginning.

  He moved to the ancient white fridge, pulled it open on its broken handle, and decided on impulse to make them both breakfast. They’d had pancakes on Saturday (Why Saturday? It’s not like days of the week meant anything to either of them, they’d laughingly decided mid-meal), but breakfast was usually catch-as-catch-can. Today — perhaps inspired by looking with amused admiration at Aimee’s ambitious renovation plans — Ebon decided to break the monotony.

  He pulled ingredients from the fridge as if pulling the colors themselves: green pepper, red pepper, red onion, white eggs from an organic island farm with their bright orange-yellow yolks. He cracked the eggs into a bowl and watched the fatter-than-normal yolks split and bleed as he hit them with a whisk.

  White sea salt.

  Black and white pepper.

  On some bizarre impulse, burnt sienna-colored cinnamon.

  He melted yellow butter in a pan, coating it by swirling. He added the eggs, soothed by the routine’s stark normality. He’d never had a normal routine before, and that made today’s normal feel abnormal. How often, in his life as an agent and city boy, had he taken the time to truly appreciate the sensuous process of making an omelet? Not just to make one, but to appreciate making one? To savor the scents of melting butter and sweet sautéing onions? To pause rather than rush because time was abundant and there was literally nothing else to do?

  How had he lived so long away from Aaron? Why had he never returned? He made good money with his c
lients, but on Aaron he didn’t need much money. For less than a thousand dollars a month (and less in winter), he could rent an excellent house near the beach. Hell, he could make that much with a few hours of phone consulting. If he made more than what he needed for lodging and food and necessities, fantastic … but if he didn’t, who cared? The most valuable commodity was time. He wouldn’t need a big TV — or, really, any TV — here. He wouldn’t need a nice stereo, a fine car, or clothing with high thread counts and imported fabrics. Here he’d need shorts, T-shirts, jeans, sweatshirts, ratty shoes, and a pair of sandals. Here he’d need books and magazines and a chair to read them in. The rest would take care of itself.

  Boards creaked, and hinges squealed from the floor above, the small noises rattling down the kitchen stairway. He listened, counting the sounds of Aimee’s stirring as the pan offered a counterpoint: the sizzle of onions and peppers in butter, the small percolations of eggs forming the base of an omelet.

  Steps. A faucet. Water down the pipes. A gravity flush (a gush of water, with none of a normal toilet’s throat-clearing), but no counterpointing crash of the floor giving way as Aimee sat or stood. More water running in the sink. The metal-on-wood sound that the towel rack on the back of the door upstairs made whenever someone used a towel, followed by the squeak of wood against wood (almost a chirp, really) as the bathroom door opened. Then there were footsteps — tentative and slow, because you had to walk down the staircase almost sideways if you wanted your feet to rest fully on the narrow risers.

  The door opened. Aimee came out, her hair its customary mess. This time of day, Aimee’s dark-blonde hair had an excuse for disorder. It was what a woman was supposed to look like in the morning. The only difference by noon with Aimee’s hair, though, would be the time on the clock.

  “Did you make me eggs?” she said, delighted.

  (Maybe you’re going to make me eggs.)

  “They’re for both of us. I got inspired.”

  Aimee came around him, wrapped one arm around his middle, and kissed him on the cheek. He felt her small chest press into his shoulder and felt his skin bristle. They’d been very platonic when he’d arrived, but there had been a couple of incidents over the past few days. Something seemed to be growing between them. Or something seemed to be regrowing. Repairing. Coming together, healing the past.

  “Is there

  (You’re going to make me coffee, aren’t you?)

  coffee?”

  “Not yet,” Ebon replied. “That’s all you.” He tipped his chin at the coffeemaker. They’d joked about the outlet behind it, which was halfway out of the wall where the backsplash had cracked and come apart, saying it would set their whole home improvement project on fire, erasing all their work but letting the insurance company do the job for them. But it was the only outlet nearby, so they continued to use it, Aimee pointing out laughingly that it was a GFCI and should cut out if there was a short. But they still unplugged everything the moment they were finished using it, just in case.

  Aimee looked at the outlet. “Oh. I can’t use that. My life insurance isn’t paid up.”

  “If you’re not insured, I don’t want you getting electrocuted.”

  Aimee plugged the pot in quickly, then made a show of stepping back, as if waiting to see if the outlet would shoot fire at her. It didn’t. She pumped her fist and began opening cabinets, typically unaware, even in her own disorderly kitchen, of where to find filters and coffee grounds.

  “What do you want to work on today?” she said while rummaging.

  “It’s not about what to work on. It’s about what not to work on.”

  “You sound like Yoda.”

  “No, Yoda sounds like this: ‘About what you work on, it is not … ’”

  “Please don’t do the voice.”

  “We need to streamline. Hit pause on some of the stuff you seem to have squirreled into and focus on completing something.”

  “I’m trying to complete it in layers. All of the plastering first, then the … ”

  “Do you see how that leaves us with nowhere to live? Because everything is torn up?”

  “I’m thinking of efficiency.”

  Ebon rolled his eyes through a long stare.

  “Okay. Fine. We can move to a more boring room-by-room plan if you must, Grandma. But can I make a request?”

  “Does it involve sex?”

  Aimee looked at him. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. What had been a joke in his head had come out sounding almost serious. Probably because it wasn’t much of a joke. But then Aimee laughed, and the moment passed.

  “Close. It involves the coffeemaker.”

  “Kinky.”

  “Call me crazy, but I’m thinking maybe ‘kitchen electrical’ should move up on the list. As a special case, if His Grand Poobahship agrees.” She gestured at Ebon.

  “You think I know how to rewire an outlet?”

  “Apparently not, since you think it needs to be ‘rewired.’ I’m sure it’s just the outlet itself. We’ll just swap it for a new one. I may even have a spare. It’s fine; I know what I’m doing. Turn off the breaker, take this one out, put a new one in. That may keep it from sparking at us anymore. I’d just tighten the screws on this one, but it looks like Dad was shoving toast into it or something, so I say we pitch it.” She jiggled the coffeemaker cord. The outlet didn’t spit sparks, but it did look filthy and rusted where metal protruded. Ebon knew enough about outlets to know it was grounded and hence more or less safe, but he suspected that the ground wire could be loose too.

  “Then we consolidate,” Ebon suggested. “Try to focus on one room.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do. I also insist on working the whole fucking day, doing your work for you.”

  “Well, good.” Aimee took her half of the plated omelet from Ebon’s hand, then pulled two forks from a drawer and sat. “I can accommodate that request.”

  She took a few bites. Ebon slid into his chair and sat beside her. He couldn’t sit opposite because there was a circular saw and a heavy-duty jigsaw on the table’s far side. Knowing Aimee, one or both were likely plugged in.

  She looked over. “What else, Ebon?”

  Ebon looked over, his mouth full of eggs. “Mmf?”

  “What else do you want to do today?” She raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe more pointedly, what aren’t you going to do?”

  “Hrmm-mm.”

  “That’s your answer every day.”

  Ebon swallowed. “There’s no way I’ve said that every day. For one, this is the first day I’ve made eggs.”

  “When are you going to relax?”

  “I don’t want to relax. I want to work. We talked about this.”

  “Yes, we talked about it last week. But this is this week. I know it’s on your mind. We had a deal. You help me; I help you.”

  “You are helping me. By keeping my hands busy.”

  “That’s nice of you, but it’s not true. So fess up, Ebon.”

  Ebon looked over, meeting Aimee’s strong light-green eyes. For a moment they were two kids again, on the sand, arguing over a sandcastle. She’d liked him because he was passive and naive, and because she’d been able to boss him around. They’d matured and become adults, but there were ways in which that had never changed.

  “I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it.” Ebon’s eyes were back to his plate, but hers were still on him.

  “It was her stuff,” said Aimee. “You know that, right?”

  “What was her stuff?”

  “Every person needs to Own Her Shit and take responsibility, not slough it off on someone else. She cheated because of something inside her. It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

  That was only partially true. Holly had cheated because she couldn’t sit still, both literally and in life. Ebon had learned a lot about his longtime girlfriend and short-time wife as he’d guiltily read her journal in secret these past few weeks. The truth he’d found in those pages
(the ones she’d actually written on anyway) had shocked him until he’d realized it shouldn’t surprise him at all. Holly had always been no more and no less than herself — a girl that, if Ebon was honest, he had to admit he’d known all too well.

  There had been Mark, of course, but Mark hadn’t been the first man she’d slept with even inside their six-month marriage. She hadn’t written as much, but Ebon was sure he’d simply bored her in bed. She’d continued to love him, but love and sex had always been separate things for Holly. Ebon had wanted to settle down, but he’d never wanted to participate in any of Holly’s proposed extracurriculars: fucking in public bathrooms, fucking in elevators, fucking in parked cars or trying to fuck in moving ones. But even if he had, Ebon would always be Ebon. And although “Ebon as he was” had remained dear to Holly, he couldn’t help being only one man. No single man could ever satisfy an adrenaline seeker like Holly.

  But Aimee was right; that was all Holly’s stuff. Holly had a lot of stuff, and not all of it had to do with sex. As it turned out, she’d also shoplifted. She had justifications for both transgressions, and homespun remedies to justify her behavior. Holly believed herself to be a good girl, so she saved what she stole for thrills and, every few months donated it all to the Salvation Army. As to infidelity, her journal’s pages read as if she found nothing wrong with it — nothing Ebon would even take issue with if he’d known. She kept her heart true to her boyfriend and husband while using her body with multiple partners, not much different from playing racquetball against several regular opponents. She even used protection as a justification: If the men wore condoms (which Ebon didn’t), they weren’t technically even inside her. She believed all of it too; she had to believe it if she were to look herself in the mirror each morning. Holly had been a master of self-deception. She’d always told Ebon that she had no filter, but that wasn’t true. She just had a very specific kind of filter: one that sifted out anything that contradicted her justifications, that might suggest she was doing something wrong.

  Ebon said, “I know.”

  “Do you?” said Aimee. “Because when I went to therapy, that’s one of the things I had the hardest time understanding. What my dad did was about him, not me. He loved me with all his heart, and probably loved parts of you too. But he wasn’t just my dad, he was also plain old Richard Frey, and Richard was his own man outside of the father I knew. He had his own demons. It’s why he drank — and my demons were part of the reason I pretended I didn’t know about it even at the very end.