Axis of Aaron

by Johnny B. Truant

  Sitting on the bench, wondering how many lovers’ initials could mar the wood before it grew too weak to support weight, Ebon stared down at the water. In the height of summer, his routine was to sit on the dock’s end instead of the bench and dangle his feet in the water. The idea felt a bit too cold now (not to mention downright inappropriate; it was December, and he was thirty-one fucking years old), but maybe he’d feel differently in a few minutes. The sun really was warm in the storm’s aftermath. The dock’s end even smelled like summer — a sort of organic edge to the water that spoke of algae and the occasional rotting fish. And were those gulls he could hear? Didn’t gulls fly south? Ebon wasn’t sure. Maybe they were the Captain Jacks of the air, nestling in for the winter with a sea dog’s hearty chuckle.

  For the first few minutes, Ebon didn’t think. He merely sat on the bench, looking out across the water, and let the sight submerge him in memory. The air was warm; the sounds and smells were summery; familiar graffiti filled the bench including the forever marks of infatuation made by his own timid hand. The sky had turned a brilliant blue, kissed azure at the horizon and the dark of denim in the shadows. The sky's few clouds were the brushstrokes of angels, white at first glance but clearly blushing pink on their flat bottoms on further inspection, as if resting on an invisible glass ceiling. Water lapping the dock’s pilings was like liquid ice, bluer in its heart than near-winter should allow. He even thought he could see fish swimming below as if eager for a hook: moving shapes in aqua greens and the deep cerulean of scales, flashing silver as they caught the glare.

  It could have been a day in August.

  It could have been sixteen years ago.

  Ebon let himself sink into the feeling. He ignored the truth, which was that he clearly was having some sort of a breakdown. Maybe there was something wrong with Aaron (and his nemesis, the sea) and maybe there wasn’t, but one thing seemed obvious: His reaction to all of it wasn’t normal. He’d almost been capsized in open water during a terrible storm, had been capsized near shore in a terrible storm, had experienced time loss, had become so disoriented that forward had become backward and backward had become forward … and his solution to it all had been to stroll down the shore, sit on the dock of the bay (wastin’ time), and pretend he was a kid again.

  Right. No matter what was truly happening around him, this wasn’t a healthy solution.

  Aimee would be nervous for him, if she’d been able to pull her eyes up from baking cookies for long enough to notice the storm. His still being gone would have her in a panic, and if Aimee walked down to Pinky Slip to find his boat in toothpicks, she’d be in frantic tears. His clothes were still wet; it wasn’t entirely impossible that his body was imagining the unseasonal warmth and that he was, in fact, slowly slipping into some sort of hypothermic coma. He had to be in shock; there was a second Ebon watching him from above that knew heading away from his current home — away from warmth and security and dry clothing — was the act of someone halfway to catatonia. He’d sat; he was staring out at the blue waves and bluer sky. Perhaps he’d lose whatever grip remained, and they’d find him here too late. Maybe it wasn’t warm. A chill made more sense. And why couldn’t he perceive the weather wrong, if he was losing his mind? He’d thought east was west. He’d thought the water was out to get him. Maybe he was slowly freezing into an Ebonsicle. He’d be stiff when they found him, frozen into a z-shape by his soaked shirt and pants.

  Ebon sighed. When you lost your mind, you didn’t ponder insanity. And now that he thought about it, he seemed to remember yesterday’s weather report calling for warmth. Summer like temperatures for the place that he’d always found impossible to leave.

  Ebon’s mind continued to unload as he sat, realizing how much he’d been accepting, how much he’d been ignoring in the interest of momentum. Missing memories began to arrive: he and Aimee roasting marshmallows in the fireplace and eating them with wine, laughing at the combination; he and Vicky spending a long morning in bed, talking about their pasts, their futures.

  Vicky.

  Ebon’s left thumb went to the base of his ring finger, attempting to fidget with the white gold ring that was no longer there. He noticed it now, looking down. His thumb was rubbing only the skin, finding its lack of adornment unsatisfying.

  A year ago, Ebon had woken most mornings with a woman in his bed. Now that his mind began to meander, he realized how many times, here on Aaron, he seemed to have done the same. That woman wasn’t Aimee, but Vicky. The redheaded woman — the one he’d felt so drawn to, almost as if she were a magnet and he were a helpless sliver of ore. The woman he’d seen once (and only once) before deciding to pursue her — but not only pursue her, actually chase her. It had felt vital that he catch her on that day, but if his resurfacing memories were accurate, he hadn’t caught her that first time. It had taken a few more days of stalking, and then instead of calling the police she’d confronted him. It hadn’t been love at first sight, because even now, as Ebon shook hands with tidbits he’d forgotten, he doubted he precisely loved Vicky. Yet he kept returning, again and again, unable to so much as consider resisting. Like an addiction.

  Vicky had a house on the rock bluff. It was filled with open space, lots of glass, unapologetically modern. There was a fireplace between her bedroom and master bath. Her sleek tub sat in the floor’s center, its supply faucet standing free as a brilliantly expensive chrome spigot. The bed was large, an expansive view to its occupants’ right. The tile underfoot was cool. The rugs, fluffy and extravagant, were warm. Vicky was buxom, with flawless alabaster skin and hair nearly as orange as a carrot.

  Whenever Ebon saw her, in every memory, it was always the same.

  He looked south and could see the remains of Aaron’s Party right where they should be, the Danger Wheel frozen with brown rust, the degradation of the iconic carousel apparent even from here. The pier wasn’t empty at all, though he’d been quite sure, once upon a time at this very spot, that it had been.

  Aimee’s cottage had changed so much — on and off, different and not different like the flickering of a dying lightbulb.

  And then there was everything else. The streets seemed to change. The horizon seemed to tilt and shift. Colors were muted one day and brilliant the next, regardless of the sunlight that washed them. The air was cool, then summery and warm. Birds came. Birds went. Even Aimee was an inconsistent presence.

  But Vicky? Vicky was always the same.

  Without stopping to make a decision, Ebon found himself walking. Back down the dock (also the same; he was reluctant to leave one fixed anchor point even to head toward another), through the overgrown path of dying leaves and creepers, right at the dirt road, headed south. He passed the path that would take him to the carnival without looking at it, then sometime later passed Aimee’s cottage at a block’s distance. He should check in, but didn’t feel strong enough. Which Aimee would greet him? Would it be the woman he’d left, who’d been forward and bold and manic? Or would it be the Aimee he saw in blips of his foggy recent past, sometimes sober and sedate? Would she be in a building trance or sipping tea? Or would she have gone to the water, found Ebon missing and his boat in splinters?

  He should stop. He should check in.

  Another half mile passed. Another. Aimee’s cottage lay far behind, its likely-distraught lone occupant left to fret alone. The road began to meander upward, and soon the vista to his right became that of the open ocean, seen from above. A calm but muted sea, its brilliant blue washed to a tranquil green. The sun had fallen behind a cloud, and the waves crashing on the rocks below gathered the sharp edge of sounds telegraphed through cool air.

  As he neared Vicky’s bluff, Ebon felt a sort of walking hypnosis start to draw him forward. He’d come this way because Vicky’s place, unlike anywhere else on the island, felt grounded and permanent in a way that nothing else seemed to — but he hadn’t realized until now just how much he wanted to be here. How much he needed to be here, to see Vicky’s face, to feel the w
armth of her skin, to feel the brush of her fingertips on his cheeks, their nails painted blood red to match her lipstick. How much he needed to be at her front door, to rap his knuckles on its wood — something dark and heavy, like mahogany. He began to move faster, forcing his cadence to remain at a walk and not devolve into a childlike run. A surprising smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, as if he were excited for a reason he couldn’t quite finger. It was the strangest sensation. He barely recalled Vicky at the top of his mind, yet remembered everything about her further down. His memories of her were bone deep, nestled in his core as if clinging to his center. Even if he couldn’t precisely access those memories, they were there, and felt good. Comforting. Secure. A shelter of joy amid chaos.

  He saw Vicky’s home ahead, at the end of her short private drive. For a flitting second, he wondered what he’d tell her — about where he’d been, why he was covered with now-dried salt, and what, if anything, she needed to know about his intervening time with Aimee. With the thought, Ebon wondered again what he might have told Aimee about Vicky. Vicky felt, if anything, familiar. Intimately familiar, like his fingerprints. That meant they’d spent a lot of time together, with missing time from Aimee’s. Surely he hadn’t explained all his absences with camping expeditions, had he?

  Ebon approached the door with a strange, almost extreme confidence. He realized he hadn’t felt truly sure about many things over the past months, but felt quite certain now. He knew every flagstone on Vicky’s stoop; he knew the scratch on her stone mailbox that bothered her so much; he knew the feel of the brass knocker under his fingers. He knew that despite the hour and his state, this was where he belonged. Almost as if Vicky’s house — not Aimee’s cottage — were the place he called home. Vicky might think his salt-covered clothes were odd, but she wouldn’t question them. He hadn’t taken a single wrong turn on his walk here. He’d known every step, and the path had remained obediently fixed. This was where he was supposed to go. This was his port in the storm. This was his place of comfort, occupied by his person of comfort. And above all, Ebon was sure as he raised his hand (not to the knocker or the door, but to the knob, to turn it) that Vicky was inside waiting. For him to come home.

  The door opened before he could touch it. Vicky stood in the doorway wearing a pink flowered dress that was probably too young for her years, like something a girl would wear. But she wore it well, and Ebon took her all in, from her slim shoes to her long pale legs and curvaceous form.

  “You’re late, but I suppose you’re worth waiting for,” she chided him with a playful smirk, “and dinner is still warm.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Underdressed

  “I FEEL UNDERDRESSED,” SAID EBON.

  VICKY was across from him at the small but still elegantly oblong metal-and-glass table. She was the picture of perfection, her bright-red hair pinned high, her skin smooth and polished, her makeup the perfect balance of natural and ornamentation, making the best of what was already amazing without causing her to look like a doll. The floral dress (lots of reds and yellows, laced with little flowers that Ebon thought might be buttercups) was pretty and springlike while still managing to fit in Vicky’s formal dining room, in the year’s much cooler final months.

  Ebon, on the other hand, was wearing a soft black robe. She’d understated his lateness; whatever appointment they’d apparently had was barely overdue. There had been time to bathe, but no clothes to change into afterward. His legs were bare, and, because he hadn’t been able to scrounge underwear, he felt like his genitals were on display. Not that he had to hide them from his present company.

  “You look cute,” she said.

  “You look like you’re ready to go out.”

  “That’s just how I am. You know that.”

  Yes, he did seem to know that. Vicky’s weekend house was on a cottage-dotted island, and she didn’t have a maid, yet every surface was immaculate and free of dust. She still had the bowls of lemons and bright-red apples he remembered from sometime in the past. Ebon wondered how long lemons and apples lasted when used as decoration, and if Vicky drank or made lemonade with the remainders before replacing them. Seemed a waste to simply pitch them.

  “Well, you’re making me feel uncomfortable.” It wasn’t really true. Ebon felt more comfortable right now than he had in … well, in forever. It was a strange sensation. He felt drawn toward Vicky’s abundant cleavage sufficient to pitch an obvious tent in his robe-wearing state, and yet an even larger sensation was that Vicky, with all her finery and modern décor, was here to protect him. Down the shore, Aimee might have gone on some sort of crazed improvement bender, adding a wing to Richard’s old cottage — but if the idea of it bothered Ebon, he could tell Vicky, could ask her to hold him, could nuzzle up to her even in a nonsexual way while she made everything better.

  “Should I put on a robe?” she asked.

  “Or you could dine nude.”

  She laughed and took a sip from her chardonnay. Ebon was drinking pinot noir. For a man who usually told people he barely drank, he had been making plenty of exceptions.

  “I was serious.”

  “Oh, I know.” Another sip. Then she reached for a large bowl. “More veal?”

  “I’m good.” Ebon turned to his plate, stabbed a piece of tender meat, brought it to his mouth, then closed his eyes and rocked his head back. He was floored by the taste even though he’d had a dozen bites already and was savoring a confirmation of memory. He looked out the window — the same wall of glass that extended into the adjacent bedroom. The sky had darkened. A distant part of Ebon wondered what he’d tell Aimee, but a more selfish part of him shoved the thought away. Aimee had been odd this afternoon. Being strange in return was his just desserts. Again, he was struck by how comfortable this was. How easy it seemed. He must come here all the time, he decided, for things to feel this good. Aimee would be used to it, somehow.

  “Are you feeling warmer?”

  Ebon nodded. Vicky’s bath had felt rejuvenating. She’d drawn it for him without asking or being asked, and she’d added bubbles. What grown man took a bath with bubbles? But Ebon had found himself not caring as he’d soaked and warmed, staring through polarized glass at the sunset.

  “Mostly. But I’d feel warmer with pants.” He tapped his feet on the floor. Vicky had given him a pair of slippers to go with the robe (they matched perfectly, of course), but his lower legs were bare.

  “You could wear my pants. I have some pajamas that are stretchy and nearly unisex.”

  “Meh. Why haven’t I left any clothes here?”

  “Why would you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Vicky shrugged.

  “You haven’t let me because it would mess up your décor, wouldn’t it?”

  “I could give you a drawer. Although I’m already upset about your pile of gross salty clothes in my bathroom.”

  “I put them in a garbage bag.”

  Vicky shivered. “Ugh. That’s even worse. It’s like a homeless person came to visit.”

  Ebon almost wanted to say that he felt homeless. It seemed a slight on Aimee and her hospitality (and, strangely, he seemed to remember barely recalling or considering Vicky’s place while at the cottage), but right now things felt backward enough to say it anyway. Or rather, they finally felt forward and proper and right.

  “I probably left a ring in the tub. What with all my filth.” Ebon cracked a large, effortless grin. He’d been right about dinner with Vicky; she really was making everything better. He could almost believe he’d slipped and fallen into the surf on the walk over instead of barely surviving a shipwreck, as he’d told her.

  “How do you keep this place so clean anyway?”

  “I have a Roomba.”

  “And a robotic duster? And a robotic window polisher and bathtub cleaner?”

  “It’s easy when you live by yourself and are only in a place on the weekends. I wipe things down or put them away when I’m finished.” She put he
r fork down. “Do you really want to spend dinner talking about my housekeeping secrets?”

  “Just curious. I can’t tell you enough how amazing this place is.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever told me that.”

  Ebon looked around. “Well. This place is amazing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is your place in the city as amazing?”

  “Ironically, no. It’s nice, but the air filtration is crap, so everything always gets dusty. I rent, so I can’t control the environment as much as I’d like.”

  Ebon looked around. The home they were in was impressive, but most of what made the house so nice were touches that Vicky must have added herself. The freestanding, postmodern tub in the middle of the bathroom floor, for instance, couldn’t have been original equipment unless Vicky was the home’s original owner and had the place built herself.

  “Shame, considering you live there more than you live here.”

  “Better this year than normal though. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time at this house — ” she gestured around the expansive dining room, “ — in years. You’ve got me thinking about Aaron way more than usual though. It’s all insulated for winter, so what the hell. Flights are short. Why not come back through the winter? It’s pretty when the snow falls.”

  “Plus, you have to keep coming back when you have someone staying over every weekend to mooch from you.”