Axis of Aaron

by Johnny B. Truant

  “Don’t go, baby,” Vicky pled.

  “Thank you,” Ebon replied. “For everything.”

  He slipped through the door and found himself outside, the only light coming from Vicky’s shimmering windows. The world was hollow and silent, as if Ebon was its lone occupant.

  It was difficult to leave the light of her doorstep. But once he started to walk even the uncertainty held a dark and brooding comfort.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Three Beads on a Braid

  TRUTH.

  THE WALK WASN’T NEARLY AS daunting as Ebon had imagined. The sliver of moon provided adequate light once his eyes adjusted, and the shoreline, though mostly deserted of its summertime occupants, wasn’t entirely abandoned. A few incandescents here and there lit patches of beach as he walked, and just as the ocean had so recently sent him back to Aaron, a similarly strong force now seemed almost friendly, determined to keep Ebon where he was, while nudging him toward where he needed to be.

  That place, he thought as he walked, had to be the truth.

  Ebon slowly realized that he hadn’t been seeking the truth; he’d been working to justify. He’d wanted to make things okay, because they weren’t okay at all.

  He had to reach Aimee’s. She would help him discover the truth, then face it.

  This wasn’t simple insanity. Everyone seemed to agree that crazy people didn’t suspect themselves of madness, and Ebon, right now, suspected it plenty. But the doubt itself implied reason, which meant that some of what was happening around him had to be real and not just the works of a leaky mind. It seemed impossible, and he was alternately sure that it was a stupid notion and that it was brilliant. The cool, dark salt air gave Ebon nothing to hold onto. It was like ascending a greased ramp with no handholds.

  One moment, Ebon believed he was losing his mind — the conclusion that had felt so certain back at Vicky’s, when she’d seemed to change before his eyes, or when his hand had appeared to rot and fall apart. Or, for that matter, when he’d fainted and been hurled back into that old memory of Holly. That had felt quite real. The memory had slipped away bit by bit afterward like any dream, but his mind’s chronology wanted to wedge it in the middle of his visit to Vicky’s, as if he’d taken a break from their dinner to visit a day years in the past. He couldn’t remember everything about that day now, but what he did recall was a dagger to the gut. He remembered a soft bed, spongy pillows, Holly smiling inches from his face. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t summon hatred for her within the context of that memory. And there was something at the dream’s end, right before Vicky had reappeared above him …

  But Ebon couldn’t remember what it was.

  And then, as he walked, the next moment would usher in an equal but opposite certainty. He’d decide that he wasn’t losing his mind at all. He couldn’t be, because he was considering the idea, and crazy people didn’t do that. This was happening for real. It was impossible, just like the alternative. Ebon had never gone crazy before, but felt quite sure it looked nothing like this. He was confused, but only because of the changes. None of his individual experiences were confusing once he was actually in and adjusted to the moment. None felt unreal, or dreamlike, or like he was floating. Because after all, how could false visions have such substance? When he’d been boating (Good God; had that been just a few hours ago? The answer depended on how crazy he was, har-har), he’d felt the crisp certainty of the wheel under his hands the entire time. He’d heard the crash of the waves around him, the crack of thunder, the blue-turned-white fury of the waves as they’d shoved him back to shore. He’d smelled the fuel reeking from the bilge. He’d even tasted the ocean’s salt as it whipped about him.

  If he was insane, which part of the experience had been insanity? Had it been the crisp reality of motoring toward the mainland, or the crisp reality of being shoved back to Aaron?

  No, it wasn’t that simple. He might not be able to sort his situation if he’d lost his mind, but he should be able to ponder the deck’s feel underfoot, the wash of spray onto his front, and the shifting of the wind.

  So he wasn’t going crazy. Something was wrong with the island after all.

  Unless it was him. Unless it was Ebon, and his marbles were gone.

  Which couldn’t be the answer, given the time he spent wondering if he was losing his mind.

  But then again, weren’t thoughts like The world is out to get me a hallmark of madness? So he was the problem, not the island. Which made sense, because how could the island be wrong with nobody else realizing it?

  Ebon watched the water as he walked, its huge and looming presence at his left like a warning. If he swam straight out into the ice water now, he felt sure he’d get turned around and end up back on shore. The waves would come up suddenly and toss him onto the beach. He’d find a reverse undertow, defying natural laws to drag him toward the island like a magnet rather than out to sea. And if he fought the current, he’d pass out from the cold or hit his head on a rock. And then when he woke up, he’d be on the shore. Or maybe in another strange woman’s bed.

  Ebon thought about wading out into the water just to prove to himself that he was being ridiculous, but what was the point? He’d already done it several times, and had been chilled to the bone once today already.

  A one-liner from something ran through his mind: It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.

  Ebon laughed, noticing how crazy it sounded out here, all alone, in the coming winter’s chill.

  He felt momentarily disoriented. For a few terrible seconds, he not only felt out of place, but also had no idea why. The lack of even the smallest inkling of what had just gone wrong was like losing his footing and finding himself floating in an unforgiving void. Ebon felt a soul-deep flicker of existential terror — a terror that felt like floating in space, somehow able to breathe but unable to die. It was worse than unanchored; it was eternal. Life alone, without bedrock or anything to do but exist in uncertainty. Then the thought came within reach, and Ebon grabbed it, now staring at the idea that had crept under his skin.

  Maybe there is no truth.

  Floating in space, able to breathe but unable to die. Forever.

  The idea’s converse dawned: But of course there’s a truth.

  And that, at least, was something. It was self-evidentially true, looping back upon itself like a serpent swallowing its tail. It had the simplicity of a philosophical postulate: I exist. Therefore, there is a truth.

  His mind returned to his earlier conviction, propping it up with his newest crutch. Of course there was a truth, so of course the world wasn’t a whim, subject to interpretation. Whatever his problem, Ebon could solve it if he just had the guts to face it. No more avoiding. No more turning his head, hoping it would all disappear. It wasn’t normal to see a carnival as both there and not there. It wasn’t normal to lose months. It wasn’t normal to believe in both sides of a contradiction. He’d been rolling with the punches, trying to accept everything his senses gave him with the hope that it’d somehow all work out. But that had been about fear, and a failure to accept the truth.

  Aimee could help him find the truth.

  As he saw the spark of Aimee’s cottage lights around the coming dunes, Ebon became surer the idea was right. He’d tell Aimee everything. He wouldn’t pretend that all was well or normal. He’d tell her about his lost time, the things he’d seen. He’d tell her all about Holly, from end to end — even the things he’d been hiding or keeping safe inside, like the other times she’d cheated and how he’d learned of them by reading her diary. He’d tell the truth as he knew it, and be open to any answer, no matter how uncomfortable.

  Thinking about finally spilling the unadorned truth felt comforting. It was almost like surrendering to the relief of a dropped guard that had taken a mountain of effort to maintain. Yes, he’d be defenseless if he told Aimee everything. And yes, the truth might be terrible. But at least once he could stop struggling, he could relax and let it all go.
Even people about to commit suicide supposedly felt relief once they’d surrendered the battle.

  Ebon opened the door to find Aimee across the large combination living room/dining room/kitchen, sitting in a chair and biting her nails. It was a very un-Aimee-like posture. She was usually urgently flitting from place to place, tripping over everything to keep up with herself. She had a second, quieter mode too where she’d sleep in, read a book, or stare out across the water. This was neither.

  She stood.

  “Oh, holy shit. Holy shit, Ebon. Thank God.”

  Ebon came forward. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey?”

  Apparently his salutation was off, but he shrugged, numb. The cottage around him was all tarps and paintbrushes and plaster dust. It looked a lot like it had when he’d been here as a kid: weathered by age but finally being restored to life. There were the same number of rooms as there’d always been, so far as he could see.

  Aimee came forward and began patting at Ebon as if searching for something. He remembered his last trip through airport security and chuckled. Aimee looked up, almost worried.

  “Are you okay? You’re not wet. Were you on the boat when the storm … ?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “When the storm what?”

  “Do you really not know?”

  “Aimee, hell, just say it.” Hadn’t he come here for the truth? Now she was evasive. Being in the cottage felt like he was caught in a slipstream, and he already felt his earlier conviction being swept away. He remembered being quite sure he’d wanted to uncover the truth no matter the cost, but wasn’t the truth what he saw now? The truth was that the cottage’s same-old living room had just been spackled and sanded the final time and was finally due to be repainted. The truth was that the living room had been re-laid with Spanish tile and built out into a veranda floored with pea stone, lit with torch sconces and adorned with a beautiful black grand piano.

  “Your boat must have come untethered in the storm. It was smashed to bits.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Oh?’”

  “I like this game where you just repeat what I say,” said Ebon.

  Aimee’s eyebrows drew together. She took a single large step and smacked him, hard, in the chest. “Fuck you. I’ve been so worried. I called the police. I called the goddamned Coast Guard. I got in the truck and went out driving, looking for you. I went out on foot. I didn’t have anyone to help me.”

  “You don’t know anyone after living here your whole life?”

  She punched him again, harder. Ebon’s hand went to the spot and rubbed it.

  “Damn you, Ebon.” Her eyes were watering. Aimee looked as if she was about to break down.

  A part of Ebon’s mind rose above the slipstream and remembered his conviction. He was here to find the truth, and getting it meant telling the truth himself. Aimee was the one who could help him uncover that truth. And what’s more, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her cry. She’d always been the strongest between them, probably because she’d built such unassailable defenses under her father’s unflinching rule. Ebon’s wounds were weaker, and that made him weaker too. But of course that was the biggest lie of all, and interestingly Richard Frey was at the heart of them just as he was for Aimee.

  The walls seemed to scroll sideways, as if flying by on a highway. When they blurred to a stop, Ebon found himself looking at a different cottage. Now the place looked older than ancient. Cobwebs threaded every corner; plaster was stripped to the lath in great chunks; stains dripped to the floors, which were unseating and splintered. The windows were broken; Ebon crossed his arms against a sudden chill. Only Aimee was unchanged, and seemingly not noticing what had just happened.

  “This is just like you,” she said. Behind her, a huge chunk of plaster fell away, raising a cloud. A rodent (rat or mouse, Ebon couldn’t tell) scurried away and into a hole in the opposite corner. “Always making jokes. You know, you’re supposed to be the quiet one. Sometimes it’s best to stay quiet and not make a goddamned joke every second. There are times when being flip just makes things worse.”

  Ebon blinked. The truth. However much it hurt to hear, he had to find the truth. And to find the truth, he had to start with the truth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’d fucking better be. So where were you?”

  Ebon resisted the impulse to call her “Mom” and joke about her need to check up on him. Instead he said, “I was at Vicky’s.”

  “Who is Vicky?”

  “The woman I’ve been sleeping with.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She lives on the bluff. Apparently I’ve been keeping her from you.”

  “‘Apparently?’”

  Ebon opened his mouth to say again how she was just repeating his words, but that would be another joke. He forced himself above the slipstream as it tried to drag him into acceptance and denial. He could feel it like a force whispering in his ear to believe all was well, the way he always felt the ocean’s insistence returning him to neutral.

  “I’m not well, Aimee.”

  “I guess not.” She crossed her arms. In front of Ebon’s eyes, she fell backward in years until she was again the spiteful teenager he’d known as a boy. Then she blinked into something older, her smile relaxing into thirty years of charm. Younger. Older.

  “I’m seeing things.”

  She shook her head. “Forgive me, but right now I don’t really give a shit about your mid-life crisis epiphanies.”

  “No, I don’t mean … ” Ebon began. But before he could finish, the living room stretched long and belled wide, its floor turning to polished marble laid with friction mats, an enormous in-ground pool forming behind Aimee, lighting from beneath the blue water’s surface the moment it formed. Greek statues grew like grass along the room’s edges. In the corner was a fountain, the rhythmic sound of its flowing water seductive. The walls became glass, but all Ebon could see beyond them were the dull shapes of nighttime dunes, the ghost of the crescent moon on the ocean’s gentle waves.

  “You don’t mean what?”

  “Is that a salt water pool?” Ebon asked. Was she part of this, or was she beyond it? Was he seeing things, or was he going places and taking Aimee with him? He had to know if she saw the room’s new elements even if she didn’t realize anything had changed to create them. It would show Ebon the shape of his madness, and let him know just how frightened he should be.

  Aimee turned. “Did we not already have this discussion in depth before we built it?”

  “How did we build a huge indoor pool in just a few months?”

  “Jesus, Ebon.”

  “Just the two of us. Working alone. On an island, where supply deliveries are rare.”

  Aimee rolled her eyes as if frustrated at his change of subject. “You want to hook up with some random woman, fine. You want to wander off all night and leave me to worry, fine. You want to feel I have no right to worry and think I’m being a nagging bitch about it, fine. But I don’t see why you feel you have to lie to me about any of it. It’s insulting.”

  “I wasn’t … ”

  “You want to make little jokes when I’m trying to be serious, fine.” She blinked hard and looked to the side, as if fighting something. Ebon looked away to give her a second of implied privacy, but when he looked up the cottage was as it had been in Richard’s day. He could see his fishing poles hanging from the wall like trophies, his tackle boxes at the wall’s foot. The photos on the shelves were all of Aimee as a little girl, and at least a third featured a stunning brown-haired woman with Aimee’s cheekbones, Aimee’s lips.

  “You want to make it like this between us, fine.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, whatever, Ebon.” Aimee’s head was still turned, and Ebon found himself wanting to reach forward and turn it around, to see her face. She used to dismiss things with “Oh, whatever” all the time, but it was a juvenile response, just like Ebon’s jokes. In many wa
ys, Aimee hadn’t grown up at all — not as fully as Vicky had, for sure — but in other ways she very much had. She’d always had a psychic split down her middle: stunted by arrested development at the same time she was so mature as to be jaded. Just like Ebon.

  “Aimee,” he said. “What have I told you about Holly?”

  She was still turned away, her posture now betraying more anger than anything else. But Ebon had known Aimee for years. They’d never lost touch. Not really. He knew her moods as well as she knew them, maybe better. This was hurt. And yet he didn’t even know how he’d hurt her.

  “Aimee?”

  The room around them became old and crumbled, reeking of mildew and droppings. Then modern, filled with stark chrome-and-black furniture. Aimee’s hair lightened. Darkened. Grew scattered gray at the roots.

  “You once told me that when I was ready to talk, we could talk,” he said.

  Aimee looked up. Her features almost seemed to be shifting before him, but one thing never changed. Her eyes were always, always the same, and always had been. He got the impression of an animal in a cage, the cage growing and evolving while the animal stayed the same.

  “Now you want to talk.”

  “I don’t know what else to do. I’m … ” Despite his decision to tell the unvarnished truth, he didn’t know where to start. She had to be willing to talk. She had to think he wasn’t beyond his mind, unable to hear her replies. “It’s hard,” he finished.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Please. What did I tell you?”

  “You know what you told me.”

  “I told you she cheated.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that when she died, she was with her lover.”

  Aimee looked vaguely uncomfortable, but she also looked like she wanted to hear him. Not for Ebon’s sake, but for her own. Then, in a moment, Ebon realized what was truly going on: she’d been trying to get him to open up, but it hadn’t been for his sake. It had been for hers.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” came her voice.