Axis of Aaron

by Johnny B. Truant

  “It’s not like that. Shh.”

  “It’s one thing or another. You can be in love, or you can be like … like you were going to.” Richard wiped his eyes. “You’re too young. That’s why you need to wait. One or the other, Aimee.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re my little peach. You know I love you, don’t you?”

  Aimee’s eyes flicked to Ebon, trying to send him a silent message. “I know.” She draped her arm around her father’s neck, nestling his head. Impossibly, she began to pat it.

  “I’m so sorry, Aimee.”

  Ebon stared. Wheezed. Bled.

  Aimee laid her head atop her father’s as he cried. “I know you are.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Closed Windows

  > OMG I JUST SAW THE neighbors dog run by with what looked like a cat in its mouth

  >> omg

  > i don’t think it was really a cat lol

  >> oh good

  > i think it was a honey badger

  >> honey badger don’t give a shit

  Aimee’s callback to their earlier exchange about a hilarious online video made Ebon do a spit take, spattering his computer screen with drops of Crystal Light. He considered himself fortunate to have set the glass down without incident. The sun was streaming through his office window in thin sheaves like yellow daggers and the street outside was (for a city street anyway) relatively quiet. Quiet enough to hear the radio on the corner of his desk, currently playing something by Pearl Jam. Ebon had never been a fan. The songs, for him, all ran together.

  Ebon typed his reply to Aimee in the chat window:

  > omg now i need to watch the honey badger video again

  >> lol

  > i don’t have time for youtube. i’m trying to work

  >> be like honey badger and don’t give a shit about work

  This time, Ebon was ready and avoided the spit take. Aimee always repeated her jokes on LiveLyfe chat. He wanted to believe she was just adhering to comedy’s first cardinal rule (“If something’s funny, say it once … but if it’s not funny, say it over and over until it is”), but Ebon suspected the repetition was just Aimee’s inability to focus coming through. It had been fifteen years since he’d last seen her face, and yet she hadn’t changed a bit.

  > i seriously have to go

  >> oh fine abandon me

  > what can you be doing anyway?

  >> starting work on my dads cottage finally

  > lies

  >> seriously. i bought paint and plaster today off island

  > i don’t believe it

  >> true

  > you’ve been talking about fixing it up for like five years

  >> come see for yourself

  > maybe holly and i can come this summer

  >> don’t bring holly. i want you all to myself

  Ebon stared at the screen.

  >> kidding. i want to meet her

  >> assuming she’s okay with you flirting with an old girlfriend that is

  Another moment passed. Finally Aimee wrote:

  >> yt?

  > just had to close the blinds. i have more to do today than just wait for your chats every few seconds.

  Then he added:

  > lol

  Ebon had been thinking about accepting Aimee’s invitation to video chat for a while, and right now wished he had done so rather than demurring to text for a reason he couldn’t quite understand. Tone was too hard to read in email, and harder in chat. But somehow going to video had felt too wrong, like crossing a line they’d managed to skirt for years.

  Ebon glanced through the last few chat messages, remembering something that had pinged at his brain. LiveLyfe let you delete individual messages from chat history, so he moved up and deleted Aimee’s joke about wanting Ebon all to himself, then the one about ex-girlfriends. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, and Holly should feel free to look at any of this (not that she would), but there was a chance she might misinterpret a line like that, not knowing Aimee as well as Ebon did. It was crazy to think that some people thought Internet friendships were odd or stilted. He probably knew Aimee better than he knew anyone despite the distance, and their depth of knowledge about each other had only grown during their separation. Email and chat were perfect replacements for Aimee’s old marathon letters. Technology had allowed their communications to become shorter but more frequent — more casual, friendlier, more intimate. Ebon knew about Aimee’s marriage, her divorce, her miscarriage, and of course her father’s death, but it hadn’t taken a backbreaker of a handwritten letter to learn it.

  Ebon wasn’t sure how to feel about that last one — about Richard’s passing. On one hand, he felt bad because Aimee felt bad. But secretly — and he thought this as his hand stole subconsciously to the side of his jaw, to his ribs with their titanium plates — he felt relieved for her. And even spitefully grateful.

  >> i’m going to add a porch outside dads old room. where the phantom door is

  > phantom door ??

  >> the one that goes nowhere

  > clueless

  >> did you never go upstairs?

  > lol your dad would have liked that, us upstairs together

  For some reason, typing the sentence made Ebon shiver.

  > > door opens into nothing off the master br. i was always afraid dad would open it and walk out and fall when he was drunk

  Ebon stared at the message. It no longer surprised him. The dirty little secret of Richard’s drinking had stopped being secret when Ebon had begun emailing Aimee. By that time she’d already moved out, distancing herself from Richard on the advice of a therapist after he’d beaten Ebon nearly to death. They’d decided, for Aimee’s sake, to blame it on a gang of teens beneath the pier, but the psychologist had been right nonetheless. Too right for comfort.

  > i really do have to get back to work :(

  >> cool. ciao

  Ebon closed the chat window. For a moment, he considered downloading and installing an app he’d been meaning to get — the one that shut down all social interaction during specified periods of time. But he’d been emailing Aimee in fits and starts for well over a dozen years now — and chat, though infinitely more obtrusive and disruptive, had been an evolution that Ebon had to admit he rather enjoyed. Yes, her messages constantly derailed him. But when he and Aimee returned to one of their talkative phases, he always found he never wanted it totally off.

  And besides, Aimee wasn’t the only one who needed to vent. She was the only person in the world (other than Holly, of course) who knew that Holly was cheating on him. He’d known about it for three months, and they’d only been married for six. Ebon knew that Holly had cheated on him throughout their dating life too. He’d never caught or confronted her, but he’d read it in her diary. Aimee had helped him through it all.

  There was a photo of them on the corner of his desk. Ebon picked it up, hefting the frame’s weight, and looked closely. It was from their honeymoon, in Hawaii. He was wearing a short-sleeve red shirt and white pants, looking very “islands” in a way that Holly found hilarious. She was dressed to the casual nines, understatedly beautiful in a way that was neither over the top nor smacking of effort. Her makeup was perfect and light, her hair back and shining in the Pacific sun. She was wearing a pretty blue dress that he remembered was just shy of modest — and, because it was Holly, he recalled the way she’d worn nothing underneath.

  The DJ returned and announced another uninterrupted half-hour rock block after some words from the sponsors. Ebon resisted the urge to kill it. He didn’t work well in quiet. Even if he had to labor through promises of discounts on laser hair removal (“Buy one body area, get one free!”), it was better than silence. That was why he liked the city. It was always alive and never made him sit with only his brain for company, asking questions he couldn’t answer in the spaces between thoughts.

  Are you ever going to ask for that commission increase from Mr. Avery?

  Are you ever going
to confront Holly?

  On the radio, two women with annoying voices yammered back and forth about dental whitening and how they were now getting glances from guys who used to ignore them. Ebon wasn’t sure this was a good thing. Who wanted to be noticed for their teeth?

  He thought about teeth, and laser hair removal. An ad for a rental car company came on, featuring Tom Cochrane’s “Life is a Highway.” Even the commercials on the ‘90s station were on-period. Ebon remembered how his parents had had an old radio with a cassette deck, and how he’d recorded this song when it had come on. How old had he been? Younger than ten anyway. He’d listened to the tape over and over. Because when you thought about it, life really was a highway. And Ebon wanted to drive it all night long.

  Yeah.

  He’d been thinking something a moment ago. He couldn’t remember what it was. Wasn’t sure he wanted to, really. He returned to his client roster and clicked around, not really being productive but not truly wasting time, gathering details from the ACT database that he’d already known because he had a mind for details without exerting effort. Ebon was the best because he recalled pretty much everything about everyone. That was why he deserved that increased commission. Clients hooked up with Ebon Shale and stayed with Ebon Shale, not because he was so excellent at negotiating (he was fine, but not exemplary), but because he was everyone’s friend. And Ebon was everyone’s friend because he listened well and remembered flawlessly. Ebon knew everything about everyone he worked with. It was his superpower. It was why he did so well, why he earned the big bucks and would have a job with the agency for as long as he wanted.

  The commercials ended. Ebon didn’t recognize the next song, but remembered its tune — some flash-in-the-pan band that had risen like a bottle rocket around 1992. Rapidly up, then rapidly down. One hit, and no more. What must that be like, to have one event drastically change your life, but only temporarily? Where were those people now? Were their lives better for having lived through those ups and downs, or would they have done better to remain in anonymity?

  Ebon clicked at the hidden LifeLyfe window. He really didn’t need more chat to distract him. He also kind of wished Aimee would ping at him. Holly was out. He was bored. Ebon wanted to be entertained rather than work. If Holly were here, he could have sex. That would help him procrastinate. Yes, she was cheating. But she was still Holly. She was still sweet and fun and funny, and she was (truth be told) still a really good time in the sack. He might have been fooling himself, but he also could have sworn that she really, really still loved him. It was as if she fucked some other guy here and there but always came home, choosing Ebon at the end of the day. In a way, it was touching. Holly was a free bird. Locking her in a cage and forcing her to be faithful would, of course, keep her faithful. But would she resent it? The saying went, “If you love someone, set them free.” That’s what Ebon was doing. And time and time again, Holly returned.

  He looked again at the honeymoon photo, picking it up to peer closer. They’d laughed a lot on that trip. A lot. Holly always rocked Ebon’s socks off, and he always tickled her funny bone. Those were each other’s purposes to one another, and they were jobs each did well. Did it really matter that she was getting a bit extra on the side — not as a replacement for Ebon, but as a cherry on top of an otherwise delightful sundae?

  Yes. Yes, it mattered.

  Ebon didn’t like to think about it, but he wanted to confront her about it even less. With the exception of the infidelity, they were the perfect couple. They laughed constantly; they had a great time together; they almost never fought. If Ebon said something about her cheating, that balance would teeter. He’d either have to threaten Holly with his departure (to save his pride) or stay (and swallow that pride, living as a cuckold). He’d have to forbid her from sleeping around, knowing she would never be able to stop because she was Holly, and Holly was whom he’d married. She’d always had insatiable appetites without any filter. She’d always chased desire without restraint or shame. He couldn’t change her. He’d be as likely to change the stars.

  He could either have Holly as she was, or not have Holly at all.

  Ebon set the photo down with a sigh. It was too much to think about. He’d think about it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

  The song changed, the radio now playing something he hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. It was by that band of two brothers who seemed to always be fighting. Oasis. And the song was one he could swear he hadn’t heard since he’d heard it fresh, when it was new. Called “Wonderwall.”

  A light, catchy hook on an acoustic guitar.

  The first words of a first verse, every one familiar.

  He and Aimee used to listen to this song. This album. Over and over, at her father’s cottage, on that little CD boom box. Despite having chatted with Aimee not ten minutes ago, Ebon found himself swimming through forgotten nostalgia. How much time had passed? He thought of Aaron, of the island, of Aimee’s promise that she was, finally, going to fix up that old cottage she’d been threatening to restore for years. Now that her father was gone, he’d be unable to stop her meddling. She’d be able to make the place fine again, now that its blight had shuffled off this mortal coil.

  Richard Frey was in the ground, for better or worse from Aimee’s perspective. Even after years of emails and chats detailing their ever-contentious relationship, Ebon could tell that father and daughter were still intertwined, each having grown older as half of the other. When Richard died, Ebon had allowed an actual conversation with Aimee, and he’d been able to hear the grief in her voice. Halfway through the call he’d realized speaking might have been a mistake. Because while Aimee had been struggling to bar the tears from her voice, Ebon had fought to keep elation from his. That big, bullying, overbearing motherfucker was dead. Ebon felt old bruises resurge then vanish forever. He felt relief for himself, for Aimee. Yes, she would hurt for a while. But the piece of Aimee’s heart that Richard had wrapped like a parasite would grow into its own, finally able to breathe. She wouldn’t be half of a codependent pair — a pair that had remained nearly as codependent even after Aimee had moved across town whether she’d admit it or not. Now she could be the Aimee she was meant to be.

  You’re lucky you have Holly, Aimee had sobbed. Someone to talk to. Someone who loves you, and whose job it is to hug you and promise that everything will be all right.

  Yes. Ebon had Holly. But while they had plenty of fun, Holly had never been that person for Ebon. He had explained that to Aimee — in chats he deleted afterward to avoid hurting Holly’s feelings if she ever uncovered them, which she was of course welcome to do — but Aimee never really believed him. She kept saying that Ebon was just being Ebon, and that if anyone knew Ebon, it was Aimee. She told him that relationships were complicated and not all the same, but that if he’d been with Holly for a decade and had decided to tie the knot, there was love there. Not just familiarity and laughter, but honest to God love. Ebon wondered if Holly knew the difference.

  So Ebon had steered the conversation back to Aimee and her loss, away from his problems. He told Aimee that everything would be all right, over and over again.

  Now, in his office, Ebon listened to a light strumming of guitar chords. A soft, accented voice, singing, “Maybe you’re gonna be the one that saves me.”

  Maybe.

  Ebon’s phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  He listened while a brusque yet somewhat tentative voice rattled off a string of nonsense words. The voice called him “Mr. Shale.” Ebon interrupted, in the middle of the nonsense, and corrected his caller, saying he preferred Ebon.

  “Mr. Shale,” the voice asserted, its tone somehow apologetic, going out of its way to disobey Ebon’s familiarity, to irritate him, to be formal, to keep its distance. “Do you understand what I’ve just said?”

  “So I should come down.” Ebon’s eyes strayed to the honeymoon photo. To the corkboard beside his desk, where there were three more photos of
Holly. One showing her face close up, emerald eyes smiling, a painted turtle in her hands. Ebon remembered that day. They’d laughed and played. Afterward Holly had said she wanted to fuck him in a public aquarium’s bathroom. One photo was of them together — a selfie Ebon had taken by holding the camera (it had been a camera back then) at arm’s length. The Brooklyn Bridge’s arch was in the background. They’d laughed on their walk through New York, and Holly had dragged him back to the hotel room and drained him dry. The last was one of those ride photos taken at an amusement park by a mounted camera. You could see both of Ebon’s hands in the photo because they were up. You could only see Holly’s left hand because her other was down. Ebon remembered what it had been doing, and how hard Holly had been laughing.

  “Mr. Shale … ”

  He did love her. He really, really did. It was probably a bit dramatic to say she was the one who’d saved him, but she’d been the last in his string of admittedly stilted female interactions. She’d corrected so much of Julia’s damage. She may or may not have been his soul mate, but she might just have been his wonderwall.

  “Yes, yes,” said Ebon. “I just need to finish what I’m doing. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “You should come immediately, sir.”

  Ebon blinked. His vision was blurring. His eyes were watering for some reason. The honeymoon photo. The aquarium photo. The Brooklyn Bridge selfie. The amusement park ride. All were difficult to see, as if disappearing behind a fog.