The Infinite Onion

by Alice Archer

  He was willing to drop everything.

  “Thank God,” I said. “Drive safely, but hurry.”

  We finished the call to the sound of the minivan starting.

  While I waited, I showered off the heaviness of an afternoon spent wrestling with truth and fantasy in the confinement of the DeVille, and came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter if Grant had caught me off guard with a kiss I’d then co-opted to use in a fantasy—his disregard for my privacy was a deal-breaker and I wanted him gone.

  Twenty minutes after I’d called, Freddie slipped into my house with a leer and a purr. “Howdy, babe.”

  “Not in the bedroom,” I said when he tried to steer me in that direction.

  “No privacy in the living room,” he countered.

  I used his attempt to kiss me as a lure to draw him toward the arched doorway on the far side of the great room.

  “Library?” Freddie asked.

  “No. No spunk allowed anywhere near the velvet couch.”

  “Well, then.” Freddie reached for the door handle of the room across the wide hallway from the library. “The old hideout it is.”

  My childhood hideout began as the closet where Granddad stored his collection of textiles—raw material for the strange, magnificent quilts he sold for thousands of dollars. I’d kept the last quilt he made me on my bed ever since Dad died. A dozen more he’d made for me over the years lay neatly stacked in my bedroom closet.

  Renovation of the closet occurred soon after I started first grade, which I’d hated. Life at home was theater productions, courtyard parties, art experiments, and everyone treating me like I was special. School was horrible and pointless and far away. I’d rebelled, cried, thrown tantrums, argued. Dad urged me to paint it out of my system, but grew weary of tripping over stacks of dour paintings no one wanted to look at.

  As a desperate measure, Dad and Granddad removed the textiles and shelving from Granddad’s closet, cut in a row of windows to the courtyard at my eye level, and installed a wall-to-wall mattress. I took to the tiny room like a pasha. Fabric draped the ceiling, layers of pillows covered the mattress, and I hogged the Christmas lights from January to November.

  Not much about the hideaway had changed. The mattress made it easy to kneel and spy on Grant and the kids in the courtyard.

  Freddie left his shoes in the hallway and flopped onto his back, sending up a spray of pillows. “Batten down the doors and windows.” He rubbed a hand up my shin. “I’m going to play you like the fine instrument you are. You’ll be loud. I don’t want that guy to butt in.”

  “His name is Grant.”

  “I don’t care. Come here.”

  Daylight filtered through the wild roses on the trellis to flutter shadows around the room. I smiled at Freddie. He smiled back.

  The pause lengthened.

  “Well?” I said, still wound up from my fantasy in the DeVille, more than ready to be played.

  Freddie didn’t move, other than to wink and crook his finger.

  I caught myself before I rolled my eyes. I’d forgotten his tendency to make me do all the work. “You talk a big game,” I teased.

  Freddie used his foot around my thigh to try to nudge me closer.

  Not what I was hoping for. Man up, I chided myself. Ask for what you want.

  “Go on, then, Freddie. Play me.”

  “Well, I would if you’d get over here. What’s the holdup?”

  If Freddie stood, he could put his junk in my face and I’d give him everything I had, all the lick, suck, slide he’d complained about missing. I willed a fantasy forward to get me into that desperate space again where I needed.

  I got… nothing. Nothing from my imagination. Nothing from Freddie.

  Exasperated, I dropped onto my back beside him. Then he roused himself, but only enough to roll toward me and put his hand on my face.

  I stuck out my tongue to try to reach his thumb, to pull it into my mouth.

  Freddie laughed and swiped the wetness from my cheek.

  Only because I was staring at Freddie’s neck at that moment, I noticed his nervous swallow. “What?” I asked.

  “That guy, Grant, has been making me think.”

  “He’s leaving. He’s—”

  “Invasive.”

  I thought of Grant’s thumb in my mouth. “He sure is.”

  The nod Freddie began as we stared at each other extended past its expiration date. Freddie didn’t often turn serious. I sat up and leaned against the wall so I could see him better.

  “I’ve been thinking about us,” Freddie said. “I got some news yesterday I want to share with you. Good news.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That exposé series I proposed to the news journal was accepted. It means I’ll be leaving Vashon a bit early.”

  “How early?”

  “Mid-August instead of mid-September.”

  “Oh.” The heaviness I’d washed away in the shower was back. Freddie and I hadn’t had sex since his return, and he’d already be leaving. “In four weeks?”

  “It’s a big opportunity for me, Oliver. Really big.”

  “Well, then… um. Congratulations. What’s the series about?”

  “Japanese-American trade issues. I want to spend a month in D.C. doing research and interviews before I fly to Tokyo.”

  “I see. So how long will you be away this time?”

  Freddie held my gaze. “Six months.”

  Half a year before I’d see him again.

  Freddie patted my leg. “I know. It’s a long time.”

  All I could do was blink.

  “I’ve been thinking about our talk in the library,” Freddie said. “If you came with me, I’d be willing to try being exclusive.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “Think about it. If you went somewhere new, your art would flourish.”

  A flare of irritation made me look away. Freddie and I rarely discussed my art. What did he know about what would make it flourish? Maybe my art was already flourishing.

  “Clementine and Talia can take care of your place while you’re away. I mean, it’s not like you have any pets or…” Freddie’s expression turned thoughtful.

  “Or what?”

  “I was going to say ‘or livestock,’ but I can’t decide if your hobo is more farm animal or wild animal.”

  My burst of laughter ended with a snort. “Stop it. We’re talking about us.”

  “I was talking about us. You weren’t saying much.”

  With an actual offer of exclusivity on the table, my doubts rose to the surface. I thought of the photo on my fridge. “What about your Japanese-guy preference?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on. We’ve never talked about it, but I know you. Even in high school, you mostly dated Japanese guys.”

  “You’re not Japanese. Tommy wasn’t Japanese. Neither were Alfie or James or—”

  “Okay.” That time I did roll my eyes. “The fact that you could make a list that long off the top of your head makes my point just as well. I’m wary of your ability to be exclusive, with or without me.”

  “You know what, Oliver? I’m trying here.”

  “Okay. I know. But… what if I go along with you on your trip and you don’t like it? Or what if I don’t like it and want to come home? Would you still want to get together then, when you’re on Vashon?”

  Freddie’s silence confirmed my suspicion.

  “There’s an or else, isn’t there?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to use the or else. Come with me and I won’t have to.”

  “So… what? If I don’t go with you you’ll… Wait. I know. You’ll stay in Tokyo and find a guy. If you’re based in Tokyo instead of on Vashon, you can be at home with your guy all year.”

  “My guy
could be you. I want it to be you,” Freddie said.

  Well, that was something, at least. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Our history comforts me.” Freddie must have seen my skepticism. “Oliver, all I’m asking you to do is take a chance. I’m not asking you to sell your place. I’m not even asking you to move to Tokyo—or not yet anyway. Just get off the island, leave the state, have an adventure. Come with me to D.C. as a start. We can see what happens from there.”

  Leave the state. Have an adventure. I pictured my suitcase on the front porch.

  Freddie’s face softened. It struck me that he really did love me.

  “Thank you for the offer,” I told him. “Let me think about it, okay?” I mentally added a second suitcase for art supplies.

  “Okay.” Freddie sighed and laid his head on my chest. He smelled clean and felt solid and familiar in my arms. Not a fantasy, but a real man I could really have. I imagined us holding our child’s hands as we ambled around a Japanese Shinto shrine and Freddie regaled us with legends.

  A series of loud thumps coming from the great room made Freddie startle and bump his head on my chin.

  “Ow,” I said. “I’ll get it. It’s probably Grant.”

  “You’re leaving? Now? Can’t you ignore him?”

  “The kitchen lights are on. He knows I’m here. He’ll knock until I answer.”

  “I can’t believe you put up with that.”

  “Not for much longer.” I’d decided to cut a week off my arrangement with Grant, which meant he’d be gone in a week, at the end of week four. Then my life could return to normal for four whole weeks before I—maybe—joined Freddie on an adventure.

  I dawdled down the hallway, in spite of Grant’s clamor of knocks on the back door, to enjoy the press of Freddie’s hips against mine as he walked close behind me, his arms around my shoulders.

  In the great room, Grant’s thumps sounded much louder.

  “What?” I yelled as I flung open the door.

  Grant’s gaze shifted up from my feet to my mouth and went cold, probably when he saw Freddie behind me. I stomped a mental boot on the memory of Grant’s kiss. It was a violation.

  “Don’t you have a home to get back to?” Freddie asked Grant.

  I was sure Grant would take offense, but all he did was laugh and take a step into the house with his duffel bag.

  “Sure, come on in.” Thick sarcasm dripped from Freddie’s words.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Grant said.

  Freddie turned to look at me. “I really can’t believe you let him get away with this shit.”

  “I did your bidding for another week,” Grant said to me. “I know it’s a day early, but I’d like to collect my reward now. Good sir,” he added with a leer. “Also, side note, Freddie can go fuck himself.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Freddie is a guest in my home.”

  “Sure. I get it. Freddie is a guest, so I should talk nice to him, but I’m the hired help, so he can insult me as much as he wants. Understood. Now show me belowstairs to the laundry so I can leave your lordships to your very important and majestic business.”

  I held my ground to keep Grant from coming farther into the house. “No. Not unless you come in with your grown-up manners.”

  “Manners? That’s all it takes to be invited in as a guest? Duly noted, and yet totally unnecessary. I have no interest in spending any more time than absolutely necessary in this…” Grant looked around the great room with disdain. “Yard sale waiting to happen.”

  Freddie stepped between me and Grant. “You are not welcome here.”

  Grant didn’t budge.

  “Oliver,” Freddie said, “I’m not leaving you here with this asshole. You’d damn well better come with me to D.C. in August.”

  Grant’s face remained set on hard-ass, but his eyes turned vulnerable.

  “I’ve got this.” I laid a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “Back off, please.”

  “You heard him, big guy.” Grant sneered down on Freddie from his great height. “Back off and give your creepy curator boyfriend a chance to defend his own honor.”

  I kicked at Grant’s duffel bag. “At least I have more to my name to curate than your… filth.” If I didn’t rein myself in, I was going to get too mean and regret it.

  Grant gave me a sly look. “Was I too filthy for you in the—”

  “Stop. Stop right there. That is not at all relevant.” Since my open relationship with Freddie remained in force, my kiss with Grant didn’t matter, but I really didn’t want Freddie to find out about the DeVille. I hadn’t wanted anyone to find out about the DeVille, but Grant was a nosy son of a bitch. “It doesn’t matter.”

  The hardness on Grant’s face shifted to sadness. He closed his mouth, picked up the duffel bag, and backed out the door.

  “Good riddance,” Freddie muttered.

  Grant looked past Freddie and caught my eye. “You should make up your mind who you want to help.”

  When Freddie tried to close the door in Grant’s face, I stopped him. “What do you mean?”

  Grant waved a hand at me. “You stick your sharp, coppery face into my business, trying to help me, but you can’t even help yourself. You’re like a lost penny, driven over so many times you forgot what you were made for.”

  I slammed the door.

  “What in the—” Freddie started.

  “It’s over. Come on.” I took Freddie’s hand and led him out the front door toward the garage, in search of distance and privacy, and to ask about the timelines for D.C.

  If I asked, if Freddie told me, it didn’t register. Nothing much registered after Grant’s parting shot, except Freddie’s description of an apartment he’d found in D.C.

  I sent Freddie away with an apology for my lack of focus, and then went for a walk.

  When I arrived home, I entered through the back door and tripped over Grant’s flattened duffel on the floor in front of the laundry closet. I’d been gone long enough for a washer load of flannel shirts to finish.

  I transferred the shirts to the dryer. Turned it on.

  Waited, but Grant didn’t come back.

  Ate dinner on the couch with a tray on my lap. Watched nothing happen on the empty stage. Felt the hours of evening slide into night.

  In my bedroom, I pulled Granddad’s quilt out from under the tarp on the bed, carried it through the great room to my old bed in my old hideaway.

  Chapter 50

  Grant

  When I arrived at the back door with my laundry, Freddie and Oliver looked like they’d been having sex. Oliver’s hair band had slid way off to one side, and Freddie hovered around Oliver, handsy and close, like maybe they hadn’t finished.

  I enjoyed the idea that I’d interrupted them more than I had a right to.

  After my spat with Oliver and Freddie, I lugged my duffel to the courtyard and sulked at the picnic table until I heard faint voices. I snuck around the house to pinpoint them, then peered through a line of trees and rhododendrons to watch Freddie and Oliver bump shoulders as they ambled toward the empty garage. Maybe they’d continue past the garage to the car behind the gate, where I’d kissed Oliver.

  The memory made me surprised to be me all over again.

  I couldn’t believe I’d kissed Oliver, or that he’d responded the way he had, with loose, dreamy eagerness—until I accidently pushed him to the floor. I wished I’d touched his hair. Mostly I wished we hadn’t stopped.

  Near the garage, Oliver looked up at Freddie and they… Yep. Damn it. They kissed. I held my breath, undecided about whether I wanted to watch, but the kiss only lasted two seconds before Oliver pulled away, tugging Freddie onward.

  Forget it.

  I retrieved my duffel from the courtyard, let myself in the back door, and set out to explore the house, on the pretense of looking for the la
undry room. What I really wanted to find was the room with windows facing the courtyard.

  I found it, but I wished I hadn’t.

  The pillows in Oliver’s nooky palace were still warm. I knew because, like a pitiful loser, I bent down to feel them.

  Back in the main room, I found the laundry area behind a set of folding doors to the left of the back door. I shoved shirts into the washing machine and started it.

  My first priority was to solve my destitution problem, but, Jesus. The moment I landed a job and a room, I was going to get busy on a hookup app. In the meantime, I reassured myself with replays of Freddie and Oliver’s tepid kiss.

  Back in the courtyard, away from the temptation of opening Oliver’s bedroom door to see what he was painting, I sat at the picnic table, journal open in front of me, and wrote BOUNDARIES.

  Oliver was all about boundaries, which I tended to ignore. Because I was an ass. I sighed. A mental audit of my marriage gave me a measure of relief. Laura had expressed concern about a lot of things, but never about me being inappropriate with her boundaries.

  PERMISSION, I wrote on the next page.

  For the first time, my capital letters looked like yelling, and I suddenly knew what had bugged me before the bramble adventure. I turned another page and wrote PERMISSION SLIPS.

  I hadn’t considered my activities with the kids from the perspective of a parent. I remembered Penelope walking into my campsite the day we met and felt a jolt of panic. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to provoke a parental shitstorm.

  The Sharpie and I spent an unpleasant half-hour of debate about what to write next, if anything. Finally, I turned the page and wrote, NEW RULE #1: ASK FOR HELP, which struck me as long overdue.

  Oliver can do better than tepid.

  That thought woke me from a doze at the picnic table, the side of my face pressed against the edge of my journal.

  I couldn’t understand what Oliver saw in Freddie, a poser who missed half of what Oliver said and who wanted Oliver to go to D.C in August. Oliver, the zany, gorgeous ignoramus, would probably do it. Bad news for me. I’d hoped to finagle an extension of our deal and hang around through August, instead of leaving at the end of July. It wouldn’t surprise me if Oliver, under Freddie’s hostile influence, banned me when our contract ended. I wouldn’t blame him. I tended to be a freeloader when I could get away with it. Laura had pointed that out to me more than once.