Axis of Aaron

by Johnny B. Truant

  Ebon was pretty sure he’d seen paintings of boats in museums, but decided not to bring it up. Maybe there was a line between a painting of a boat and a painting that happens to contain a boat. He’d never been an artist and didn’t understand such matters.

  “No reason at all,” Aimee said, now moving away from the oven and setting an egg timer on the counter — for what, Ebon couldn’t imagine, though the oven was still on. “Because painting boats is like art masturbation.”

  Ebon didn’t want to ask what that meant. He looked at the door. Then he turned (while she wasn’t looking; he got the idea that he’d be yelled at if he looked away during this vital boat-painting discussion) and peered out at the bay. The wind through the trees was still slight; the waves on the water were still gentle and absent of whitecaps even at his vision’s limit. The ocean side would be choppier, but it was usually simple math: double the chop on the bay side to approximate the chop to the east. Perfect conditions, right now, to head out and give Aaron’s water the finger. Perfect conditions for testing the box it seemed determined to keep him inside.

  “They need to do something to feel like artists.” Aimee made her way to the kitchen’s far side, where they’d built a breakfast nook that was, as always, packed with more of Aimee’s bouquets from the flower shop. “But do they take a risk and show their souls? No. It’s like these flowers. You can play it safe, but a good florist knows that it’s all about putting the red ones next to the yellow ones.”

  Ebon considered protesting that the room’s roses were all red, but he hadn’t realized that so many of the other bouquets around the room, now that he looked, were a carnival of colors. Aimee began to fuss at each she came to, tall heels clacking beneath her. Ebon stood, but then she glanced over, and he arrested his movement toward the door, toward the outside, toward the bay and his boat.

  “Or sometimes, island artists realize they’re one-trick, boat-painting ponies, so they try to paint something else. But their ‘original’ work screams of amateur originality. Like they’re trying too hard. Again, like the flowers. Red roses are the best flowers. Face it. So why doesn’t everyone only buy roses?”

  Ebon took two steps toward the door.

  “Because they’re trying too hard. So they buy daisies, lilies … I don’t know, buttercups or something. Might as well stick to painting boats. And do you know what else? Ebon, are you even listening to me?”

  Ebon’s hand was outstretched, fingers brushing the doorknob leading out onto the side porch.

  “Of course.”

  “I think we should talk about our arrangement,” she said.

  Ebon looked through the window. A brief gust made tree limbs shake, then stand still. He thought the sky had darkened. The key in his pocket felt pressing, as if it wanted him to hurry.

  “Our arrangement?” It sounded like something a girlfriend would say when she wanted to talk about “us.”

  “Do you need any money? Because you haven’t worked in a while.”

  “I think I’m okay.”

  “You’d have to check your bank balance,” she said, “but I’m not talking about your long-term savings. How much can be in your day-to-day account?” She put a finger to her chin as if calculating. “There was, what, a year’s expenses in there when you came, and you spend just under three grand a month, I’d say, but you did buy that boat, and you have residual income coming in to the tune of … ”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Because I have a lot of money. You know that.”

  “Sure.”

  Aimee went to her purse, which was on the kitchen table, and began rummaging. Inside, Ebon thought he could see the flash of large amounts of cash, as if she’d stuffed it after a bank heist. Outside, there was the sound of a tree branch nakedly raking the cottage’s siding as the wind picked up. Now he could see a few whitecaps on the water, and the sky was definitely darker. Had there been rain predicted for today? Ebon couldn’t remember. He also couldn’t remember what day it was, what the weather had been like yesterday, or whether he’d so much as buttoned the boat down to prevent water from sloshing into the cabin if the waves came up.

  “I’m good, Aimee.”

  She stopped rummaging. Ebon took the pause as a sign and reached for the doorknob again, but it wouldn’t turn. The lock was engaged. But as he wiggled it, the lock refused to budge. Aimee prattled on.

  “You know,” she said, “your agency may already be thinking of letting you go. They kind of already did. But is there really any reason to go back? You’ve been here for three months, I think. It’s December, right? Yes, three months. So I’ve gotta ask: If you stayed here — just moved in, and stopped pretending this was temporary — would that really be so crazy? I’ve lived here all my life, and I turned out okay. That’s the door we painted shut.”

  Ebon felt jarred but suddenly realized that the door he’d gone to, after failing with the lock on the first, was only a wall ornament. He could see the plates and screws where they’d sealed it forever, and realized that it would, if it opened, yawn over the fountain pond below.

  “How do I get out of here?”

  “Well, that’s the question I’m asking, isn’t it? Not only how, but why? You could have stayed here all those years ago, but you left.”

  There was a third door at the glassed-in patio’s far end. Ebon moved to it and turned the knob, but it came off in his hand.

  “I’ve been meaning to fix that.” Aimee reached into a toolbox that looked like an old-time doctor’s medical bag and handed Ebon a screwdriver as if expecting him to fix it. There were no obvious screws on the knob or on the door’s plate. He ignored Aimee’s screwdriver, set the knob on the floor at the door’s foot, and brushed by her, into the hallway.

  “I have a theory,” she said. “Would you like to hear it?”

  Outside, Ebon heard a whoop as the wind wound up. His heart was beginning to beat faster, too fast for the circumstances. Clacking heels followed him.

  “The island ‘artists’ try to sell their dumb boat paintings, but really they don’t want any success, and it’s only a hobby. So they paint dumb things that nobody would want to buy, except for twenty bucks here and there for something droll to hang in their cottages. Just some fun money. And yet how long does a boat painting take? Does it take any less time than something with heart? Where do their hearts truly lie, Ebon? On the island? Or off somewhere else?”

  There was a sliding door at the end of the hallway. It was jammed. At the other end of the hallway was the home’s rear exit — the door he and Aimee had once run through to evade Richard when he’d come home early. But before Ebon could reach it, a clutch of ceiling tiles fell from above in a cloud of dust. Scraps of lumber, inexplicably stored above, came with it. He began to climb over the pile, but it felt too desperate.

  Aimee’s hand was on his shoulder. He turned.

  “I like to paint things with an expiration date,” she told him. “Like people. Or emotions. Or the feeling of mind and memory. Things that decay. Things you have to capture in a moment because a second later they’re already something different. They’ve changed. They’ve decayed.”

  Ebon pushed past her again, this time moving back into the living room/patio area, where he’d begun. He stood in the middle of the room, his skin slick and wanting to sweat.

  “It’s the ocean,” he said.

  “And that’s another thing,” said Aimee, coming to stand beside him. “Who paints the ocean? As far as life on Earth is concerned, what’s more eternal than an open expanse of water? What changes less? What has less of an expiration date? You want to capture the ocean? Sculpt. But not with something hard, because the ocean is soft. It’s the sort of thing you have to sculpt from flesh and bone.”

  Ebon turned. “What?”

  “You seem uneasy. Why are you so uneasy?”

  “I just want to get to my boat. I just want to get out of the house.”

  “So go.”

  “I can’t. It won’
t let me.”

  “What won’t?”

  “The island. The ocean.”

  Aimee chuckled. Ebon’s pulse was in his throat. He wanted to slap her for the laugh, but held it in.

  “You don’t think it’s strange that I can’t open one of this house’s goddamned dozen doors?”

  Aimee rolled her eyes good-naturedly, then reached over and flipped the lock open on the door Ebon had first tried. She pulled it open to December assault.

  “You have to jiggle it,” she explained.

  “Hold it open,” Ebon said. “I’m just going to grab my coat.”

  As he shuffled toward the closet for his heavy raincoat, gloves, and hat, Aimee, one hand set delicately on her hip, said, “Hurry. My cookies are almost done.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Port in a Storm

  THE GIRL’S BREATH WAS HOT, MOIST, and smelled like beer. Ebon found himself not caring at all.

  “I said get me a drink!” she shouted.

  Ebon looked down. She was already holding a drink.

  She followed his gaze, then said, “Get me a different drink!”

  Ebon considered being bothered by her bossiness, but decided to be flattered instead. He’d been watching her on the dance floor, finding her more carefree than sleazy or sloppy drunk. Somehow, despite his inexperience with concerts and alcohol and despite the girl’s clear tipsiness, Ebon could tell the difference. He’d never seen her before (probably because he didn’t drink much or go to many concerts or parties), but still it felt as if she’d been dropped here specifically for him: the kind of girl who didn’t talk to guys like Ebon, yet had chosen him out of all the handsome frat guys around to pump for free drinks.

  He went to the bar at the back of the shadowy basement club and shouted at the bartender until he made himself heard over the loud music. He couldn’t really hear the bartender’s shouted return (again due to the volume of Charlie’s band onstage, but also due to his earplugs), but Ebon slid him five bucks, and the bartender shoved him something orange and girly in a tall glass. Their transaction seemed to be concluded satisfactorily, even if Ebon had no idea what he’d bought.

  Half of him expected the girl with light-brown hair and emerald eyes to have gone off with another guy (or at least moved to the dance floor) before he came back, but she was still standing where he’d left her. She was against the wall, groups on either side of her turned toward their own centers, leaving her in a place of chaotic calm in the middle: a flower blooming alone on the floor of a parted ocean. Her eyes watched him approach. Ebon’s chest fluttered with the thrum of thundering speakers.

  “What is it?” she yelled into his ear, indicating the drink.

  Ebon shrugged.

  She took the orange drink and sipped it. Then, still shouting, still with her lips very close to his ears, still intimate: “It’s a fuzzy navel! How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That I like fuzzy navels?”

  “I just guessed.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I just guessed!”

  “Oh! What’s your name?”

  “Ebon.”

  “Evan?”

  “Ebon!”

  “I’m Holly!”

  Ebon wanted to say it was nice to meet her, but that was a given. He was too nervous to push any of this. He decided to get her drinks for as long as she demanded, possibly agreeing to cleaning her dorm room or doing her laundry if required.

  “I like your earplugs!” For emphasis, she reached out and poked the one in his left ear.

  “It’s too loud.”

  “What?”

  “I said, they match my outfit!”

  “It takes a confident guy to wear earplugs at a college concert! It’s like you don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of you!”

  This time, Ebon considered being insulted. But Holly clearly hadn’t meant it that way. As impossible as it was to believe, Ebon thought she might be flirting with him. She was much better at it than he’d ever been (mumbling at his shoes had never worked once), but everything she said had a playful, tugging-your-hair-on-the-playground-because-I-like-you vibe. Unlikely, yes. But then again, she was lubricated.

  “That’s my roommate on stage!” He pointed at the guitarist. “I just get used to wearing earplugs whenever he’s around!”

  Holly thought this was hysterical. She tossed back her wave of shiny hair, exposing a set of bright teeth as laughter bubbled out. Ebon could tell it would have sounded like music outside. She was wearing dark eyeliner. It made both her white teeth and green eyes pop, sharp like a knife’s edge. She was wearing tight boot-cut jeans, strappy brown sandals, and a mauve top with faux-ivory buttons.

  “Where do you guys live?”

  “Deacon!”

  “Nerd dorm!” she shout-said. “I didn’t know nerds rocked out!” She nodded toward Charlie, who was indeed rocking out.

  “We get crazy. With earplugs!”

  After a minute, Holly turned back to him, leaned close, and said, “You’re lucky I trust you!” She raised the fuzzy navel. “You could have roofied this!”

  “I did!” Ebon shouted back, his face very close to her hair. “Once you pass out, I’m going to sneak over and do your math homework!”

  This time, Holly laughed so hard that she almost rapped her head against the concrete wall behind her. Ebon felt flattered rather than patronized. Every time she’d yelled something into his ear, she’d pulled back and stared into his eyes with her bright-green ones, waiting and connecting. She thought his dorky, self-deprecating nerd humor was delightful. This was the least effort he’d ever put into a male-female exchange, and yet he was reaping more rewards than ever before. Maybe she really did like him, even though it had to be the beer.

  Holly finished laughing, carefully wiped her eyes to preserve her makeup, then looked at him again, lingering smiles stretching her face. She seemed to be waiting for something, and Ebon even thought he might know what it was. But if she thought Ebon Shale, freshman and shy partygoer, was going to find the courage to say it, then she didn’t know Ebon Shale.

  “Do you want to get some air?” she yelled.

  Ebon had a strange vision of them jumping over an obstacle on BMX bikes. Then his stupidity fled, and he realized that “getting air” could mean something else, like maybe leaving a smoky club basement and its oppressive music. But that was too hard to believe. She had to be toying with him. She was a pretty party girl, and he was the guitarist’s quiet roommate who liked to read and watch cooking shows. He and Charlie hadn’t even been friends before college; they’d been paired by the university. Charlie happened to be smart, and Ebon happened to draw him in the roommate lottery. It was a fluke that Ebon had even come to this concert. Usually Charlie did cool-guy stuff while Ebon went bowling at the student union or took in a movie with the other nerds.

  Rather than waiting for a response, Holly took Ebon by the wrist and led him through what appeared to be an emergency exit. Ebon waited for an alarm to sound, but none did, and a moment later they were climbing a short, filthy stairwell to arrive at street level behind the club. There was a dumpster behind them and loose trash bags to one side, one gnawed open by something.

  When the door closed, the volume drained from the air and left only the deepest bass notes, shaking the air like a membrane. Holly reached up and delicately tweezed Ebon’s earplugs out with a finger and thumb painted in green polish. She held them out, and Ebon took them, grateful to see that they weren’t caked with earwax.

  “Better,” she said.

  Ebon looked around. They were alone. It should have been exciting, but it was intimidating instead. He’d enjoyed her attention in the club, but now felt under the spotlight. She was as tall as he was, maybe taller. She was thin and beautiful and held herself with a poise that Ebon knew he could never have. He felt lacking by any definable criteria, and it tied his tongue in knots.

  “Thanks” was all he had.

  “I
hate smoke,” she said, half giggling, fanning her face with a hand. Her voice was light, almost musical. The need to shout downstairs had been a shame. Her laughter was music out here.

  “Then I guess I’d better not light up,” Ebon said.

  Giggle. She was definitely lubricated. Ebon looked around, wondering what exactly they were supposed to do. Were they just supposed to stand in the garbage and stare at each other? He knew what a lot of couples would do in the alley behind the bar after sneaking out the back, but Ebon would sooner find the guts to go grocery shopping naked.

  Holly looked around. The alley looked like the kind of place where local hoods might drop dead bodies. It smelled of sour refuse, its every surface sticky.

  “Great place for a rape,” she said.

  “It’s cool; I’m good,” Ebon answered.

  Holly’s legs buckled as she laughed again, her knees drawing together, her lower body forming an x. She took his arm for support, as if she might topple. When she recovered, she sat on a crate as if they were in a cafe, preparing for tea. She looked up at Ebon, who was still standing.

  “You’re fun,” she said. “I like that you’re not hitting on me.”

  “Um … ”

  “It’s just that I get a lot of guys hitting on me. I guess I ask for it. Not literally. But, you know, like, I had to clamor for attention as a kid because my dad was always distracted with work, and I’m a total daddy’s girl. That’s what my friends tell me anyway.”

  “Sure,” said Ebon.

  “I don’t mean to sound like that though. I’m sorry.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m bragging or something.” She mocked her own voice. “‘Gee whiz, I’m so purty that I have to shoo the guys away!’ I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t have a filter. Feel free to tell me to shut up.”

  “No, I like it,” said Ebon, unsure what he meant.

  “What’s your major, Evan?”

  “Ebon.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling. “I knew that. I’m sorry. I’m actually not that drunk.” Ebon realized he had no clue where she’d set her fuzzy navel. It wasn’t outside. “If I seem kind of nutso right now, it’s because it’s kind of how I am, but dancing makes it worse. I like to have fun. Not in the way most people say that though. I actually don’t drink all that much, and I don’t do any drugs or anything.”