Axis of Aaron (28 page)

“I’ll be waiting,” Aimee said.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Buttercups or Something
 

“ … SOMETHING YOU CAN TOUCH, AND THAT’S what’s so great about clay, in particular, is that you can really touch and shape it, and I think the first time I really got that was in, like, kindergarten or something, when we made ashtrays for Father’s Day, and isn’t that funny, now that you think about it, that we made ashtrays for Father’s Day? I mean, it was the late '80s or early ‘90s. Wasn’t that around the time everything got all PC, and everyone started to use the term ‘PC’ in like an almost mocking way, like, ‘Let’s be all “politically correct!”,’ and if that was the case, why were they having us make ashtrays, like we were encouraging our fathers to smoke, like, ‘Hey Dad, have some emphysema!’ Not that my father ever smoked. He did read a newspaper and wear slippers inside sometimes though. Do you want another one of those?”
 

Ebon looked down at his glass of iced tea. He was sitting in one of the deck chairs, wearing pajama shorts as Aimee waited for his answer. He’d have been cold out here in previous years, but they’d turned the porch into a portico enclosed by sliding glass partitions months ago. His glass was three-quarters empty. Ice rattled. There was an umbrella tenting the tall glass’s top, unsupported now that the liquid was mostly gone.
 

“No thanks.”
 

Aimee bustled away. “But anyway, I remember that first clay ashtray, and the way it felt in my hand. Say, when did
Ghost
come out? Because I remember being influenced by that pottery scene too, or maybe just by Patrick Swayze because he was hot, and maybe his hotness leaked into my own hotness for pottery. Poor Patrick Swayze. That was terrible, what happened to him. I swear, I can’t watch any of his movies anymore.”
 

Ebon sat forward. There was a coffee table in front of him, and on its glass surface, precisely in the middle, was a key attached to a bright-yellow foam fob, meant to keep the key afloat if it were accidentally tossed overboard. Aimee had bought the coffee table from some boutique or other. He didn’t remember which, only that she’d been very excited. Beside the key, off center on the table, was a bouquet of red roses threaded with baby’s breath and assorted greens.
 

Aimee fluffed the flowers. Doing so made her look strangely feminine — overly so, to Ebon’s mind. Her hair wasn’t a mess, but had been pinned up neatly. She was also wearing a short skirt. And a pink blouse. And, for some reason, high heels and an apron.
 

“I think that sculpting, out of all of the mediums I work in, is my favorite just because you can touch it.”

Ebon looked around the portico. It was open into the house, the living room now flowing into a sun porch where the old outer wall used to be. There were bouquets of flowers everywhere. Aimee had placed them all last night, seeming to feel the need to bring sudden beauty into the mostly finished room. Her art had leaked out of the studio, and Ebon could see in-progress projects everywhere. They worked on remodeling together, and then, when they were finished for the day, Aimee had her art, and Ebon had his boat. He pointed to an easel in the corner.
 

“You can’t touch a painting?”
 

“Not in the same way. And you definitely can’t touch music. Or computer-generated art, or really photographs, because then you’re just touching paper or a frame. Sculpture, you can put your hands on. You can remember how you dug your fingers into a certain place, and the feel of the clay when it was wet. So many things are ephemeral. Sculpture is real. A footprint. It creates something you can touch, and see the traces of where your hands moved to make it. It’s proof that you were here. You sure you don’t want another iced tea?”
 

Ebon looked at the key on the coffee table. It looked strangely out of place. The roses were so incredibly bright red that they looked freshly cut. He could see the bottoms of the stems through the sparkling vase and how they hadn’t so much as darkened or formed a scab where they’d been clipped from the bush. The coffee table was spotless — clear enough that if it were converted to a window it would baffle birds into bashing their tiny heads. But the yellow fob atop it was pocked and dull, the key attached to it a tarnished gray like fine flatware in need of a polish. Ebon didn’t want more iced tea at all. He wanted to go out on his new boat.
 

“I’m sure. Thanks.”
 

Again, Aimee turned away. She went to the oven and opened it. Ebon turned to watch her remove a sheet of cookies she was baking, bending forward from the waist, her ass sticking out. Inappropriately, he wanted to walk over and grab it. Her skirt was short enough, he thought, that if he were behind her, he might be able to see her panties while she was working in the oven. He felt and ignored a stirring in his pants. It wasn’t time for that now.
 

“That smells great. I can’t remember the last time I’ve smelled fresh-baked cookies.”
 

Aimee turned to look at him, still bent at the waist. Her lips were as red as the roses.
 

“Holly didn’t bake for you?”
 

Ebon wanted to laugh. Aimee had just soliloquized about how politically incorrect it was for kids to make their fathers ashtrays in an increasingly smokeless world, and here she was implying that Holly should have baked. And not just
baked
. Baked
for him.
Like a duty. But that was a laugh, because even if Holly hadn’t been a staunch feminist and domestically dim, baking cookies for Ebon would have contradicted her largest guiding principle: to do what was best for
Holly
, not for Ebon or anyone else.
 

“Holly didn’t bake. Or use her money to pay rent or utilities or for trips we took together.”
 

“Selfish cunt,” said Aimee.
 

Ebon looked over. Aimee had placed the sheet onto the cool cooktop and was inspecting the cookies, gently poking each with a spatula.
 

“I don’t know about that,” said Ebon.
 

“You kept separate bank accounts. You were supposed to pay half of all your bills together — or, ideally, get a joint account and pay it out of there. But that never happened.”
 

“We were only married for six months before she died.”

“Time enough to cheat on you,” said Aimee, still poking the cookies. “And not just one time either.”
 

“I guess.”

“You guess right. How long does it take to go to the bank and open an account? But she never had the time. You kept suggesting it, and she always had an excuse. Remember when you had an appointment scheduled but she had an emergency client and you had to cancel?”
 

Ebon remembered, but it was strange to be reminded about it by Aimee — as strange as the fact that he’d told her about it at all, which he didn’t remember doing. Holly had worked as a freelance makeup artist and had, through a confluence of charisma and luck (and, he thought bitterly, possibly sex for favors) ended up with a very high-income client roster. Holly made excellent money, and Ebon made excellent money, and combined they made
very
excellent money. That was great, because Holly’s clients were all wealthy, and she’d developed fine tastes. But for some reason, Holly’s money was always spent on Holly’s things, while Ebon’s went to a trifecta: Ebon’s things, Holly’s things, and things for both of them, like rent and utilities and trips.

“To be fair, that was a legit excuse. She wasn’t making it up.”
 

“Convenient though,” Aimee said. “As convenient as all the other times you were unable to open that bank account. And it’s not like she was making it up to you in other ways.”
 

Ebon felt a strange need to retort. If Aimee was talking about sex, he and Holly had had plenty. That was part of the problem. Other men complained that their wives didn’t want to have sex often enough, but Holly wanted it so often that Ebon sometimes got chafed. She wanted it enough, in fact, that Ebon hadn’t been able to fill her needs, and she’d had to go elsewhere.
 

“We did it all the time.”

“Men,” said Aimee, rolling her eyes. “You think everything is about sex. Did I
say
that I meant sex?”

She clacked around the oven and turned on a small radio mounted under the countertop, tuning in to a station playing bland rock music, her high heels making her ass stand out. Why Aimee even owned high heels was beyond Ebon, but his attention was still at least half on the boat key and off of Aimee’s wardrobe. The day was calm. If he left now, he could motor out pretty far. Maybe, when he returned, he’d have some perspective on Aaron that would make the place feel more stable. Or maybe he could go all the way to the mainland, dock his boat, and take the ferry back. Assure himself that the rest of the world was still going on as usual, and that he was the crazy one. Although, now that he thought about it, was that the answer he wanted? No. Between the two options, he wanted the island to be the problem. Although right now anything different seemed fine.
 

A Springsteen tune came on the radio. The sun was bright. The roses were pretty. Life was good.
 

“What did you mean, then?” said Ebon, still in his chair, holding his mostly empty iced tea.
 

“I meant, did she ever do anything for you at all? Anything spontaneous, just to let you know she was thinking about you? No. Of course not.”
 

“She booked that trip to Nantucket.”

“And she didn’t have an ulterior motive? She didn’t fuck anyone else while you were there?”
 

Ebon had never thought so. But now that he considered it, maybe she had. She’d definitely had a client appointment while they’d been “on vacation”; that was why they’d gone to Nantucket instead of somewhere else. The client was male, and he was handsome, and Ebon had seen them flirt. And she’d “made him up” three different times in four days.
 

“Mmm-hmm,” said Aimee, nodding knowingly. “Anything else, then? Did she ever make you dinner?”
 

“She wasn’t much of a cook.”
 

“Did she get you thoughtful presents for Christmas? For your birthday?”
 

The second half was a trick question. Holly didn’t get him birthday gifts. Or rather, she got him things like “a night of passion.” And they
had
been passionate. Ebon seemed to remember making Holly come five times during one of them. It had been easy, like eliciting five sneezes with a cloud of pepper.

“She got me things.”
 

“Face it, Ebon. I’m sorry she’s gone, but you don’t owe her any more mourning.”
 

“We were together for ten years.” Ebon felt like he needed to argue for his right to some sadness. He and Holly had had good times too.
 

Aimee put her hand on her hip, her nail polish as bright red as her lipstick and the roses. Behind her, Springsteen ended, and, proving the station’s eclectic nature, “Unchained Melody” began.
 

“Ah. Long engagement, huh?”
 

“It took me a long time to feel ready to get married too, you know.”

“And speaking of ten years,” Aimee said, “how many of those years did you wonder about us?”
 

“‘Us?’”
 

“You and me.”
 

“On and off. I’ve always missed you, Aim.”
 

“I meant as a broken opportunity. What if we’d ended up together all those years ago?”
 

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
 

“What if we’d connected years ago, instead of just a few months ago? How well did we fit, versus how poorly Holly fit you? I invited you to come stay with me after no time at all, and you accepted without a thought. And here we are, together, happy as clams.” Aimee spread her arms to indicate, presumably, the whole of existence on Aaron.
 

“I don’t know,” said Ebon. “It is what it is.”
 

“See, that’s how you always were.” She came forward shaking her head. Ebon’s eyes flitted to the dingy, tarnished boat key, but then were drawn back toward Aimee’s vibrant presence. “You just accepted things instead of fighting for what you were entitled to. ‘It is what it is.’ That’s ridiculous, Ebon.”
 

Without preamble, she sat across his lap. Her legs hung to his side and dangled over the chair’s arm. The backs of her bare legs pressed against the tops of his, feeling powdered and smooth. He felt fabric instead of flesh at one end, realized it was probably her panties, and tried to will away a forthcoming erection.
 

“You want something, and you think it’s not proper to chase it,” she said. “Almost by default, like you’re never entitled to have your way. But look how Holly was. She was the opposite. If she wanted something, her wanting alone told her that it
gave her the right
to pursue. Desire led automatically to entitlement. But you? You think that wanting means you must be selfless and that you should let it go and think of something else. But that’s not how it is. Tell me, speaking of sex with Holly … ”