Axis of Aaron (57 page)

Ebon shook his head apologetically. “Of course not.”
 

“He’s a son of a bitch. He got an itch, and he ran off to scratch it, not caring that he’d be ruining all our lives. Did you know he gets alimony from me? What kind of judge awards alimony to the man?”
 

Ebon, sitting up, thought that alimony would likely be awarded in the direction of descending income, from the higher earner to the lower earner. But he knew it wasn’t his place to say so, even though he intuited that he should. She’d bad-mouthed Holly for him, so he was probably supposed to bad-mouth Sabrina’s father in return. But Ebon didn’t know the man, same as Vicky hadn’t known Holly. He might be an amazing father. Everyone had two faces, at least. And everyone carried their baggage.
 

(I have my own painful past.)

“I don’t know,” Ebon said.
 

“I got a raw deal. Everyone felt sorry for him because he’d just had a heart attack. Even the judge. But he’s better now. He was better right away!”
 

“That’s terrible.”
 

“I swear, some people are just liars and manipulators. Don’t you forgive Holly, Ebon.
She
was wrong. Not you. All she wanted out of life was…”

(You know, I can be more than … )
 

(It’s
you
who … )
 

“… sex, and probably security, and so she latched onto you because you could provide the security and she knew sex would always be easy to get on the sly. And do you know why?” She paused. Ebon sat up farther, watching Vicky’s face become unattractively bitter, as if she’d sucked a lemon. “Because the worst thing you can be is vulnerable. The worst thing you can do is to trust people. It’ll only get you taken advantage of, and hurt.”
 

“Your ex-husband,” Ebon said. “What was he like when you met?”
 

“A son of a bitch.”
 

“When you
met?”
 

“Always. He just hid it well for a while.”
 

Ebon sat up completely and looked Vicky over from top to bottom. She looked exactly as she always had, but he’d never realized just how sour she was. He should never have told her about Holly. He should have kept things simple. It could have been (and should have been) about sex. Nothing more.

Ebon stood. “I should go.”

Vicky’s face fell, and in a half second went from spiteful to sad. He’d come here for a crutch, but he was seeing now that he’d been
her
crutch too. They’d meshed so well in the bedroom that first day, when she’d just been a beautiful redhead with swaying hips and he’d just been an intriguing stranger. But sex wasn’t the same as intimacy, and their second time had been slightly less exciting, slightly more familiar. The third even more so. Now nothing was left.

“Don’t go. I thought we were going to watch a movie?” She was looking up at Ebon with her big eyes. Her auburn hair was tied back, making her look younger than her years, like a small girl lost. Looking down, Ebon found himself still lusting after her, knowing he’d be unable to resist if she suddenly became available and willing right now. Her smooth skin looked sun kissed from her time in California, and a spray of freckles had blossomed over her delicate, upturned nose. Her breasts — fair-sized normally, larger than normal with the help of whatever miracle bra she’d donned — seemed to beckon Ebon as they had that first day. But on that first day, she’d felt both familiar and comfortable, something old and compelling woven with lust in his mind. A quick fix for an immediate problem, but at the end of the day they’d never fit.
 

Vicky, to him, could never be more than a toy.

(You know, I can be more than … )
 

An old voice in his head. An opportunity squandered. Ebon felt ready to break, looking down at this pretty woman who wasn’t what he’d hoped, who hadn’t scratched the itch a tryst was supposed to scratch. But how could he have known? Ebon had never had a tryst. He’d thought he was in a purely sexual relationship with Vicky, but he’d just been lying to himself, seeing things wrong. Now the blinders were off, and the world was clear. It made him want to fall to his knees and beg through his tears. Not to Vicky, but to someone else. Someone who was now and forever beyond begging, beyond saving.

“I’m sorry,” Ebon told her.
 

“But you came all the way over here.”
 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It’s just … ” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Ebon couldn’t tell her he’d only wanted her for sex. It wasn’t the kind of thing a kind person said to another human being. A kind person offered themselves, with a full heart, or had the decency to back away. A kind person opened like a book, risking rejection. They made themselves vulnerable, exposed to evisceration. A kind person had done that for Ebon, once.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” said Vicky.

He had to leave. He had to start walking, heading north. Vicky wasn’t the anchor and place of comfort he’d thought she was, but at least he now knew where he needed to be, and with whom. Vicky wasn’t an axis. She’d been a placeholder. A port in a storm. Now that he saw it, that storm was growing, churning and swirling, swimming behind his eyelid and unbolting what he’d taken for solid.

Looking at Vicky — pretty but plain, her reddish-brown hair in a pony tail, her skin pale but not white, her chest ample but not overflowing — Ebon nodded slowly.

“Because you only wanted sex,” she said, her voice surprisingly devoid of spite or judgment.
Accepting
. Perhaps understanding.

Ebon shook his head no, his mind already beginning to tip inward.

“Because it’s all I’ve ever settled for,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Anywhen. Anywhat.

“EBON. SLOW DOWN.”
 

EBON CEASED HIS verbal diarrhea, gave Aimee time to absorb his least ridiculous words and hopefully ignore the rest. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He felt cold. Warm. Cold. His feet dragged in the sand, one hand pressing his phone to his ear and the other holding his thin jacket closed against the chill. The breeze blew bitter cold, but the air was warm when the wind was still. Leaves fell from the trees, then miraculously reappeared on the branches. With each drop they fell sooner in the loop repeating before his eyes. Each time they reappeared, they were a little deader on the trees.
 

“Jesus Christ,” said Ebon.
 

“What?” said Aimee from the other end of the phone.

“It’s so cold. I think it’s trying to become winter.”
 

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Just come. Just throw on your coat and come meet me.”
 

“Where are you?”
 

“Nearing Aaron’s Party. Is it there?”
 

“Are you asking me?”
 

“Is it there,
Aimee?! Aaron’s Party.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“Does it exist?”
 

“Hell, Ebon. Are you okay?”
 

“Does it exist?”
 

“Hell, yes, of course. Abandoned. You know that; we went when you first showed up.”
 

“Good. I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
 

“Think?”
 

“Nevermind. I can see it ahead. Abandoned, just like you said.”

“You’re almost to the cottage. Just come here. I’ll come out to meet you.” Ebon doubted she understood half of his bullshit (and maybe she hadn’t even
heard
it; he kind of hoped it had zoomed in one ear and out the other), but she definitely understood that he was in a bad way, and probably thought he’d hit his head.
 

“I’ve already gone past the cottage. I’m heading north.”
 

“Where were you? Between leaving the cottage and now?”
 

“At Vicky’s.”
 

“Who’s Vicky?”
 

That’s right; he hadn’t told her. He’d thought for a moment that Aimee knew about Vicky, but it was in one of the alternate realities (now jumbled behind his eyes like a dropped deck of cards) that Ebon had told Aimee about Vicky. It was easy to blend the conflicting streams of images and thoughts, but if he could just manage to hold his focus, he could part those diverging streams like Moses at the Red Sea. And then, for a moment, he could manage to see clearly.
 

“It doesn’t matter. South. I was south.”
 

“You walked right past the cottage?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Jesus, Ebon. Why didn’t you come in?”

“Things were changing. I couldn’t risk it.”
 

A breeze blew in his face — the coldest yet — and he squinted his eyes against it. Behind his eyelids he saw the cottage as he’d seen it on passing, folding and twisting like a shimmering mirage. Different iterations of the cottage’s myriad instances had seemed to be competing for the same plot of land, its form shaped by the warring hands of a dozen invisible creators. He’d watched it decay and crumble to naked studs, the frame rotting and sliding into the sand. But a moment later time had seemed to rewind, walls rebuilding and roof reforming, the siding suddenly white and the roof slatted red aluminum, additions expanding like architectural tumors. He’d seen the floor plan sprawl, a pool sink into the dunes surrounded by a low white fence. He’d watched a third and a fourth story grow, then collapse as if being folded into a magician’s pocket. He’d seen the cottage as it had been in Richard’s day. As it was supposed to be now, as he and Aimee restored it. Dead. Alive. In forms it had never been.

“Ebon, what the hell are you talking about?”
 

“We have to get to Redding Dock. I realize that now. Because it’s the only place that never changes.”
 

“You sound delirious. Don’t go up to Redding; you need to come back here.” She made her voice serious. “You need help, for your own good.”
 

The stern voice, coming from Aimee, sounded hilarious. Ebon almost wanted to laugh. His focus wavered with the thought and as his mind slipped, he watched Aaron’s Party vanish ahead like a party trick. Had he seen the pier naked like that recently? Or was it just one of the many false thoughts still rattling around in his head?

“I can’t hold it much longer, Aimee.”
 

“Hold what?”
 

“You have to hurry. If I don’t make it to Redding … ” He didn’t want to think about that, so he added, “Come via the beach. Run. If you see me collapsed or anything, you may need to drag me.”
 

Aimee’s response, when it came, sounded panicked. Around Ebon, frost covered the sand like a mist. Then it was gone, and the air warmed. The trees were still naked.
 

“Drag
you!” Her voice was near tears. “Just tell me what’s happening!”
 

“Are you coming?”
 

He could hear shuffling as she rummaged in the closet, fumbling for boots while pinching the phone between her shoulder and ear. Not because Aimee believed anything that Ebon was saying, but because she believed he was out of his mind and likely to do himself harm. Good. Because that might be true as well. And honestly, the fact that she was confused was probably a very good thing. It might mean she was real, that he was talking to the true Aimee instead of something else.
 

“Yes.” She was fighting for calm, trying to be all business. “Just keep talking. Don’t you dare hang up!”
 

“Is it cold out?”
 

“You’re the one who’s outside,” she said.
 

“Bring a coat. I don’t know if it’ll be winter when you get here.”
 

“Jesus, Ebon. Just … please. Stop walking. Let me catch up.” There was a sniffing, and he could tell she was starting to cry. “We can go to Redding together, if that’s what you want.”
 

“It’s what I
need.”
 

“Slow down. Walking, I mean. Let me catch up to you.”
 

“There may not be time. Redding is the
anchor
, Aimee. Redding is the
axis
. It’s the only thing that never changes.”
 

“Oh, shit, Ebon. Shit, shit, shit.” More crying noises, then the sound of a door cracking open.
 

“I’ll get there if I can,” he said. “I’ll wait for you. But hurry. I’m not dressed for the weather.” It had been October when he’d left the cottage. Now it had to be late November, maybe December.

“Just keep talking.” The phone made shuffling noises as if something were rubbing rhythmically across the mouthpiece. Aimee’s words came with shortened breath. “I’m coming, Ebon. I’m moving as fast as I can.”

“Is it cold out?”
 

“Of course it’s cold.”