Axis of Aaron (9 page)

He looked from one cottage to the next down the row. He hadn’t thought much about it before, but now that he assessed each he found they looked ready for a wrecking ball. They would all be empty no matter the season. Besides, despite it being a sunny midmorning, he kind of didn’t want to approach the creepy things anyway.
 

He had to find the water, then follow the beach.
 

But the sound of water seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. He’d got past his obedient refusal to tromp through people’s yards in finding his way, but if he were to tromp to the beach now he at least had to know which direction to go. But Ebon hadn’t a clue.
 

The sun rises in the east. Aimee’s father’s house faces west. Find the sun.
 

He could do that, but something else was bothering him. He’d seen the stark morning sunlight coming from Aimee’s room before he’d left. From the
west
.

Ebon shook it away. Summer had advanced into fall; the sun was always in the southern sky and would be more so as green trees bled to autumn’s hues. It must have been coming from the south. The house wasn’t perfectly situated on a compass grid, that was all. No question it was on the island’s west side — bay side, not ocean side — and that
that
was the beach where he’d heard Oasis. He had to be nearer to that beach than the other; the island was a few miles wide, and he hadn’t come far. Unless Canal River had extended beyond the canal in recent years and its expanded size — perhaps now spanning half the island’s width — was what made it feel strange.
 

Find the west. Find the sun, then walk in the opposite direction.
 

Ebon could see a bright area, but it was hard to pinpoint the sun’s precise location because thin clouds had obscured it and Canal River was thick with trees. He ran up and down the streets, on display for the nobodies not occupying the rotting cottages around him, trying to get a peek, closer and closer to an odd kind of panic.
 

Who gets lost on a small, populated island in the middle of the day?
 

And yet Ebon
was
lost, hungry, and thirsty because he’d run and been sweating. He had no money even if he
did
find a place with liquids for sale. He didn’t have his wallet or ID. Ebon was a man in cargo shorts, a shirt, and sandals on his feet. Nothing more.
 

He picked a bright spot in the sky, then walked in the opposite direction, heedless of property lines, fences, and garden walls. If someone wanted to come out and yell at him, great. He could ask for a way out — to hell with feeling foolish.
 

After a few minutes, Ebon encountered a swamp that he hadn’t known existed. It didn’t stretch to the ocean, so far as he could tell. It blocked his way, but then Ebon looked back at the sun and realized that not only had he inaccurately pegged its location; he’d forgotten to account for it being southeast instead of more or less due east this time of year.
 

He suddenly felt twelve years old all over again. Part of him wanted to sit in the middle of the street and cry. Another part wanted to storm through this stupid fucking subdivision in this stupid fucking part of town on this stupid fucking island, breaking things because any fucking person with a fucking brain would run streets east-west and north-south, not in loops and nonsensical whorls. Any stupid developer without an idiot’s dick for a brain would have given the place more than a single exit and would have connected a few of the streets to each other.
 

Goddamn
, was he thirsty.
 

Ebon looked at the swamp, considering walking to its edge, testing it for salt, and drinking despite the threat of bacteria and parasites. His sensible mind reset something inside, and he again decided there was no way — no cock-sucking, dick-brained, shit-headed
way
— that he would be beaten for
one minute longer
by a subdivision.
 

The air felt oven hot. Ebon felt sweat bead his forehead, and he stepped back into the shade, looking through a clutch of leaves and wondering why they hadn’t begun to turn. It felt like a summer day in bloom, and the leaves had summer’s lush. Hadn’t Aaron got the memo? Labor Day was gone; days were shrinking, and the sun was supposed to peak lower in the sky. You should be able to walk around, chasing redheads if you wanted, without sweating to death. Leaves were supposed to be turning to auburns and coppers.
 

He wondered how dehydrated a person could get before mirages came to plague him.
 

But that was crazy; he hadn’t been out that long. Yes, his shirt was wet from sprinting, but that didn’t mean he was dry inside. It didn’t mean his blood was thickening like sludge. You could go days without drinking.

“Fuck it.”

Adjusting a few degrees for the sun’s location as best he could, Ebon entered the swamp. It was wet but pocked with small relatively dry islands. Natural catwalks. The damp ground tried to suck his shoes off, but Ebon kept trudging, gripping his feet into fists to hold them.

He was definitely heading west now.
 

Ahead, Ebon could hear the beach. He turned around, saw the sun behind him and slightly to the left,
where it should be.
The wave sounds grew louder. He trudged, fighting to hold onto his shoes, now sure that this was a saltwater swamp fed by the nearby bay. He’d exit in its mouth and then scan the coast, surely seeing something familiar. Even if he didn’t see homes he recognized, Ebon had to get far enough from the Canal River’s confusion to flee its snare, then duck back between the more conventionally placed cottages and West Shore Road. Even if he was way the hell on the wrong end of that road, he’d at least know where he was and be able to find his way back.
 

It might take an hour or more of walking. In the hot sun. With no water.
 

He paused to re-grip his shoe in a puddle of muck and pull. It came out with a squelching. Yes, the sun would be hot. But he wasn’t in a desert; he was inside a community. He could knock on someone’s door and request a glass of water. That kind of thing had to happen all the time. Aaron had a quaint little town center and populous shores (in the summer anyway), but the outlands were mostly undeveloped areas and farmland.

The brush parted, and Ebon found himself standing at the rear of the bicycle rental shop attached to the Aaron Historical Society.

He blinked, making his way through the cut grass in a daze. The town center should have been behind him and to the south. Ebon was heading west, toward the beach. He’d even heard the waves. Minutes before the sun had been at his rear.
 

He must have somehow crossed the island while fighting the tangle of Canal River. That hardly made sense, because he’d have had to cross the island’s center to the tune of several miles, then got turned around. He and Aimee had gone to The Wheel restaurant on the north end last night and hadn’t passed through a large swatch of east-west Canal River absurdity.
 

And even that didn’t jibe now that Ebon thought about it. Coming out into the middle of Main Street to be sure, he looked north and realized that he’d come from the west, not east. The bike rental shop faced east; he could even see the way its front face was washed in sun as the clouds parted and blue returned to claim the hot sky. He’d come from the rear. From the west.
From
the direction he was sure he’d been going.

But the sun had been behind him, and now it was more or less ahead.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Ebon rubbed his forehead to wick away sweat.

He looked up the street. Two women were emerging from the liquor store, holding cases of beer. A few people were watering their flowers and lawns. Several were putting small boats away at the sides of their cottages, removing the masts from one-man sailboats and laying their hulls against the houses at an angle to keep water and bugs out. A lot of people were sitting on their decks, sipping coffee. He could hear birds singing — mostly gulls, circling for garbage.
 

Just up the street from the bike shop there was a public restroom. Ebon, feeling tremendous gratitude, walked briskly to it, entered the men’s room, and began to drink from the sink by handfuls. Too late, he wondered if the water was potable, but no signs were posted. Safer than dehydrating anyway.
 

The bathroom was air conditioned. Ebon splashed water on his head, let it sit without wiping it away, and waited for cool air to lick heat from his skin. He drank more and, with a clearer head, reemerged onto the street.
 

Well. Whatever. He’d got lost, but now he knew where he was. He was hungry, but he could be back at Aimee’s cottage in ten minutes. He wouldn’t try to take any shortcuts, or pursue any women in red dresses. He’d head back down to Sweetums, then take the beach access like before. Soon he’d be walking up the sand toward Aimee’s, and if he knew Aimee, she’d probably have breakfast on the table by the time he arrived.
 

Still, Ebon couldn’t help but stop at the Sweetums window. He still really wanted salt water taffy. He’d definitely have to grab money after breakfast and return. He’d get a bunch and bring it back for Aimee. Of course it’d be for both of them, reminding them of youth gone by, and somehow he doubted she’d had much after their final summer together. It hadn’t taken long after that, according to what Aimee had already told him, before she’d moved out. Eighteen and on her own; probably not a lot of budget for sweets.
 

He wondered how much the taffy cost, but didn’t wonder long. A sign in the window’s corner crowed in all caps:
SALT WATER TAFFY SPRING SPECIAL — JUST $1.49 A POUND!

Only $1.49? It seemed so cheap. Ebon remembered paying the same sixteen years ago. Now an adult, he wanted to buy a hundred pounds at that price as a joke, if they had that much on hand. One hundred and forty-nine dollars, and he and Aimee could roll around in it if they wanted. Why not?
 

Ebon turned and walked back to the beach access. The same cottage DJ was still spinning “Wonderwall,” still apparently on endless repeat. He still couldn’t tell where the music was coming from, but he wanted to track it down. The entire album was great, and Ebon wanted to hear more evocative tunes from his youth. But there was no time for arguing with natives. He had to get home and refuel. Then he could head out again, probably with Aimee.
 

Halfway down the meandering beach access, Ebon felt a small rock rolling around in his shoe. He couldn’t kick it away. He’d need to stop at the boulder where he’d sat before and remove it.
 

But he came out on the beach and the boulder wasn’t where he remembered.
 

This wasn’t even the same section of beach.
 

Ebon hadn’t been as distracted when he’d come in (before seeing the woman), and was quite sure he’d had his bearings at the time. He should be where the half-buried boulder had been hunkered in the sand. Farther to the north was Redding Dock, where Ebon had spent much of his alone time — reading, writing in a journal, or simply thinking. Redding was long and winding. It felt like an adventure path in the middle of nowhere. But thanks to the sandbar nobody docked there, and Ebon never really ran into many people anywhere near it. It felt like
his
place. His refuge during those turbulent, uncertain years. Finding himself in the wrong place now was disorienting. He’d walked this stretch of beach over and over and over again as a kid.
 

Well, not
this
stretch. He didn’t think he even
knew
this stretch.
 

Ebon blinked into the bright sun, now realizing that its presence (higher in the sky; it must be after ten) meant he was on the island’s east side. But that didn’t make sense; he’d taken the path that came off of McComb, running up to Sweetums.
 

He’d come the wrong way, that was all. He was still a bit dehydrated, tired, swimmy from lack of food. He sometimes got low blood sugar when he didn’t eat in the morning. He had to get home to Aimee’s. Which was in the other direction, so he turned back.

When Ebon reached the other end of the beach access, he found himself facing the inn, where an old man with thinning but coifed hair was looking at him in obvious disapproval. The public restroom building was across the dirt street. He’d come this way by mistake.

So hungry.
 

Down Main to McComb. Past Sweetums, where he tapped the window with its entreaty to get taffy before summer ended almost superstitiously, as if to prove it was still there. He heard Oasis again, shoving aside his own certainty that he’d just heard it when taking the wrong/correct path toward the beach a few minutes ago, and made for the boulder because he still hadn’t removed the rock from his sandal.
 

The access wound and doubled back, through trees and patches of poison ivy. The foliage was beginning to yellow as it died at autumn’s approach. He reached the end and found himself at a rundown cottage. To each side was a rundown shack that looked exactly the same, save for several small details, like the three giant terracotta pots. A signpost ahead showed
BEACH ACCESS
written on a faded white arrow pointing directly behind Ebon, down the path. The cross street, according to the same signpost, was Canal River Holly.