Aiden’s Journal:
I never saw myself as odd until I moved away to graduate school and attempted dating for the first time. Having few friends in my life, these brief couplings were my first real opportunity to see myself through the eyes of others. If one is seeking blunt honesty, one could do worse than to solicit the criticism of college women.
They viewed me as a man of contradictions: I read so little, yet conversed like a polymath. Mispronunciations and malapropisms peppered my erudite conversation. Spelling errors plagued my otherwise thoughtful writing. One young woman noticed a similar dichotomy in my work at art school: I painted realistic details with virtuosity, yet faltered in composition.
This curious myopia extended into relationships: Prospective girlfriends saw me as incapable of formulating a “big picture” in any practical or beneficial sense. I could not balance my checkbook; my mother and sister bought my clothes; I lived off Lucky Charms and Maalox.
I believe all my peculiar strengths and deficiencies stem from the way I learned as a child and adapted as an adult. When I undertake to learn a discipline, I bypass indigestible theory to crawl headfirst into details. From there I reverse-engineer—part-to-part—to create my whole, albeit a whole fundamentally different from my original sources. This is can be compared to the program of a virus, or the resourcefulness of the Japanese electronics industry, or the inspired thievery of Picasso.
It is not that the spider cannot see her web’s design from the outset, but that she does not need to see it. Intuition is often the gift of the blinded, for the strengths that best define any artist are those that lie untapped and unknown until a weakness uncovers them.
Several miles down the highway, the travelers turned onto a side road overlooking a hollow. A solitary horse grazed in a stable yard, and suggested a topic of conversation.
“Now that’s what I’m scared of,” confessed Aiden.
The photographer spoke matter-of-factly, lifting her camera to snap a picture of her subject against the rural backdrop. “I think you’re biggest fear is women.”
Aiden snatched the prostitute’s phone number from the dashboard and waved it about, refuting her assertion. Emma grinned, yet was struck by how humor gave her new friend rare license to be at ease with her. She gestured him down a gravel road.
Harder wind winnowed high grass in the straightaway; chaff pelted the car windows like buckshot. The travelers drove a solid mile before coming on the familiar cutaway that led to Nadir Mound. The photographer sheltered in the car to load a roll of film while Aiden adventured forward on foot. Occasional gusts hampered his ascent up the sloping hill.
Mackerel clouds skated off to the east; heavier, rain-swollen clouds loomed in the west. One cloud was uncommitted to either scheme. Mantled in radiant silver, its transcendence would not long survive the powerful trough of air.
When the scout reached the summit, wild grasses lapped at its steep sides. A crosswind overlapped along the north approach and cut half-moons into contested territory. This turbulence of cross-purposes worked with intelligence, and with a mind to scare up a ghost or two.
The spent remains of the bonfire were as remembered, although the burnt effigy was missing. He scanned the horizon for it, and with the late thought that the ashes at his feet were strangely out-of-time. The bonfire could have been yesterday, or last year, or even a hundred years ago.
Something once said by an astronaut intruded on the moment: It was about being exposed to the vacuum of deep space for the first time in an airlock, and how it smelled like an old fireplace. For all the wonders of the Universe, this was its one detail that touched Aiden deeply. It was a sense memory of a personal event: an event that cut to the heart of the matter: The world was personal, and in no other way could it be quantified, qualified, or understood.
He rose to his feet and wiped his hands.
Emma now shot photographs lower on the southern slope. Her bright dress made her resemble a piece of manganese sky broken off and fallen to earth. Aiden hoped, regardless whatever dimension she truly inhabited (be it Heaven or Earth), she would emerge like a phoenix from the ashes—his ashes—to save him.
The wind threw his head around. A whitish thing tumbled end-over-end across the meadow. Its queer movement had the character of striding legs counting off paces. The word “Homecoming” briefly unfurled. Aiden marked the paper banner’s progress until it snagged on something sticking out of the ground. He galloped down the hill and leapt into the high grass after it.
Emma hesitated, thinking he was horsing around, but presently joined him. He had gained some height over her. “What did you find?” she asked.
“Fallen trees.” The topographer motioned from his perch. “They align in that direction.”
He jumped off the trunk to feel rutty earth under his shoes. With probing steps, he walked first south, and then east. Emma leaned into a fierce gust, blowing back her hair for a better view of his odd behavior. He eventually stopped, turned to where she stood, and spoke over the roar. “Are you up for a hike?”
“How far?”
“To those standing trees.”
The wooded area was a good quarter-mile away; her expression soured.
The explorer made his case. “I think something big knocked over these trees and pushed in that direction.”
“Knocked over? Knocked over by what?”
He was not disposed to ponder it.
She relented and held out her hand.
Aiden came back to take the offered fingers. The marrying of limbs and digits always made for awkward grips and a self-conscious stride. Such synchronicity was the gateway to any conceivable intimacy, though he found little rhythm in it.
It was no leisurely stroll. The terrain was a tangle, and the wind’s ceaseless drubbing added resistance. Approaching their destination, their treading got easier just when the ground got harder and the grass, shorter. More felled trees lay ahead, and a sudden embankment. A low growl bounded up the incline; Emma beckoned her companion down the crumbling declivity in pursuit of more substantive adventure.
A powerful water jet issued from a large cement flow pipe half-hidden in undergrowth. Aiden ignored its bluster and concentrated on picturesque chicory blooms above them on the ridge. Sun-daubed bluegill splashed in quieter water thereabout. His tightening grip on her hand nevertheless betrayed his apprehension of the scene.
“You afraid of water, too?” she inquired.
He leaned into a retreat, and Emma, taking the hint, rejoined the path above.
The couple came to a clearing; slack-jawed, Aiden recognized it—
“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “We’re at the back of the Willis Quadrangle. Behind that fence is my house. These ruts must be the remains of the old train track that the school pulled up.”
The front of Emma’s taffeta dress was covered with grass seed. With uncharacteristic forwardness, her cicerone knelt to brush off the pleated fabric. Fingers were even licked to pick clean seeds stuck to the syrup stain. He felt foolish for putting her through so much bother.
His attempt to smooth her feathers was entertaining. She glowed when he peered up from his servile attitude, and announced, “I guess this means you can introduce me to the crazy aunt!”
Chapter Sixteen, Section Two/ Back/ Contents Page
Copyright © 2007 Michael Teague. All rights reserved.