The Infinite Onion Page 8

  “Why do I always forget this part?” Freddie gave me a fond smile. “I’ll need to talk my way into your pants all over again, won’t I?”

  At least he was good-natured about it. I could tell from the look in his eye that he yearned for me. I yearned for him too, in a way. If he didn’t travel so much, or if I liked to travel, we probably could have had a nice life together. Instead, we were friends and opportunistic lovers. I was the guy he sent strange postcards to and bought foreign oddities for. He was the guy who told me tales of the world and wrecked my bedding now and then. Our arrangement had worked well for seventeen years.

  For the first time, I wondered if I might want to change it.

  Freddie ran his hands over the carved designs in the wood. “Oliver. Hey, this is really something.”

  “Thank you. How long are you on Vashon this time?”

  “I fly back to Tokyo in late August. Mom’s fussing will send me around the bend before then, so I’m thinking I’ll do some short trips up the coast over the summer. I got a lead on a Japanese prison warden who retired on Whidbey Island.” Freddie hadn’t seen the back of the throne yet, but he took my hand and pulled me toward the house. “Let’s go inside.”

  The arm he wrapped around my shoulder felt nice, so I went along.

  Freddie winked as he opened the back door. “I put up the red flag for us.”

  “I knew you would.”

  What I liked about Freddie was his predictability. We never surprised each other. He knew I felt happiest at home on Vashon, and he knew persuasion would be required to thaw me after a long separation. I knew Freddie’s familiarity would bring me comfort. I also knew he felt most at home in Japan. Someday, I predicted, Freddie would bring a nice Japanese boy to Vashon to meet his mother. Until then, I remained his option for easy sex on Vashon.

  Over the long months Freddie was away, I tended to forget I was a placeholder. I used my imagination to satisfy myself and lost track of reality, despite the photo I kept on my fridge as a reminder. In the photo, Freddie wore a tuxedo and a smile I’d never seen in person. Beside him, at a gala event in Tokyo, stood a handsome young Japanese man in a blue-on-blue embroidered tuxedo. The cool, acquisitive look the man gave Freddie made it clear they’d be all over each other in a back room within thirty seconds. That was Freddie’s reality—hobnobbing with politicos and socialites, winning journalism prizes for insightful coverage of controversial issues, immersed in his best life in Japan.

  I tended to ignore the photo.

  The version of Freddie I reverted to when he was away was the longhaired teen who’d excelled in English, Japanese, world history, and soccer, but almost failed every other subject. Nostalgia replayed a young Freddie who pushed me into dark corners at parties or into the back seat of his car and used his mouth and hands and cock to distract me.

  Freddie used me to remember our good times.

  I used Freddie to forget.

  I caught sight of that photo when Freddie hauled me past the fridge on the way to my bedroom, and wondered how my life might change if I was willing to remember more. The thought slid away, too impenetrable to stick. I pulled against Freddie’s hand to steer him away from the bedroom.

  His frown told me he wasn’t pleased.

  “I’m not trying to be a tease,” I said. My nostalgia had to be dealt with before I got physical. I didn’t want to have sad sex that made me long for a previous version of Freddie.

  “I know,” Freddie said, but his heavy sigh and plop onto the couch said he didn’t believe me.

  What I wanted to do was retreat alone to my bedroom, lie down with the curtains closed, and ask myself a few tough questions, but I couldn’t do that to Freddie.

  “Tell me something about your trip while I look at what you brought me,” I said.

  By the time I’d unwrapped a disturbing monkey mask, a plastic sword, and a sign I suspected Freddie stole from a bathroom, his smile had almost recovered. He sat close with his hand high on my thigh.

  I almost didn’t mind.

  Chapter 19

  Grant

  I took the back way to Oliver’s through the woods, instead of using the driveway like a normal person. I didn’t want to know if the red flag was up.

  I’d done what little primping I could, aided by a dingy washrag and the reflective bottom of my metal camping plate. The result was a signature style I dubbed rough-hewn hopeful.

  As I neared the house for the first time since I’d spied on Oliver carving the stump, I focused my thoughts on peace. Get the asking over with, work out the details, and then I could get back to fresh vegetables and the makings of a cheese sandwich at my campsite. I’d spend the afternoon chewing slowly and planning the next phase of my recovery.

  I charged onto the lawn with my head down like a determined bull, which meant I was already out in the open when I noticed the ancient minivan in the driveway. And heard a man’s laugh that wasn’t Oliver’s coming from inside the house.

  I thought about turning around.

  No. I would interrupt, but I’d be quick about it. I stomped up the porch steps, to give Oliver and his guest notice, and knocked, my eyes on the doormat to keep my focus. Peace.

  When Oliver opened the door, his bare, freckled feet were almost enough to blow my concentration to hell.

  “Grant. Hey,” Oliver said in a bright voice. “I thought you’d gone back to Seattle.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

  “No, thanks.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry to bother you, but I’d like to ask you something.”

  Oliver leaned against the doorjamb and nodded.

  “Could we do a trade?” I asked. “I can do odd jobs around the property. In exchange maybe you’d be willing to—”

  A second pair of feet and legs appeared behind Oliver’s. Close behind. Brown shoes. Nice slacks. “Willing to what?” said the voice that wasn’t Oliver’s.

  I took a step back and lifted my head. The man gave me a wary look and slid an arm around Oliver’s waist. Freddie.

  Oliver shifted sideways and turned to look over his shoulder. “Give us a minute?”

  Freddie didn’t like it, but he stepped back.

  Oliver came outside and closed the door. “Sorry about that,” he said to me. “Old friend just back from a long trip. What were you saying?”

  I should have bought myself a goddamned cheesecake to reward myself for offering Oliver a deal, instead of a bag of baby carrots. I swore to myself if I made it through the next five minutes, I’d treat myself to two cheese sandwiches and require nothing of myself for the remainder of the day. Maybe tomorrow as well.

  Aware of the open windows, I lowered my voice. “I want to trade odd jobs, preferably outdoor jobs, for occasional use of your amenities.”

  “Which amenities?”

  “Er… shower, washing machine, water from an outside spigot. Maybe drop off a bag of garbage now and then. I’m on a vacation. Of sorts. Between jobs.” I closed my mouth with a snap, to keep from exposing more of my pathetic self to a man who had so much. I didn’t want to resent him—especially since I needed his charity—but I did.

  I expected Oliver to ask me where I was staying, or to lecture me about campfires, but he only stared at me with his rust-red eyebrows drawn together.

  I stared back and waited. He seemed older than I’d first assumed. The fine lines at the outer corners of his eyes deepened as he frowned. His straight nose made me think again of marble. Fucking Michelangelo had spent a year sculpting Oliver’s nose to get it just right.

  Stop it.

  It seemed inappropriate of me to enjoy the way Oliver looked but disapprove of his creative lifestyle and resent him for having money and property. I was the first one to look away.

  “I’ll consider it,” Oliver said, “if you come back tomorrow for a job interview.” He looked distracted, as if
he’d suddenly remembered a crucial item to add to his shopping list.

  I thought maybe I’d missed part of the conversation while I studied his nose. “I don’t understand.”

  “No interview, no deal.”

  I took a step back. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.”

  My worst glare, the one that made frat boys settle down at the copy shop, only made one side of Oliver’s mouth quirk up.

  Again, I was the one who broke first. “Fine.” I turned away, clattered down the porch steps, built up speed when I hit the lawn.

  “Be here at ten tomorrow morning,” Oliver shouted after me.

  I heard, but didn’t respond. I was at the edge of the woods by then, wishing I’d been born a tree instead of a foolish human with more feelings than I could handle.

  Chapter 20

  Oliver

  Grant accepted my interview stipulation.

  Freddie didn’t.

  As soon as I stepped inside, Freddie confronted me. “You’re dating a homeless man now?”

  “Really? That’s quite a leap.”

  “Whoever he was, he looked awful. And dangerous.”

  “I don’t think so.” I flattened my shoulders against the closed front door. Grant’s pale skin, dark hair, and the menacing expressions he came up with gave me all sorts of artistic inspiration, but he didn’t seem dangerous. More like a cranky, scared, hurt baby animal. A size XXL baby animal. That made me smile.

  “See?” Freddie threw up his hands. “You like him. He’s a rogue, and you like him. He looks at you like you’re—”

  “He looks at me like he likes the way I look. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Freddie glared harder.

  “I think he really needs help,” I said. “He seems to be at the end of his rope.”

  “Great. Take in a stray right when I get back on Vashon—a stray who wants to pet you all over.”

  I felt a spike of irritation at that. “You seem to have forgotten we have an open relationship.”

  “So you do want to get with him.”

  “No, Freddie. I want to help him. But even if I did want to get with him, it wouldn’t be reasonable of you to get on my case about it.”

  I’d known Freddie a long time. I’d studied, drawn, painted, and touched his face and body as we’d aged. His expression of possessive outrage was one I’d never seen before. Then again, the last time anyone besides Freddie had shown interest in me, we’d been in high school.

  “What’s up with you?” I asked.

  Freddie didn’t answer.

  I patted him on the shoulder and walked around him into the living room. “I know what’s going on. You, my friend, are having a sudden attack of hypocrisy.”

  His answer was to leave.

  Poor Freddie. He’d shown up ready to bed the man he assumed had pined for his return. In truth, I had pined, but more for my imagined version of Freddie’s return than the actual one.

  I wandered around the house, lost to my thoughts.

  By the time I went to bed, I’d clarified a few things.

  I needed to update my fantasies.

  Freddie needed to update his assumptions.

  And if Grant needed a push, even if that wasn’t what he’d asked for, I was the man for the job.

  Chapter 21

  Grant

  With any luck, Oliver’s farce of an interview would be brief. I felt like a wimp to go along with it. He probably only wanted to yank my chain. As if I hadn’t been humiliated enough when I’d asked for his help.

  During my hike along the trail to Oliver’s house the next morning, I told myself the adult choice would be to pack up my stuff, return to Seattle, and get a job—any job. But every time I played out that scenario in my mind, it ended in a long walk down a dark street to a homeless shelter, where I’d unroll my sleeping bag on a cot, trapped in a cramped room with a dozen other defeated men. No fresh breeze. No chitter of birds all around. No sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves. No room to move. No sky. No stars.

  No air.

  Until I couldn’t breathe.

  Before I stepped onto Oliver’s lawn, I touched the bark of an aspen tree and sucked in a lungful of the oxygen the trees around me breathed out. Compared to the hell of trying to breathe in the city, an “interview” with Oliver seemed like a minor inconvenience. If Oliver agreed to my proposal and I still failed—died in my tent from hunger and fart fumes—at least I would have lived my last days outdoors in peace instead of destitute in Seattle. I might be destitute on Vashon, but I didn’t feel destitute. Not quite yet.

  I climbed the porch stairs and knocked. The door opened right away.

  A man with a superior air frowned at me from the doorway. He looked like Oliver. Sort of. Tortoiseshell glasses covered half his face. His tweed jacket sported suede patches on the elbows. He wore pleated corduroy pants, polished oxfords, and a button-down dress shirt, all of which were the color of…

  “Interesting shirt.” I leaned closer. “What color is that? Baby-puke beige?”

  Oliver’s brows furrowed. He shifted to look past me. “My mistake,” he said in a sharp voice. “I thought you were the new applicant.” He lifted his arm to check the ugly watch buckled around his wrist. His haughty dismissal seemed so genuine I couldn’t help but respect his acting skills.

  Then he closed the door in my face.

  I expected him to open it again, with a smile and a joke, but he didn’t.

  Well, damn.

  Oliver may have put on a costume, but he wasn’t kidding around. I took a minute to get my mental shit together before I knocked again.

  Professor Oliver answered with a raised eyebrow and a push of his glasses farther up his nose. His stare reminded me of the offended look Mr. Hawkins used to give me in seventh grade on days I’d had to work before school and arrived late to homeroom.

  “Please come in,” Oliver said. With a stiff gait, he led me past the couch and its profusion of pillows to the dining table. Two leaves had been added to the table, making it long enough to fill a corporate boardroom. Oliver pointed me to the left end of the table, where a tray of writing utensils, a pitcher of water, and a glass were arranged around a legal pad.

  “Overkill much?” I muttered.

  From my seat, I had a view of the kitchen side of the room. Between the kitchen and the front door were a closed door and a half-open bathroom door, through which I could see the shower stall. I wondered if Oliver had seated me strategically.

  At the opposite end of the table, Oliver sat with a posture so rigid it made me tired. He bestowed upon me an officious smile and said, “Welcome, Mr. Grant. I’m delighted you’re interested in applying to the program. You’ll find an application under the legal pad. Please take a moment to fill it out.”

  I rolled my eyes and yanked out the sheet of paper. A pompous font prompted me for Full Name, Phone Number, Age, and Emergency Contact. I shook my head, but filled it out, writing Mitch Martensen and his phone number for my emergency contact.

  When I’d finished, Oliver walked the length of the table to retrieve the paper. He studied it as he returned to his chair.

  “Mr. Eastbrook, tell me about your work history.”

  I stared at him. “Are you serious?” I detected no sign of the Oliver I’d crushed on.

  The set of Professor Uppity’s mouth conveyed disapproval of my disbelief. “Your career, please? I’m waiting.” Oliver picked up a pen with a floaty green feather attached.

  I made an effort not to roll my eyes again. “No. Career.” To annoy him, I spoke like a robot with a one-word maximum per sentence. “Only. Dull. Jobs.”

  “What was your most recent job?”

  “Copy center in the University District.”

  Oliver’s hoot of laughter surprised me enough to straighte
n me out of my slouch. “What’s funny about that?”

  “A copy center?”

  “Hey. That job gave me food and a roof over my head.” I wanted to make a point. “I didn’t laze around. I worked hard.”

  “At making copies.” That set Oliver off again, his laughter poking fun at my life.

  I shook my head and stood.

  “Not seeing it?” Oliver’s fit of laughter seemed to have banished the uptight bureaucrat. He assumed the louche posture of a 1960s poetry professor at a downscale community college. I almost expected him to whip out a doobie and offer me a hit.

  I’d made up my mind to play along, but Oliver’s whole attitude felt wrong to me. I could feel myself swinging out into the open—and I hated it.

  “I’m not like you,” I said. “Your games aren’t fun for me. This isn’t fun. I don’t appreciate you using my low point to entertain yourself. That’s… It’s cruel, and I don’t have time for it. I need a few basic things. You, for some reason, feel the need to be a pretentious jerk about sharing what you have so much of, which I’ve already told you I’m willing to work for.”

  My speech had no noticeable effect on Oliver. He watched me but didn’t say anything. His message seemed to be that I could indulge in all the outbursts I wanted, but whatever I got from him would be on his terms.

  We stared at each other over the length of the table until I managed to force my frustration down and remember I needed a job more than I needed my pride.

  I sat down and braced myself.

  Chapter 22

  Oliver

  Grant behaved like a stump who dreamed of being a footstool.

  I wanted him to realize he could be a throne.

  It was fine for me to get creative with wood and a chisel, or to fill a sketchbook with drawings, but did I want to take on a creative project of a person, especially since Grant’s hurt seemed as big as Aza’s?

  Clementine would tell me to do it.

  I didn’t know what Aza would tell me.