Trembling With Fear 3-26-23

Aiden’s Confession, by Kevin M. Folliard

Aiden swept me into his charming whirlwind. My friends and family had never seen me happier. He had a story, a joke, for every occasion. 

We met on Main Street in downtown Maplewood, Kansas. Aiden had glided by on his bicycle and shouted how pretty my hair looked. I shrieked, stumbled and grabbed a nearby telephone pole for support. 

Aiden circled back and apologized for startling me. “It’s downright radiant though. Every strand, like a moonbeam.” He traced his finger down a lock of my hair. I’d just had it done that morning.

We got to talking, we got lunch, and 4 months later, we were married. My younger brothers became fast friends with Aiden and stood up as his groomsmen.

At Thanksgiving, we visited the family farm and announced I was 3 months pregnant. Everyone was over-the-moon at the dinner table. But as we did dishes, my mom murmured, “Pregnant 3 months? You’ve only been married 2 of those months.”

After dinner, Aiden and I strolled in crisp November air. We leaned side-by-side on the wooden fence and watched the sun melt into an orange stew over whickering stalks of corn.

“I never dreamed I could be this happy,” I said.

Aiden’s hand slipped from mine. He faced the farmhouse where I grew up. The white siding darkened in sinking sunlight. The dining room window glowed warm as an oven. “I never had a house like this,” Aiden said. “I’m not sure I can give you all that.”

“That’s not something I need,” I assured him. “We’ll have what God provides.”

“I suppose.”

“Everything all right?”

He shrugged.

“Aiden? You’re happy. Aren’t you?”

“Oh sure. I love you.” A scowl tugged Aiden’s face. I’d never seen that look. “There are things I haven’t told you.”

“Like what?”

He glared. His knuckles gripped and whitened over the fence post. “I killed someone.”

My blood froze. Our family dog Buster started barking from somewhere behind the house. I imagined him chasing squirrels, remembered how he used to catch them and leave them for us on the back porch. In that one moment, it seemed, the sun vanished.

“When,” I finally gasped out. “Why?”

“She made me angry and . . .” Aiden shook his head, turned away.

“Aiden,” I said. “If this is a joke, I don’t like it.”

Aiden’s scowl deepened.

“Please. Tell me this is a joke.”

Everyone loved Aiden. I loved him. 

But did he have friends? Family? I pictured our wedding, where none of his west coast relatives RSVP’d. Were the addresses even real?

Aiden had a million stories, but what was his history?

After a long agonizing silence, Aiden cracked a half-grin. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’m joking of course. That was a terrible joke.”

Relief surged through me. I gasped and leaned on Aiden’s shoulder. He caught me. Held me. 

“I ruined our perfect moment,” he whispered. “I’ll make it up to you.”

I clenched my fingers on his jacket, and the night grew darker.

Back inside, I sat by the fire and savored every bite of Mom’s apple pie. I focused on the perfect crunch of the crust, the scoop of melting vanilla ice cream blending with warm filling. In the dining room, my brothers had opened another bottle of bourbon. Aiden regaled them about a wild adventure he’d supposedly had in South America, while volunteering with a church mission. It was a story I’d heard already, about a lemur who’d stolen a Bible, but some of the details felt different. When Aiden had told it to me at breakfast three months ago, had he climbed a tree to bargain with the lemur? Or had it been the roof of the church?

A hand touched my shoulder, and I startled with surprise. The fork rattled on my dessert plate.

My brother smiled down at me. “What are you hoping for?”

My voice caught in my throat. I stared up like a deer in headlights.

“Boy or girl?” my brother slurred. “What are you hoping for?”

“Just a healthy baby,” I said.

“Aw,” my brother snorted. “That’s what everyone says. What do you really want?”

Aiden glanced back at us. His glasses glinted in the dining room light, and I could not see his eyes. What I really wanted was to see past those eyes, far past them, and know everything, no matter how much it hurt.

I lowered my voice, leaned close to my brother. “Get him drunk.”

That night, I drove. Bone white moon shone on winding country road.

Aidan leaned on the passenger door; his sour breaths steamed the window. “You know I was kiddin’, right?”

“Oh yes.” 

“I’d never hurt you.” He slurred, massaged his temple.

“I know, Aiden.” My left hand gripped the wheel. My right fingers rested over my belly. “We know.”

I swerved, sped, took a sharp turn. Tires squealed.

“Hell!” Aiden gulped. His hands clutched his stomach.

“Sorry, angel. Stray cat. You all right?” I drifted left, right, left.

Aiden gagged and coughed. “Pull over.” He rolled down the window.

I floored it. “It’ll be safer a ways up.”

“No time—” Aiden stuck his head out the window. He retched.

“Sorry, Aiden.” I jammed the gas pedal. Drifted to the shoulder, where a tall, sturdy telephone pole rushed toward us.

Aiden puked and puked.

“I’m sorry you’re sick.” Tears burned my eyes. “Wish you’d told me sooner.”

The pole smacked the side mirror. Aiden’s skull cracked. 

His body slackened, and his headless form slumped. Blood spurted and poured.

“But I’m glad you told me.”