Metallicorigami

(A rather awkward and half-assed portmanteau for a title, isn't it? Forgive me, I'm tired today. I'll pick up where I should have tomorrow.)

This morning Ruth remarked that her most recent purchase of origami paper had some metallic sheets in it. Only when she spoke I had turned the water on and my ears heard Metallica sheets. Almost immediately the jokes began to fly about hardcore paper and shred-folding.

Ben grabbed a piece of tinfoil and began to sing at the top of his lungs while he constructed a paper airplane:

Take a look to the sky just before you die
It is the last time you will
Blackened roar massive roar fills the crumbling sky
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry
Stranger now, are his eyes, to this mystery
He hears the silence so loud
Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be
Now they will see what will be, blinded eyes to see

I sank to the floor on the other side of the island in laughter, for when he launched it it crashed into the stereo, ruined. He threw up both arms and yelled It's been an amazing night tonight, thanks for coming out-ah! Hope to see you again real soon-ah yeahhhh! in his very best James Hetfield.

Breaking points.

Standing above the crowd,
He had a voice so strong
and loud and I swallowed his facade
cause I'm so eager to identify with
Someone above the ground,
Someone who seemed to feel the same,
Someone prepared to lead the way, with
Someone who would die for me.

Will you? Will you now?
Would you die for me?
Don't you fucking lie.
Don't you step out of line.
Don't you fucking lie.

You've claimed all this time that you would die for me.
Why then are you so surprised to hear your own eulogy?

Lochlan is awake late, picking out the notes to Bach's Prelude Suite No. 1 on his guitar as I write out the important spring dates on the calendar. I'm attempting not to be impressed but I fail wildly.

That's beautiful!

You like that? He smiles. I figured I should learn some familiar tunes at the very least.

Yes. It was great. I stop beside the stereo, pressing the power button, pressing Lochlan's buttons. Tool swells through the room, earsplittingly loud from where he turned it off earlier as he marched into the room yelling about honesty and wolves in sheeps' clothing and how I don't listen.

I WAS listening.

(To the music, which I always face head-on. Like a car wreck about to happen.)

I turn around and he is right there in my face, shouting again. I can't hear him because my teeth are chattering from the drums, my brain is reverberating through my skull, rationale replaced with firecracker explosions of instruments and he's saying arrogant things about promises and nostalgia. He's saying entitled things about life before this kind of stereo equipment when I could hardly hear the words and I would have to wait patiently for a moment when I would catch him off guard so I could listen to him sing the words and then I would know them too.

He finally has enough and turns off the stereo. As violent as the noise was, the silence is worse, falling like a shroud over the moment, choking it off. He starts talking again but I miss it. I'm considering how I feel about the music changing again, I'm not paying attention, finishing the lyrics silently to myself.

Abruptly Lochlan grabs my whole head and presses my forehead against his. BRIDGET. You forgave me. What in the hell is this?

Inability to function as logically as you can.

What do you mean?

Exactly. I don't know.

Who are you punishing by spending so much time with Caleb? Me? Ben? You?

Everyone.

It's working, isn't it? Where is Ben?

Downstairs.

When's the last time he came up for air?

Tuesday, I lie. I don't remember. He isn't speaking to me past repeating his magical rules so it's not important right now.

It's been a long week, Bridget. Can we call a truce? Can we just go back to the way things were?

Talk to Ben.

What in the hell is he doing exactly? Trading me for the devil? That's not going to help his cause, that will just make things worse.

He doesn't see it that way, Lochlan. He thinks you don't care about him.

Of course I care! I can't believe I'm pleading my case. Fuck this. We've been all fucked up since I pulled you out of the water in November and it's time I straightened us out. He pushes past me, headed for the stairs.

Where are you going?

To talk to your husband.

Batman and the space where gravity meets levity.

Someday you might find your hero
Some say you might lose your mind
I'm keeping my head down now for the summer
I'm out of my mind but pour me another
I'm going to take that tiger outside for a ride

New-Jake pulls a corner of his toast away with his teeth and chews noisily. Someone's getting a cold. Probably because most of the boys have been wearing shorts for a month when the weather still calls for jeans. I'm not sure how much of a mother I should be to this one because sometimes I am a little in awe of how much he observes in the run of a day, honestly.

He holds out a piece to me.

I don't like toast, Jake. But thank you.

Did you eat today?

Banana.

At what, six this morning?

Yes.

Then I'll make you something.

Lunch is right around the corner, Jake. Don't worry so much.

So let me get this straight. Ben's cool that you are sometimes with Caleb?

No.

But he doesn't freak out.

He has his own issues, Jake.

And all of you speak Gaelic to shut him out?

No. Yes. Well, not at first.

Ben is the outsider, then.

No, he's the longshot. There's a difference.

I don't understand this house.

Me neither. Now finish your toast. You shouldn't wait so long to eat.

I stick my tongue out at New-Jake as I get up to tidy the kitchen. Batman walks in unannounced. He greets both of us and sits down at the island beside Jake to read the paper. Jake stares at him until Batman looks up and says What? and then, caught, Jake holds out the half-eaten toast. Breakfast? I laugh behind my hands and Batman regards me coolly.

What are you up to, Bridget?

Cleaning up before we leave.

I mean with Satan.

Keeping the peace. I stand my ground. It's a tile, twelve by twenty-four. Sicilian baroque.

He is amused. He looks at Jake and then stands and comes over to me, right up close until he is breathing my air and he softens finally. I worry about you.

It's a club now, is it? I'm going to lose it. My eyes are watering madly and my knees shake.

It's always been a club. Bridget, look around you. Don't you see how everyone tightens up when Caleb bends your ear? We all want what's best for you.

Because I'm the child.

Because you've been through enough.

I don't play the sympathy card.

I know. I admire you for that.

You shouldn't. My chin is quavering and he's such a gentleman, he changes the subject.

Where to for lunch today, Bridget? You decide.

Red Lobster or Chipotle. (Jake begins to laugh and I ignore him.)

Batman sighs. Where are they?

Um...Richmond, I think?

Are you sure you don't want to go downtown?

I don't think this city is big enough for you and Caleb and he's already heading there, to the hotel for lunch.

Amusement lights up his face. I think sometimes you're right, Bridget. It might not be big enough. We're too old for these games but at the same time I made a promise and I intend to keep it. He checks his watch and I am put in my place, neatly and with finesse.

I don't think Cole ever intended me to be a burden to you, ______. I say his name softly and he stops, surprised.

Bridget, who said you were a burden?

You just did. Saying you're too old for this.

Hell, Bridget, this keeps me young and as a bonus I get to see your beautiful face whenever I want. Caleb isn't a threat to me. I am mindful of your history with him as well as his role as a threat to you.

Tell me about it. The history part, I mean. Tell me what you know.

I don't think I have to, Bridget. I heard there are tapes if your memory is lacking.

Was that a bad joke?

The very worst. He winks at me and changes the subject once more. Chipotle. Really?

If we can find it. If not, I know where the Chuck-E-Cheese is in Langley.

You age me. Do you know that?

Where do you want to eat? Room service in your stuffy hotel?

What's wrong with room service?

It's boring.

Now you're calling me boring? But I'm the Batman!

Oh my God. You did not just say that.

I did. Now come on. Alfred's waiting.

Alfred...what?

I'm kidding. Sadly. I drove my own car here. But if you really want to drive to McWhatever, I'll call you Alfred and then we'll have the full Dark Knight experience.

Really?

No, Bridget, and after today I'm picking the restaurants.

You mean it's room service from here on out.

I don't even need a menu. I have it memorized. He struts out the door like a peacock. I grab my bag and follow. Jake throws the toast at me as I pass and I duck.

(Update: I question the existence of the Chipotle, which we never did find. We wound up at the hotel. Had room service. He ordered from memory. It was good. The end.)

Somewhere between.

I sat curled in the center of his large corduroy couch underneath a triptych of myself, in which Cole painted me swirling a blood-red maple leaf in a puddle of water, my hair blowing up mischievously in the wind. But it isn't a happy picture, it's so very cold and bleak and hopeless. I can't remember what he called it and I don't want to ask. Something like Waiting for November, I think.

Calling December, Caleb returns to the room with hot chocolate and cookies. I pick one up and put it back. Cranberry cookies. Store bought. Read my mind now, Diabhal.

But he fails and hits the button to resume the movie. We are, as Henry put it so eloquently yesterday, hanging out. Spending time in all of its brutal honesty which isn't what I would have chosen, for I am completely out of my element at this point and Lochlan has picked enough fights to make a bouquet, maybe since there's one in the front hall he didn't sent to me. Caleb did, because he promised he would when he was drunk as a skunk the other night. Possibly less drunk than I suspect, since he remembered more than I did.

The card read not mean. It made me smile.

This movie does not, however but I am riveted nonetheless. The Ledge. Patrick Wilson, Liv Tyler, Charlie Hunnam (who will forever be Nicholas Nickleby anyway) and I don't want to watch it but I can't not watch it because of the chemistry and Patrick as a bad guy and Liv as a power-mouse, as always. Caleb points out the compelling nature of her mannerisms in the movie. I am struck by how embedded his dominating tendencies are. It's like he is two different people, but then again, aren't we all?

I look up again at the girl with the maple leaves and wonder if she has this problem too. Probably not, she is confined to three panels and seventeen colors and she has no idea she'll be watching some sort of reverse-biography late in the evening in the pouring rain in the place she shouldn't be but sometimes the places you escape to to avoid the endless condescension of those who think they get it right, every last time, are the places where you can exhale for a moment.

This movie is a reminder that sometimes no one gets it right.

It goes on the pile with Into the Wild and Blue Valentine, I guess. Sad movies for ruthless realists. Misery, conjured on purpose. Unhealthy pastimes for people who definitely know better and still choose to get it wrong because it's easier.

Nevermind me. I'm a little down today. I know how the movie ends.

"Your princess is quite a winning creature. A trifle simple, perhaps. Her appeal is undeniable."

I knocked softly and was rewarded with an opened door. Caleb is up! Surprise of all surprises he is showered and dressed and nursing a teal-green-black mug of strong coffee in the kitchen. His blackberry is buzzing nonstop, the newspaper is deconstructed and all over the counter top and the remnants of a hard-boiled egg and toast remain on a plate near the sink. I'm suitably impressed. I had considered bringing the cymbals over, figuring I would have to make some serious noise to get him up.

He kisses my cheek in greeting. I see the fatigue then, in and around his eyes. He didn't bother shaving and is in jeans and a long-sleeved white waffle knit tee. A home-day at least. Good. I think he needs a break today. I tell him I will bring him with me to run errands and that he can rest assured he didn't recite most of the Princess Bride in his drunkenness last evening (it's a thing, every. single. one. of the boys has done this at one time or another) and he holds up his hand and tells me he drank water on my advice and doesn't feel that badly today and besides, he read word for word what he said in my journal and is there anything he can do or offer in exchange for not writing publically anymore?

Of course not. I look cross at him, because cross is what that comment deserves. But then I soften. How are you really feeling?

Like a forty-nine-year-old frat boy.

Excellent. Get your jacket. We're going grocery shopping.

Is Loch coming? I don't think I could take that giant food warehouse and the redhead at the same time right now.

No, he has work to do.

Thank Christ.

Funny, he said the same thing.

Goatscaping, Caleb-style.

(Banning alcohol from the grounds is next, but for tonight, hubris, Bridget-style.)

When I go outside with my basket of strawberries and knife tonight he is already there, waiting for me, sitting on the step in the place where I usually sit late in the evening, keeping company with the sea.

I freeze and turn to go back in. I was quiet, maybe he won't notice.

Don't go back inside, princess. I won't stay if you don't want me here tonight. He tips the rest of his glass up and swallows down the honey-colored liquid. I frown and stay rooted in place.

He turns and gazes at me curiously. How do you do it, Bridget? A question delivered in a broken whisper, blurred around the edges just enough to take the sharpness off.

Which part? I advance with my strawberries and walk down to the steps, sitting down beside Caleb. He pours three fingers of scotch into the glass and holds it out to me. I shake my head and hold the knife instead.

Missing someone who was a part of your life. How do you do that? I thought I could throw myself into work and different causes and your life and raising Henry but Cole is still gone. It's like a big black hole in my life. I don't want to be an only child. I'm so glad my child is not an only child. I realize this is not the same as never having had a brother or sister, but at the same time it's still about being alone.

I watch him quietly. His eyes are glassy, his hands shaking ever so slightly, his words slurred in the slight accent that I hardly ever notice anymore. I still vividly remember the last time he let his guard down like this. It's unnerving and shattering, that's what it is.

How do I move forward without my little brother being there? How do I step up and be as good a father as he was? How do I stop feeling guilty for finding pleasure in life when he doesn't even get to have a life?

He wouldn't want you to feel guilty because you're still alive, Cale.

Maybe he would, Bridget. Maybe he would call this a just reward for what I have put you through. Maybe he's waiting to take me down with him. Maybe this is why I'm still alone in virtually every aspect of my existence.

I am inspecting my knees. I don't know if he wants comfort or justification or a scapegoat.

He is gazing at me. He's having trouble focusing. This can't be the first bottle for Caleb, I know him better than this.

You're not alone, Caleb, I offer quietly.

He releases a bitter chuckle. Essentially I am, Bridget. I have worked my fingers to the bone for everything I have and I would trade it all in in a heartbeat for you.

For 'someone', you mean.

For you. Let's just be honest. Honesty is the only thing I have left that I haven't offered you.

Maybe you should get some sleep.

Why, you don't like to hear what I'm thinking? I live with the ever-present noise from within your head written down for all to see while you stand there and never say a word out loud but you can't take my thoughts for what they're worth?

I stand up, leaving the berries and the knife. I'm trying to protect you, that's all.

His eyes spill over suddenly and he turns away as he stands up. It is late. I think I do need a little more sleep, that's all. He wavers, giving himself away and sits back down quickly. It was that or fall down the concrete steps. I take his hand and take the bottle from him and pull him back up. I wait there while he steadies himself.

Are you okay to walk back home without help or do I have to call someone?

Maybe you could walk me to my door. I'm just a little bit out of my element this evening. Still with the formalities, since we are not behind closed doors. He can be the most amazingly proper gentleman in the universe sometimes and the biggest monster of my nightmares that I can conjure up in the very next moment. It's uncanny.

Sure. He holds out his elbow and I take it. I turn back quickly and stand the bottle on the ground. He doesn't need any more, what he needs now is sleep.

We take the long way around to the front of the house and then across and he tells me a little about his next project. Retirement has not been an easy sell for Caleb, who refuses to stop and enjoy the results of his efforts. I am intrigued because for once it sounds perfect for him. Finally we reach the glass doors on the deck of the boathouse and I remind him to drink some water before he lies down. I re-offer the assistance of one of the boys but he is adamant that he's only a little bit trashed and he'll be better tomorrow.

My apologists, your majesty. They will make my excuses.

I burst out laughing and nod. I wish I had this on film.

He leans forward, the smile slipping to the floor and kisses me. Hard. I can't breathe. Then he leans back again and touches the tip of my nose. I wish I had that on film.

I frown.

Oh, that's right. I DO. Goodnight, my sweet doll. Sometime you should come and watch our movies with me. But as I said, I am always alone. You're always with someone else. I know exactly how Loch feels and it fucking blows. All this, he gestures around, and I can't have the one thing I worked for.

Are you finished?

His gaze drops back to me and he smiles wide. Yes, princess. Stick a fork in me because I'm done and done. Tomorrow I will send flowers to atone for my verbal outburst. I mean you no harm anymore. I know I seem like a monster but really I'm just mean because I'm alone. Goodnight.

Under Loch and key (first bonfire of the year).

(It doesn't matter what date you put on this one. 1983 or 2012 will be fine, really.)

If I had a gun, I'd shoot a hole into the sun
And love would burn this city down for you
If I had the time, I'd stop the world and make you mine
And every day would stay the same with you

Give you back the dream, show you now what might had been
If all the tears you cry would fade away (away, away, away...)
I'll be by your side, when they come to say goodbye
We will live to fight another day

Excuse me if I spoke too soon
My eyes have always followed you around the room
'Cause you're the only god that I will ever need
I'm holding on and waiting for the moment to find me

I am buzzing with the effects of the alcohol and the cool night air, sitting on the sand, wedged tightly against and in front of Lochlan, his arms down around me. He tilts the bottle toward my lips, just enough for a small warm sip of burning fluid to trace down through my body. When I try to have more he says That's enough, peanut. You're too little to drink much of this. He laughs and raises the bottle to his own mouth, swallowing several times. He is warm. Too warm. Lochlan-warm which is less human and more fire. We watch the antics of the others on the sand in front of us as we lounge close to the bonfire against a log. He puts his head down against mine, his lips against my ear.

I missed this. I love you.

I pull the bottle back and take a huge gulp before he can stop me. Before I have to answer. The pause is so loaded he's been shot before I have had time to aim.

You shouldn't. I have too much baggage. I'm watching Ben as I swallow. He is standing down by the water talking to Caleb and Sam. Tide's out. Sea monsters are everywhere.

Better Bridget with baggage than no Bridget at all. He says it quietly and I smile. No Bridget at all was tough. No Bridget at all was a difficult time period that we don't talk about anymore, much.

Ben walks up the beach and I am shoved roughly to my feet and in his general direction. I turn and pass the bottle back to Lochlan who has turned to talk to Christian and fails to acknowledge me. I kick his foot and let go of the bourbon. It falls vertically, caught easily by the juggler. He looks up at me and smiles conspiratorially. He gets away with so much. His endless, automatic charm and pragmatic attitude make for such easy prominence within the collective. His long red curls are pulled back in a simple ponytail, he's in new cargo shorts and a black tshirt. The most unassuming king of all.

He leans forward with a torch and lights it from the burning wood. Time for a show, peanut. Be a good girl and stay close, okay? I'll need help putting everything away and you're the best helper I've ever seen. 

Second thoughts.

He's home in one piece, sort of a nice surprise compared to the last trip he took alone, where he didn't come home at all and instead we went and collected Lochlan and the pieces of his motorcycle that remained. I threw myself into his arms and was rewarded with a brief hug. A ten-second hug which is very unlike Lochlan at all and then I realized why.

He brought flowers for Ben. He reads everything. I knew he would but I didn't think he would go all out like this. The bouquet is huge.

I attempted to keep my composure and failed, spilling it all over the floor in muted peals of dismayed laughter. I will clean up the mess later. He and Ben clapped each other on the back wordlessly and then Ben opted to stare at me for around seven hundred seconds, maybe deciding if he wanted to start laying down even more rules and then he chose wisely, excusing himself to go and get some work done.

Another truncated hug from Lochlan and a kiss on my forehead as I am inspected, ruefully.

You drug your freckles out of winter storage while I was away, peanut.

I frown in response. I hate my freckles. Every last one of the millions there are.

You look beautiful. He waits. I know he wants to inspect me for himself to make sure there are no marks, no seared-in cloven footprints, no lashes from a forked tail or tongue. I make no move to reassure him. I know the marks are there. They already scar his soul.

I distract instead.

Hungry?

Starving. He smiles. That's his promise to let things go for a second. We'll pick it up later, as always.

He reached out and pulled me against him, my back to his chest, and held me there, one hand around my neck, not so gently after all, the other hand gripping my hip bones until they grated in protest. He picked up speed and rode me through the darkness and just as the sun was threatening to blow out the nighttime sky he brought his other hand up to my throat, tightening his hold. When I saw the stars he named them after me, each and every one, whispering my name into my hair, his voice hoarse and ragged.

Trying to get them all to read the same thing at the same time.

Raising the alarm for what?

This war. 

There is no war, Bridget. Things have been pointed out to me and so I am trying to prevent a lot of heartache. 

Who is going to get their heart broken? 

Me. 

Oh. But you don't worry about Caleb walking around flashing his millions and assuring everyone within a thousand mile range that he will be victorious in the end. 

No, because you don't love him like that. You just use him to hold on to Cole. 

You don't think he would know that and understand it for what it is? 

Maybe he's delusional. Ben grins.

I am trying not to laugh. This is serious! But I cave in and smile at least. That he is. And so are you, because I am not trying to break your heart. 

Is this like that Wilco song? 

No, that's 'I am trying to break your heart'.

I see. Well, what if you don't know what you're doing either? 

Oh, I know what I'm doing. 

How is that? 

I have experience. 

In what again? 

I punch him square in the chest. Being married. 

Right. You have a fabulous track record, Ms. Taylor.

Wow. 

A spade's a spade, Elizabeth. 

Fuck off, Ben. It's a warning. Both my previous husbands stopped breathing before anything was official so unless you're looking for a hat trick you should change the subject. 

What if the pyromaniac comes back and you guys decide to make up? 

It's not possible. 

I want to know why. How can you love someone like that and not give them everything? 

You know why, Ben. And I was the one who told you, if you want him out of my heart, he's out. We've been just friends before, we can go back to that. 

Ben snorts but doesn't say anything.

This is very tiring, Benjamin. And if you're never going to let me sleep then you can't expect me to make any sense. 

He's coming back this weekend, Bridget, and I'm nervous. 

Maybe he'll bring you flowers. 

Your turn to fuck off, princess. But he says it quietly to soften the blow.

Stop worrying. 

It's hard. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'm not going to let Pyro or Satan, for that matter, fuck it up. 

Then stop listening to both of them. You never used to. 

I've lost my edge again. Fuck. This keeps happening.

We can put up posters around the neighborhood. Maybe someone has found it, like last time. 

Do you think? Jesus, Bee, in the wrong hands that could be downright dangerous.