Aphorisms and epitaphs.

Sophie called this morning. In her own magical way she expressed her displeasure at the fact that Caleb is giving up his autonomy for proximity. And then true to a fault she asked me if I needed anything.

This was not about giving me anything I might need, it was an effort to assert herself and whatever place she feels that she has in Caleb's life. I'm not sure she has a place right now.

He is focused on three things: his son, his health and atonement.

Everything else has ceased to be of any importance. Wealth, status, reputation, his day job testing the faith of mankind, and pretty much everything that used to consume his days has fallen by the wayside. He hasn't even had the Porsche detailed this week. Usually by now he would have already been in twice.

Maybe she should be asking what he needs.

I know what he needs.

This.

Humility. Supervision by the others. Real life in a real house instead of existing in his mogul-star life of glass condominiums, lines cut on the glass, signatures scrawled on lines, handshakes, shaking hands holding loaded weapons, and suitcases full of cash. Maybe I exaggerate (but maybe not) and maybe it's all a cruel ruse but I can't help but think Jake brought something out in Caleb that is finally going away. Maybe his incredulity and outrage at my betrayal of his brother is finally softening and he will be less devil and more human. Maybe he's getting old. Maybe time is slipping past us and he sees me as an equal, not as a child, a conquest and a curse.

Maybe pigs are fl-oh, look, there they go now. Oink, oink, like big fat pink geese.

Maybe he isn't as healthy as he told me he was. He's doing everything right: diet, exercise, as little stress as possible, he's given up drugs, alcohol and weapons. He's wishing immortality had a price tag, he would spend whatever it takes.

I know that feeling.

He has said there will be surprises along the way. That he isn't a monster, he just finds self-control the hardest lesson of all in the face of getting everything he wants. Were the devil to practice self-restraint, it would spell the end of sin as we know it.

In the beginning Caleb was oldest. Always automatically in charge, the one with the most privileges, the one the others looked up to. He set the bar high for self-expectations and never once did he express a doubt about a single damned thing ever. He was confident and laid-back, quietly narcissistic and vaguely sinister. It was the perfect combination to lead the group, and stay on top.

We would grow up and become The Outsiders and maybe someone would write about us someday, detailing just how long Lochlan's hair would get over the course of every summer when he wouldn't cut it between May and November or Cole's intensity when his painting didn't go well. Pointing out how hard it was for me to keep up, stumbling along through the woods behind the boys, tripping, sniffling along in the dark until Christian or Caleb or Cole would turn around and notice and then come back and get me, pulling me up into a piggyback-carry and I would fall asleep with my cheek pressed against the warmth of a sweaty t-shirt, listening to the loons call across the lake.

And then everything changed.

Lochlan didn't want to stay in town, he wanted to escape. I wanted to go with him. Cole was busy trying to keep his car running, hating his job, disappearing into himself. Caleb was putting himself through university, trying to get into law school, the first in his family to have white-collar aspirations.

The day came where I was less of a charge, less of a burden and more of a target, the object of their affections. The apple of too many pairs of eyes to keep anything fair. It tore them into so many different directions that allegiances were broken and friendships exploded. Naked desire became an expression I ignored for as long as I could because I knew everything about them. I had witnessed their tears, their punishments when they got yelled at by their parents, their D grades in math and their hopes and dreams, shared drunkenly on the hood of a car, wrapped in a blanket, watching the stars. Caleb's dreams were the most cohesive and detailed of all. We continued on a course into the future, into the certain disaster and uncertainty of adulthood, a place where you must be held accountable for your mistakes and your monstrosities alike.

And now, abruptly, after thirty years he has a new dream.

He wants us to be friends again. All of us. He doesn't want to be the bad guy, the devil or The Outsider anymore. He doesn't want to be the boogeyman, or the one I turn to when I feel self-destructive or vindictive or smug. He wants to be back on top where he was before he made a choice that changed everything.

I can't imagine how close we all would have been had he not torn everything apart the way he did but I also am old enough now to understand that even if I did forgive him nothing will ever be like it was back then ever again. We're not children anymore. It's too late for that.

The path back to that closely-knit brotherhood anchored by the beautiful little fair-haired princess who dances along the path behind them until it gets dark, and then runs ahead and tucks herself under an arm, falling asleep with her hands full of wilted daises and broken cigarettes is so overgrown and fraught with thorns and hazards we're just better off trying to find another way.

If there even is one. It might all be gone. It might be too late. It depends on who you ask.

Blessings in demise.

Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me as her body once did.
All five horizons revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn

And all I taught her was everything
I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything.
Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black
tattooed everything

I take a walk outside
I'm surrounded by some kids at play
I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear?
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I'm spinning
I'm spinning
How quick the sun can drop away

And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures have all been washed in black
tattooed everything

All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I'll be

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life
I know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky
why can't it be mine

Black was a song for Cole. The painter, photographer. The temper. The presence. The passion of a hundred men and the patience of none. Black was loud and angry, melodic and deep. Black was the hallmark of a band that didn't try so hard, since he didn't like contrived acts. He liked mellow. He liked heartfelt lyrics and painful words. He had a lot of tattoos and he let me go with a fight, and boy, was it a good one, one stacked so unfairly it leaned up against the bars of a jail cell on the other side of town, an incredulous, miserable turn of events that brought his life to a screeching halt and made him a posthumous superstar in our circles, in spite of everything to the contrary.

But Cole loved Black.

Almost as much as he loved Bridget.

I love Black because it is prophetic and biographical and touching, in a sick self-gratifying way. It's a gut-wrenching song of loss. It's so beautiful I have yet to ever make it through the bridge without my eyes stinging.

But Pearl Jam did not play it last night at the show and I'm okay with that too.

Here's your obligatory bad concert photo from the rafters where we snuck in between acts and climbed to the top of the coliseum, and sang until we could no longer speak.

Girl in a Riker frame.

He looks down at me as I count the buttons on his shirt. His hand comes up under my chin, fingers wrapped around my head, tangled in my hair, firm grip against my mild protest. He pulls me up to his face for a kiss. My toes almost leave the ground. The kiss is harsh and bruising, it trails off my lips and across my cheek, landing against my ear. His breath is so warm, rapid draws against my skin.

He lets go of my head, taking my hand instead, pushing me down onto the sheets gently, climbing over me, holding himself up with one hand while he pulls off my dress with the other, fumbling for the hook, catching on the zipper, sitting up briefly to upwrap his find, every last muscle tense, senses heightened in the darkness. My skin is on fire, the hair on my arms standing up, shivers running down my spine, the scales on my wings tenuous and fragile. I don't know how he manages to evoke such an obvious visceral response from me but it's there and he sees it and he is overwhelmed, humbled by my reaction to his touch.

He is kissing me again, pushing me down underneath him, holding himself up, one hand ripping off the last of the satin and lace and I am naked and exposed. He pushes his boxers down and pulls me up into his arm, turning me onto my stomach, pushing my head down into the sheets so that I am blind, deaf and pinned. Like a moth to a spreading board, I am his specimen and he is careful and thorough, delicate and deliberate.

I am lifted once more and held against him, as pain mixed with something better winds through me in a rush. I fight for comfort and pacing but he won't relent. I am reduced to clutching at the sheets for security and relief against the torment but I won't surrender to him. Not yet. He is driving against me, breath on my neck, arms slick with sweat now, dropping down across my ribs to seize my hips and I begin to see flashes of light in the dark. This is the dangerous part and I start to fight him, twisting away, turning, using him as leverage to crawl out and turn over so that I can face him.

He smiles and kisses me again and pushes me flat onto my back, pinned this time with the brutal clamp of his forearm across my shoulders, his other hand near my head, holding himself up, slower now, harder until we are working so slowly I am crying out for more. He moves his arm and covers my mouth instead. He puts his head down against mine, whispering things, awful things, filthy, beautiful things in my ear. I can't breathe or move. He gathers me into his arms and pulls me up to sit in his lap, facing him, my lips aimed near his philtrum, his breath warming the lids of my eyes, still closed, still awake in a dream that turned out to be so real.

Within hours he winds down, having wound me out and explored every last inch of my form, pulled my hair, bruised my wrists and thighs, loosened my teeth, dulled my fingernails and turned my throat and my joints raw. I think we will sleep when abruptly he renews his efforts. I am screaming into his shoulder, teeth gnashed against hot skin, my hair so tangled in his fingers we're going to need help to remove it intact. He kisses my final scream away and tightens his arms around me as I tremble into the sunrise, pressed into a circadian groove, screwed right into the frame of Ben's life, enduringly, preserved as his possession.

Great pumpkins.

Omgomgomgomgomg.

It's a Halloween wedding, folks.

I was born for this. Well, I don't know how the hell I managed to get married in a field/church/clearing in the woods but never once got married by the sea, like you would think I would automatically plan. And now the boys are doing the next best thing to a seaside wedding that I also didn't ever think of and jealousy is going to turn me green before you know it here.

A masquerade ball wedding.

By the sea no less. (Bitches.)

Luckily this also hoses the whole Thirteen Ghosts costume plans.

I am not sorry about that even one bit. Come on, boys! We gettin' fancy now!

I am jammed in beside him on the couch, wedged tight on the inside, against the back of the couch, his arm around me so that I am almost on top of him but I have slid back against the cushions. We are quiet until abruptly he begins to laugh. My entire body shakes against his.

Crossly, I open one eye. It takes effort. I was almost asleep. His shirt is so soft, he is warm. If I could stand it, flannel sheets would be amazing but it's a short-term love affair for the warmth alone.

You were almost asleep. It's amazing. Your eyes drop and then fight open and then drop again, but not at the same time. How do you do that?.

Snrgheakal.

What?

Mmmmm...ehfkcs.

Bridget, I can't understand a word.

I lick my lips and let my eyes close again. That's because I am sleeping, Jake.

Oh, okay, sorry.

Then he starts laughing again.

I saw you try.

Oh, life
It's bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to

I was in a rush so I'm wearing flats and he frowns when he sees he'll have to carry on conversations this morning with the sun reflecting off the top of my flaxen head. He much prefers the less-innocent shoes that I need a ladder to climb into. But I'm not putting on costumes today. I'm not going to be anyone else. I am taking control now, and they can be who I tell them to be. At least for today.

What do you think?

I walk in ahead of him. He appreciates the vaulted ceiling, briefly and then proclaims it rather decadent for a glorified boathouse. The moniker is a farce. There are two bathrooms and a rustic designer kitchen. I think it was a bachelor hangout for the grown son of the wealthy couple who used to live here, when he was home from university in America. Caleb thought it suited PJ quite well when we bought the property, but now that PJ is moving into Daniel and Schuyler's floor (which will soon be vacant) what he isn't so sure of is whether or not it will suit him. Can the Devil exist in such an environment?

Sure. Why the hell not? Caleb can be close to his children, since he's virtually adopted Ruth as his anyway and since Henry won't go anywhere without Ruth as it is.

Why the hell not? With that thought, I drop back in to the present. He is talking about whether or not his things will fit.

It's larger than your condo. I remind him.

Possibly.

He is feeling me out, creeping me out and turning me inside out. What he wants to know is not if the space is good enough or big enough but if I actually want him to be in it. So close I could walk out on the balcony off my bedroom in the main house and throw a rock through his bedroom window. The boathouse is just on the other side of the driveway and down on the edge of the cliff where the water meets the earth just before you go all the way around to the other side of the grounds in the back, where the beach is at the bottom of a very steep cliff.

I wouldn't have offered it to you if I didn't think you should take it.

He is humbled, lost for words. Brought down dozens of pegs all at once, until they are popping out cartoonishly all over the place and he has slid back down to the floor.

Why, Bridge? I know sometimes you regret bringing me back into your life at all.

I meant to say Life is short but it strangled itself halfway out and I couldn't say anything so I crossed to the living room window and motioned to the view.

He came over and stood right behind me, his breath on the top of my head. I felt him put his hands up but at the last second he opted not to touch me.

You don't have to do this.

Just take it before I lose my nerve.

What are you afraid of?

I waited. I swallowed the lump. I found the bravery buried underneath my fractured heart and I turned around and smiled and completely ignored his question. It's going to be good for the children to have you close by.

And then I walked out the door and left him standing there.

Fool's gold.

So this is what it feels like, running through my lines
I never need to ad lib, I find it’s just a waste of time
This is what it feels like when the hero dies
On to the next one, funny how time flies

I've got this film in my head
They've scripted all that I've said
Let's make it real before we're dead

He sat on the blanket, arms straight behind his back, hands propped, legs crossed, leaning back watching the sunset over the water. On a tray between us two half-full wine glasses were balanced and an empty plate that had held cheese, grapes, cherry tomatoes and crackers. Dinner for two. Our own private sandy cocktail party.

Who are you, princess?

I narrowed my eyes and then rolled them back into shape.

Is this an existentialist query, preacher?

I'm not on the clock, Bridget.

Then what sort of answer should I give?

The first thing that comes to mind, of course. It should be easy for a person to talk about themselves.

I don't find it easy.

Just say whatever you think of first.

I stood up abruptly, blocking his view of the sun. I threw my arms out wide, facing the Atlantic. The sand flew everywhere. Into our drinks, onto the plate. Onto his pants and maybe in his eyes. I don't know, I wasn't looking at him.

This is who I am.

You are the sunset?

No! I'm the ocean. I hurt and I'm cold and I sting and I'm endless.

I thought you loved the ocean.

I do.

Then?

Okay fine. I heal and I cradle and I lap softly and I have warm spots and beautiful color and I'm endless.

He smiled.

Is that a good answer, Jake?

He shook his hair out of his eyes. Do you think that's a good answer, Bridget?

I don't think I see me the way everyone sees me, Jake.

Why are you crying, Bridget?

Because it's a HARD question and I'm afraid of getting it wrong.

I threw myself back down on the blanket and covered my face with my hands.

Don't do that. He pulled my hands away. This is what I love about you.

What? My doubts about who I'm supposed to be?

No, the fact that you know exactly who you are. No disguises. No act. Just you. People like you are rare, princess.

Rare means we're worth more, Jacob. I whispered it.

He nodded. Exactly.

All the choices in the world.

I remember when we were gambling to win
Everybody else said better luck next time
I don't wanna bend, Let the bad girls bend
I just wanna be your friend
Why you giving me a hard time
I remember when we were gambling to win

Is it ever gonna be enough?

The smell of decaying leaves and woodsmoke and the sudden switch from shades of green to shades of flames does crazy things to people in this house. Like Halloween. We've done the cast of X-men, G.I. Joe and Bonnie and Clyde plus associates so this year? Thirteen Ghosts. Yeah. I'm not so sure about this one, though I think I know who will play the Angry Princess and who will be the Juggernaut. Those roles seem so...obvious. Haha. I guess the dog will have to be the torso. And I'm still not going near whoever plays the Jackal. Let's just not talk about him, since every nightmare I had through 2002 featured him prominently. So prominently I slept with a chair wedged under the doorknob for weeks.

Great idea, guys. Next year? My Little Pony. Lochlan can be Rainbow Dash. PJ can be Minty. It'll be great.

But this post isn't about Halloween.

This is about fall fever, or whatever hits this house around the same time every year, making us settle into a cozy routine of keeping warm and enjoying actual SEASONS again (Thank you British Columbia for those). It's a cause for surprises, clearly.

Like the one Schuyler hit us with on the weekend.

He proposed to Daniel and Daniel said yes.

And to show he was very serious indeed he bought a sweet little house for just the two of them. Everyone was more than a little floored and very excited. Sometimes it seems they argue a lot and sometimes it seems that Schuyler is a little impatient and a little too sophisticated for Daniel, who is such a tender heart, but they love each other so much it's amazing and Schuyler wants to look after Daniel for the rest of their lives.

So it will be official soon and I am so excited I might burst.

But that's not all that's about to change.

Iron and wine.

I was doing fine on my own, with small batches of grapes and the potato masher. I could even hear the juice pouring in a fine stream into the bowl from the strainer. I was pleased with my progress. I figured I have enough for maybe a bottle of wine, tops. Which is why we supplemented the grapes we picked with a commercial kit from the wine-making supply shop in town. Ben decided thirty bottles would make it worth our while and from what we have started now, we'll wind up with thirty-three.

Because Ben walked up behind me and smiled. He has such an evil smile.

How about I take over?

I'm doing fine. Look at my progress!

He frowned, all serious at once and lifted me out of the way. He washed his hands and then threw the masher into the sink and dug in, squeezing huge handfuls of green grape skins through his fingers.

And the juice began to run. Down his fingers and into the bowl in a river of sickly-sweet liquid and I started to laugh. I laughed because of course he would be a human grape-press. Why the hell not? This is a man who doesn't need a wrench to loosen a rusted bolt and sees no problem in biting live wires or swallowing lightning.

Nope. Not Ben. Ben is indestructible. Physically anyway. Well mostly. His arm is healed so he's back to his old tricks at last.

And we have one tiny container and one giant container...ah...fermenting. In two weeks we do the next step and I'm almost positive at this point that our grapes from the backyard are going to provide us with nothing less than a sordid pale green wine with a lethal alcohol by volume and I'm going to christen it Bridget's Evil Goblins wine. I think the rest is going to be Raging Monkey or something that the children and Ben came up with last year before all of the squirrels, birds, bears and neighborhood kids stole all of the grapes before we could enjoy them because the fencing around the back perimeter wasn't quite finished and there were wide open spaces where you could walk into the vineyard from the street.

We fixed all of that in July.

Now we are down to fighting just the squirrels and the surprise hornets that appeared two weeks ago and moved right in. Live and learn.

The most ironic thing is that no one in this house is a wine drinker except me and I gave it up mostly a while ago only because the older I get, the less it takes to put me on the floor. On the floor because I can't navigate in my shoes and because I laugh a lot and sway to the ground. Damn wine.

At least this time, I'll finally get to meet those goblins. I know they're out there. They just don't show themselves because Ben scares them away. If you saw what he did to the grapes today you would be scared too.

'Every man has a right to a Saturday night bath.' ~Lyndon Johnson

Today I woke up at two this morning, Ben's arms sliding around me, forcing me out of my own dreams and into his. At three I fell back asleep in his arms, sheets thrown to the side, windows open, the sound of the rain lulling back to the place in the story where my brain kept a marker in case exactly this happens. I love my brain sometimes but I don't remember the dream at all anymore.

At eight I rose and dressed, putting a raincoat on myself and one on Bonham, and we walked slowly down the street as the rain continued. He hates his raincoat and loves to be wet. I don't love the smell of wet dog inside the house so we compromise. He can get his face wet and otherwise his body stays dry.

At ten I woke Ben up. He pulled me back under the covers. He was so warm I wanted to stay there.

At twelve we left the house. Haircuts, errands, lunch at the Thai place we like and books. Three bags full from Chapters. A tiny side-trip to Sephora for me where I finally got my Beauty Insider card (very long story), some L'Occitane hand cream and a candy apple lip gloss from Philosophy that Ben has already tasted and proclaimed a winner. Which means when I'm not looking he's just going to eat it, container and all.

Somehow I don't mind. Maybe because he makes sure I get there at least twice a month.

I should make him taste Second beach, I bet he would love the city-gritty taste of the sand and make sure I get there twice a month. It has the best beach glass and treasures in the whole of the lower mainland, granted I haven't met a lot of the beaches here yet. We stick to the one at home, mostly. You can't miss it for the bronze markers that appear at low tide. But we did not go in to Second beach today because traffic into the city was a nightmare.

We came home and picked grapes instead.

We picked ten pounds worth. It was that or surrender the fruit to the local wildlife, who are beginning to have a heyday with our tiny vineyard. We'll start with ten pounds. Ben is making wine for me. He doesn't plan to drink any at all but he wants to see at least three bottles of good white wine for the efforts I have made keeping the vines cut back and protected this year.

Now we're going to make some chips and sandwiches and curl up in the movie theatre with the rest of the household and watch X-men First Class or Thor or some actiony-boy movie. Maybe finish off the chips. I'll probably fall asleep, head on Ben's chest. For some reason a good day is almost always permission to let go a little and fall asleep ridiculously first instead of dead last. Maybe later we'll have a hot bath, again to the sound of the rain competing with the faucet. And then I will sleep again.

Maybe this time I'll remember my dream. Hey, maybe I'll find a new one.