An absence of sound.

Listen, hear, he is inside
One who lives while others lie
I close my eyes and walk a thousand years
A thousand years that aren't mine
It seems he's near me as I walk
One who loved what love denied
He lives these years that I walk blind
All these years cannot be mine

Softly, I hear him begin counting. Under his breath the whispers are dispensed in turn, in order. It's a simple system. He starts at six and works backwards, and I have until he gets to one to be in his arms, nowhere else. It's a game that makes my blood run so cold I shiver. It's a game that absolutely no one approves of but we do it anyway.

I extricate myself from the loose grasp of the sleeping circus and slip into his arms before he reaches four. Woken up out of a sound sleep by a scarcely spoken number I am mindful and quick, obedient to a rash degree.

My reward is a long hard kiss, squarely on the mouth, his breath held, senses alert, skin flushed, eyebrows tensed. Envy wakes him in the night, nightmares that masquerade as a potential new reality forcing him to seek confirmation in spite of the hour or the desperate dwindling supply of rest I fight for every night.

His hands slide up around my neck, fingers locking under my ears, thumbs under my chin. He forces my face up to his for another long and breathless kiss. I could die here, I think to myself, but he has other plans. I am turned away, turned over, rearranged in the position of the perfection he creates for himself. I am disarmed and fragile now.

The night shifts from his demand for my loyalty to his need to prove his worth. His breath catches in my hair now, held fast as his hands slide down over my legs. Searing pleasure takes me over. I can't breathe. His hands are everywhere at once. Pulling my hair back, sliding over my lips, digging into my ribs, locked around my neck and finally they settle, one between my shoulder blades and one around my hip. He holds such an incredible balance here between forcing me out of consciousness and holding me on the cusp of heaven, burning me against the rim. I hold my breath and let him make the decision on my behalf. I am rewarded with a gasp of rich oxygen and unimaginable bliss. A bliss that lasts for the time it takes the stars to work their way across obscurity. A bliss that wears us to pieces.

Slowly he labors to a standstill and I am pulled over onto my back to face him. His shaking fingers trail down my face and I smile in the dark and kiss him softly on the cheek. He pushes me away and then pulls me back in against him, chin on top of my head, goosebumps fading quickly from my skin, cool flesh replacing fire. Sleep substituting for reality, dreams taking over from their unwelcome counterparts, numbers returned to their lull until tonight.

Never make a companion equal to a brother. ~Hesiod

I found the first three Great Brain books by J.D. Fitzgerald in with Lochlan's boxes of artwork. Lochlan used to read them to me at the lake. Yes, I could read when I was ten but I always thought it sounded better coming from him. I have put them on the shelf in Henry's room and can't wait for him to 'find' them. I'm not sure if he'll be able to, Henry's room is all planets and magic tricks. A magician's tophat rests on a post near the door and everything inside is mysterious and eclectic. He is so not a typical boy, instead he is an old soul borrowed from a different, darker time, perhaps.

Maybe we're all that way and we're living out the same lives over and over, our interpersonal relationships predetermined and...

No, I'm not drunk, but thanks for wondering. I should be, after such a long week but I didn't even steal a glance at the wine and poured a glass of ginger ale instead, failed to taste my food even though it was right in front of me, abandoned the plate half-finished for a doorbell rung in the pouring rain and stood in the front hall staring at an envelope held by a face who only told me scary stories I didn't want to hear and pretended he would make everything better but I am still waiting.

The envelope was white and I didn't take it, I just stared at it as he held it out to me.

Your mail. It was in my mailbox, princess.

Oh, thank you, I am finally shaken out of my reverie. I look at the envelope. It's an interest statement. It isn't important so I roll it up in my hand and raise my gaze to him once more.

Bridget-

I shake my head again.

What's the matter?

I'm tired! I snap at Caleb. It's been a really long week.

Do you want to come down to spend a little time? Unwind a bit?

I put my hands up to my eyes and spin in a circle. He puts out his hands and stops me. Bastard.

No! I just want to be left alone.

He stares at me for a long minute. An endless minute. I alternately want to dig a hole and bury myself in it to get away from the uncomfortable misery of his gaze and hit him over the head with the shovel until he falls into the hole and stops staring at me.

I'm sorry.

Don't be. He's right.

Who is?

Batman. We spread you too thinly and put too much pressure on you. And I knew you didn't like toast. I've known since that time in Breckenridge when you threw it off the balcony and asked if you could have a croissant because toast was boring and you needed to go the extra mile because breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Caleb?

Yes?

Stop showing off.

I turned around and walked back to the kitchen to my now-cold plate and an empty table. If Caleb and I knew each other in a past life, I wonder if we are fixing things as we go or making things worse? Do we follow the same steps to the same dance every time or do we make improvements in some areas and forget the moves in others and change everything? Maybe the music is different and maybe the love is all rearranged and backwards and unexpected.

Maybe I broke something major, this time around.

Oh, right, nevermind. I remember what was broken.

My heart.

Half-hearted vigilantes and other tales from the big frozen book of unintentional winter.

If you need me, Batman has all the pieces since he tore them off early this morning as I stood in his office while the sun came up grey and cold over the frosted harbour. The look on his face. I should have turned and left but he probably would have stopped me. There's nothing more horrible than being chastised like a child when one already feels like one in spite of the lies on the calendar page.

You need to take that down, Bridget, you don't even know what you're talking about.

I know what I saw.

You heard not one word of the conversation that took place and for Christ's sake, we would not have taken you to a place where there were people who wanted to hurt you.

I remain silent, swallowing any protest since he's clearly in the mood to teach and not to listen to my views.

Stop picking at your nails.

I'm not. I put my hands behind my back defiantly. I rock my shoulders. If he's going to infantilize me then I will exploit it to the fullest. It works. He softens.

I'm sorry, Bridget, I just don't think it's wise to write about things you don't know anything about when there are people outside of your..household involved. Caleb had a partnership with some folks and I bought his interest because he is retiring. That was all. Nothing more. It has nothing to do with you. Okay? I'm sorry. Perhaps I should have explained it better.

I'm sorry too. I said it quietly.

No harm done. It's not like you ever name names. You have quite a gift for sharing the various personalities around you so truthfully and openly without giving anything away. I wish more people would respect privacy in the same way.

I nod. It serves no purpose to share names on a journal that is personal. It's about relationships, not careers anyway. But at the end of the day I am incorrigible, and I will spin it however I see fit.

So would you say that you bought me fair and square or did Caleb work out a repayment schedule with you?

He was dumbstruck briefly and then he laughed. Okay it seemed a little forced but it usually is when he laughs. He hardly ever laughs. He's a very serious person most of the time. Instead of answering my question he thumbs through his phone rapidly, and points out the unfortunate scheduling of the day that prevents him from taking me to breakfast. I tell him it's fine, that I'm going to go home and ask Caleb how much he owes and who holds the title to me now because I lose track all the time and who can figure this out without a flowchart and a map but the map should be drawn on human flesh since that's what we are trading and Batman frowns and cuts me off. He tells me to go home and go straight to the house and make some toast.

I hate toast, I point out.

I didn't know that, Bridget.

There's a lot you don't know about me but you never ask.

Because of the rush I left sad on the floor, along with dull turmoil, criticism and curiosity too. They can replace mesmerism, safety and objectivity because he doesn't offer those anymore.

Parlay (but not coated in sugar this time).

(So much trouble.)

In fact you've got your hands tied behind your back when somebody chooses to take a low road in to you, there is nothing you can do about it, and so you just live with it and move on.
~Robert Redford

I'm sitting in the club watching all of the men watch the girls. Peelers thinly disguised as quasi-burlesque performers and I'm the only girl in the room who isn't onstage taking off her clothes, or waiting for a turn to do so.

This is great. Glad I flew all this way for this.

The club is a private gentleman's club. I don't even know what that means, except it probably involves under-the-table deals and escort services, or maybe that's being too generous at this point. Hookers and blow but there's a dress code. My drink is so strong my eyes are watering and my throat burns, or perhaps that's just a visceral reaction to Lochlan's facial expression right now. He hasn't taken his eyes off the girl closest to him. She looks the most like me. He looks hard, pained and disappointed. He looks so fucking angry and I know he worked his way through his first few drinks quickly to dull his reluctance to be here, or maybe to dull his rage.

I'm afraid to be drunk. I'm afraid to be out of control in this place, with these people. Our only saving grace is that Batman, Ben and Caleb all asked for coffee and then stood silently while attempts were made to talk them into something stronger, and finally another server was fetched and dispatched to brew a pot of good coffee. I'm wondering if even that is a good idea. What if they drug us? What if I wake up on the other side of the world with my passport held for safekeeping by an unnamed benefactor who tells me I will pay him back my travel expenses by selling my talents of the flesh and giving him every last penny?

What if I never see my kids again?

I deliberately spill my drink and make a huge fuss. I need to be sober. I am waved away while the mess is attended to, another drink placed on the table in front of me in seconds. Fuck it all. The men are talking, hardly paying attention to one another, watching the girls with the dead eyes while they attempt to renegotiate deals Caleb made while he was more evil, more vindictive and more depraved. I am told one of those deals involved me, and that's why I was requested as his plus-one at this party, which isn't a party at all. He was supposed to leave me here.

Merry fucking Christmas, or whatever they say in Russian. I was collateral and there was a margin call.

I had great faith in Batman being able to fix this, since the laws of planet earth say you can't give away what doesn't belong to you. Ben and Lochlan are here because neither one would stay behind (thank God). Batman only came because the deal involved me. Had it been Caleb's life on the line he would have let them kill him. Happily so.

Last I heard we were artists and we had a lovely collective in the mountains by the sea. How quickly things change. It's surreal standing in a dark smoky lounge with a locked and guarded door, fifteen hundred kilometers from home. Everywhere, men with guns. I check my watch which elicits a frown from the same man who did the tango with me last time I saw him. Or rather, he tried to teach me the tango. He is three hundred pounds and smells like roses, but he could crush any of us in seconds. He was uncharacteristically graceful.

And I called it. Almost two years ago, I said I wondered if Caleb had gotten backing from the Russians. Right here.

We were back on the plane at two a.m. No one wanted to sleep, no one wanted to stick around for breakfast either. Lochlan had one of my hands tightly in his, and Ben had the other. I could skip along three feet off the ground but it was neither the time nor the place, instead I just ran to keep up with how fast they walked across the tarmac.

Batman glowered at Caleb the whole way home. I didn't really understand the new vitriol until the plane was in the air and he pointed at Caleb and said now the Devil was going to understand precisely what it feels like to not be in control of one's own destiny. More than ever. I believe Batman bought back my life at a margin of 700 to 1, or some such inflated price over what was actually owed.

The Russians knew before we got there that the price on my head would be met, no matter what. Which either makes me a huge liability or very very very very special indeed.

Or maybe just quite a bit more happy to be home than you might realize. I drank everything I could find on the plane on the way home. When we landed I just remained in my seat, numb and worn out. Ben finally picked me up and carried me to the car. I don't think he understood how frightening this was for me. Maybe that's a good thing. I am still permitted to spend time with Caleb, but the rules are that it be here, within reach. This is one of the caveats that led him to move onto the property. Another one is no more deals.

You know, I wasn't going to write about what happened before Christmas when we flew to Tahoe, not to this extent anyhow, but I grow weary of people wondering why the tides shifted so abruptly with Caleb, and attempting to predict when they will shift back. If this is not proof that they won't be swinging back to the old ways, I don't know what is.

Fear, as it turns out, is one of the strongest motivators.

I should know.

Feeling better/Business as usual.

Hahahahaha. The boys who live here have flooded my inbox with videos of themselves singing. I am so lucky. Or cursed.

Let me wade through the submissions and see who gets to stay.

(I'm KIDDING! PJ can't even sing Happy Birthday properly. And he already left and then came back so no one's going to go through THAT again, thanks.)

They have requested something of me though. That I stop dancing around the kitchen punching the air and bleating along with the stereo to I Want it All while I bake for them. Apparently I am 'embarrassing'.

Well now.

Shit.

Busted.

The benchmark for showmen the world over.

Someone asked in an email what the criteria was for joining my 'hippie commune' as they so sweetly called it.

Easy. You have to sing this song. A cappella. Without your voice breaking at the 2:32 mark, after the bridge, naturally.

Send video submissions to my email. We're always looking for new victims entertainment.

(Snort.)

Open ticket.

I'm sorry, Bridget. I really think you're spreading yourself too thin. I worry about you. I fear for your heart and your continued improvement when you degenerate into trying to please all of them.

All of us, don't you mean?

No, the houseful you have. I am a separate entity.

It's the same thing, Cale.

I didn't invite you here to argue, I invited you down for a bite to eat and a drink. What would you like?

Scotch, bourbon. Whatever you're drinking is fine.

Bulliet.

Oh, how fitting. Pour me a big one, would you, please?

Done.

I turn and look at the water as he heads inside. A cigar rests in the tray on the table. All it needs is a brief hint of oil paint and I will be in 1995 again. Memories are a time machine and we are just too chicken to get in so we watch them like a movie through the windows of our minds. Because you can't go back. Time machines aren't real. I go back inside.

Here, baby girl, a little ice for you too.

Thank you. I take a huge gulp and stare up at him up over the rim of the glass. He's smiling at me slightly, curiosity in his features. He's so handsome my knees start to tremble lightly. I didn't ever in a million years want to acknowledge that but I may as well. Time is short and he's got a defective ticker and a death wish. Sort of an odd conundrum for Satan, but I don't see Satan around anywhere right now. Oh well, the night is young, now, isn't it?

Where is Ben tonight?

Downstairs in the studio.

Anything new?

Maybe. Yes, I think so.

Lochlan?

Why don't you find him and ask?

I see. How long can you stay?

I'd like to stay for as long as it takes me to drink this without rushing and then I'm going up to the house to go to bed. I'm still not a hundred percent but worlds better through the weekend. We settled in at the kitchen island despite his protests and chat about the children for a while. I include discussions on Ruth because it's a habit and because I'm not dividing my life or their lives down the middle just because Caleb and Lochlan stand on opposite sides of the yard most days and scowl each other down.

Eventually he sees that I am three-quarters finished and brings the subject back around to shared interests. He remarks that he's almost glad the offer on the property up North fell through. Whistler casts a magical spell around those who visit, imploring us to stay. In reality we won't get up there any more than once every few weeks.

Instead he suggests some changes to expand the boathouse and I shut him down, pointing out the permit headaches with the dock already and the fact that I like the boathouse the way it is, and can't deal with any more change. I tread carefully, his name is on the mortgage contract and I don't own this house after all. I tread confidently because he is in my good graces and I am as generous, if not more, to try to keep us equal. It's easier.

He suggests a home in the country, then. A luxurious retreat with horses, near the lake where the children like to swim, a getaway but still within a couple hours drive. I veto that, we have plenty of room, he can go and buy whatever he likes but this house makes me happy and I don't want a second, thanks.

I am trying to figure out what Caleb is up to when he abruptly changes gear again.

A trip, then. Somewhere warm, a break from this weather.

Where? (I am humoring him and curious besides).

Maldives? Montserrat? Spain? Pick somewhere and we'll go.

Who will go?

You and I. Maybe the children if you wish.

My drink is finished. I get it. He wants to score points, hell, he just wants to score and has reached the desperation stage where he would give me the moon if only I would view it in his presence, exclusively. I call him out because I can't stand it anymore.

Why do you do this?

I'm making sure you have an escape this time. Something I didn't give you before and I should have.

An escape from what?

Men like Cole. Men like me.

I drink the last of my bourbon in one giant gulp and let it burn right down to the ends of my toes while I consider his confession.

You're right, Caleb. You should have done this years ago. Why the fuck didn't you do this years ago?

Would you have taken it? Would you have accepted rescue from someone like me?

I left the question hanging in the cold night air, letters smeared in the fresh snow, words chilled to just above freezing, almost imperceptible in the dark. It seemed like the right thing to do.

He's going to kill me for telling you this but sick people get bored eventually.

When I said he had no nickname you didn't actually believe me, did you?

aluminum, tastes like fear
adrenaline, it pulls us near
I'll take you over
it tastes like fear, there
I'll take you over

will you live to eighty-three?
will you ever welcome me?
will you show me something that nobody else has seen?
smoke it, drink
here comes the flood
anything to thin the blood
these corrosives do their magic slowly and sweet
phone, eat it, drink
just another chink
cuts and dents, they catch the light
aluminum, the weakest link

I don't want to disappoint you
I'm not here to anoint you
I would lick your feet
but is that the sickest move?
I wear my own crown and sadness and sorrow
and who'd have thought tomorrow could be so strange?
my loss, and here we go again

He's scrubbing his hands. Outside at the tap, kneeling on the grass in front of a bucket. His shirt is filthy and his skin and hair is streaked and blackened. It makes his teeth look unnaturally white. Lochlan is so focused I'm hoping the sound of my stomach growling as I sit ten feet behind him in the sun interrupts his efforts so that we can go and eat now. He's used half a bar of soap already, grinding the little brush against the surface and then pressing so hard I worry but this is part of his wind-down and it takes as long as it takes, while he replays his performance and makes mental changes or notes for the next one, on the next day.

Locket.

I say it so softly I don't know if he hears. Abruptly he reaches up and turns off the water and then rinses his hands one last time and wipes them on the hem of his shirt. I frown. He goes through five triple packages of plain white t-shirts per season. So wasteful.

What did you say, peanut?

I laugh. I said Locket. Because you need a nickname.

I don't need anything. I have a name. What does that mean anyway?

You're very important to me, and you keep everything hidden on the inside, locked up tight but once you open up you share your secrets and surprises with me.

Surprises, huh?

Yes.

Locked up tight? What do you mean?

You never tell me you're afraid or mad or worried until it's over.

Yeah. You know me too well.

So I can use it?

Only you. And not in front of anyone, okay?

They wouldn't catch it, I don't think. You don't have to worry.

You're loud. They'll catch it.

Sorry.

It's okay, peanut. I like it, I always know where you are because you're noisy. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles again. Hey, want to go in town for lunch? The diner has minestrone for the special today, and all the bread you can eat.

Maybe you should phone ahead so they can start baking more.

He laughs out loud. Run and fetch the helmets, then. And no thinking up any more nicknames along the way, okay?

No deal. You do it all the time.

He smiles and turns to inspect his fingernails to see if he is decent enough for lunch. I turn and run for the camper to collect our gear.

Masquerading as a man with a reason.

Still sick. Kind of really sick but being treated and soon to be good as new. Or better than ever. Okay, at least no worse off than before.

In other news, Lochlan's compiling the Time Life Collection of Quintessential Songs From The Past That Paralyze Bridget Like Nothing You've Ever Seen, Physically, Mentally and Emotionally.

I thought the Rock Band game had that covered, since both collections open with Carry on Wayward Son.

I'll be dead by Saturday at this rate. Or frozen in place. Meh, nevermind, it all feels the same right now anyway. Back to convalescing and looking amazing while doing it.

Oh scratch that, Ben just said I look so pale I'm green. So I match my eyes at least. Here's to color-coordination in fever dreams!

In a room with the unwell feral child at noon on a cold sunny Wednesday.

So...if you could...who would you bring back first?

Freddie Mercury.

I test Caleb's patience so. Bridget-

I was just teasing. John Bonham for sure. Or Peter Steele. You know what? I'm not sure now.

Are you going to make jokes all day?

Jokes? That's the holy triad of unrequited bucket lists right there. Three bands I will never see intact, Queen, Zeppelin and Type-O Negative. You need to get with it.

I meant Cole or Jacob.

I'm only answering that if you're prepared to invoke your evil powers right this second to pull it off. If we have a deal, I'll give you a name. If you're not playing Satan than fuck you for asking. AGAIN, I might add. I don't understand why it even matters so much when they're both gone.

They aren't gone. You conjure them up in the fucking garage on every day that ends in Y. If they weren't in our faces all day every day we wouldn't wonder so much.

No one told you you had to live here. I reached past him and pried the honey dipper out of his hand as he spiraled the golden liquid into his tea. I stuck it in my mouth, then pulled it out and held it up over my open mouth to let the remainder drip onto my tongue.

No one told me you were such an incredible pain in the ass when you're sick, Bridget.

I'm worse when I feel well.

Yes, yes you are.

Gee, thanks.

Don't mention it.