Part 1: Coup de main (Angels in a cage).

(Back to the present for a wee spell. And don't worry, everything's okay.)

Every night while we were away Lochlan would head down the road to a take-out restaurant and come back with dinner. We don't go out. All he wanted to do was talk. All he wanted to do is be alone together. All he wanted to do was sort out why I dissolve so easily into mush when I profess to understand that I am stronger than I feel.

He moralized, evangelized, and taught. I sat and nodded, taking small bites of whatever dinner that was chosen for me each evening, swallowing his teachings with no salt for flavor. He reminded me to take a drink, passing me the glass. He forgot that some nights mirror the past, reflecting overinflated, frightening moments as only a child understands. We fell so easily into old routines, the worn wrinkles of time spread smooth with our fingers, the same frays and tears fussed over with promises to fix now, and if not now, soon.

So one night when the knock came on the door of the camper ten minutes after Lochlan set off foraging for our late supper my heart fell out the bottom, cleaved in half, black and rotten to the core. Twelve-year-old Bridget shrank back against the cupboard, frozen in fear. Adult-Bridget talked her out of such silly, unfounded fears. It's probably the campground operator needing something, or maybe a remote and unprepared neighbor needing a bottle opener. Maybe Lochlan forgot his wallet. It's been known to happen.

Adult-Bridget took five steps and opened the door, outward, into the night. Twelve-year-old Bridget screamed and hid under the table. She knows better. Always has, always will.

Because there stood the Devil, just as he stood in 1983. Only now he needs to shave every day and he has dark circles under his eyes matched only by the years of evil under his belt.

Forgive me, Bridget, but I'm going to fix this once and for all.

And he pulled out a gun.

My fierce, inebriated sea.

Streets are filled with broken glass
You get buried by the past
Give me just a little taste
Lay this mess to waste
Take me home

My mind is racing take me home
My body's aching so alone
I'll make you want to stay with me
Befriended by the enemy
One more time

Every little thing about this tells me
Nothing out there is ever gonna help me
All these words that I hear spoken
Just promises broken

Looking outside from a window sill
Throw another coin in my wishing well
Never find what you're looking for
Fifteen miles
Your dim light shines from so far away
Your sad smile is all I see when I say-

A year and a half into being married to Cole, Lochlan sent a letter, registered mail from Atlantic City.

Renew your passport and come do this with me. Leave one madness for another.

L.

That was it. Two sentences and his initial along with a hundred dollar bill to get me there. I started packing instead of eating the lunch I had just made for myself. I got on a bus and I went. I was twenty-four years old and I knew enough to pack everything I would need to stay for a while.

I should have packed that lunch. When I arrived Lochlan was busking for cash on the street. He was pulling in three or four hundred dollars a day as long as he began by nine, moved around a lot and kept it up until midnight with very few breaks. The day he started after lunch and finished up early he made forty-two dollars. Eight hundred dollars in he realized how unsustainable it was, and add in the fact that I did not want to pass his hat for fifteen hours a day in the sun, having walked away from a perfectly good job in air-conditioning where I made ten dollars an hour guaranteed. You ain't got nothin' if it isn't guaranteed.

Nights we would have a late dinner in the same dive bar each time and slow dance to the music over the PA. Soul Asylum was big back then, or maybe they just put them on when they saw Loch. His strawberry blonde hair was so long now it was almost straight. He looked like Dave Pirner, but shorter. (Loch is much, much shorter than Dave, as I found out later in life.)

Promises Broken was a favorite song for keeping us in line with each other at this point. I was married, he'd moved on (whatever that means) and we liked to slow dance and talk and daydream to pass the time while we waited to hear about the actual opportunity I had been summoned for, this one in New York with the show. This was not small time carnival anymore, it was full-on freak- and sideshow, be your performance, breathe in a madness of a different sort indeed, day in and day out.

Off we went up the coast. We thought it was legit. It was, in a way. In one way it was a dream life. Nomads. On the road again together. Best life. No rules. In another way it was a muted, corrupted nightmare and we never should have gone back down the road we did. We need rules. We need anchors. We need the security that doesn't exist out there. It isn't safe. It isn't fair. It isn't the same.

We were propositioned regularly. We were offered other jobs, far outside of what we knew, in the seedy underworld of unspoken entertainment and beyond. We saw things small town people shouldn't see, and at night we split a pint of whiskey so as to keep our wits while we slow-danced to that same damned song.

Loch was playing that song this morning and lamenting just a few more poor decisions we (Or I, to be fair) have made since then. Took me two days to find him down on the beach with a guitar, a pick and an untouched sketchbook, no pencils in sight and an empty whiskey bottle bigger than a pint, though I couldn't smell it on his breath when he kissed me. When I checked his body language for cues he caught me and explained that he poured it into the water, that he found what he was looking for and it wasn't in the bottle or the water. It showed up two days late and then heard the song and stood with her arms crossed, fighting off memories that he had no business bringing back to her now.

It's a zero-sum game now, Peanut, he said, and smiled and he tipped the very last drop onto his tongue. And you're not very good at those.

BLTs and lemonade in bed.

How long till I don't feel
Like you're still right here
Reminding me of what is real?

Ben decided to stay home today, one day alone after everyone else returns to the weird subnormal house routines and work schedules we are ruled by. I move to get up and make coffee but he reaches out, wrapping one hand around my thigh, pulling back until I have no choice but to fall back into bed.

Hungry, I protest.

Me too, he says as he climbs over me, pushing my knees apart, pinning me down by the throat with one hand while the other smooths my hair back from my forehead. His eyes meet mine. I can see how hungry he is for myself. The one place I always love to be is right between Ben and his uncontrollable appetite. Only I can't breathe so I pull at his wrist until he releases my neck and wraps his arm around my shoulders instead, lifting me up until I am caught full against him.

Them he brings his full weight down on me. Yes. Yes. Yes. This.

We are climbing together, I don't know where but I just know it's a good place and I never ever want to leave. His teeth gnash against my ear and it hurts. I can hear his ragged breathing, hot against my skin, held when his hands become slick with sweat, sliding down my ribs instead of holding me. It's an exquisite agony and he keeps me there long past any remembrance of food or morning or obligations. Just when I think I can't take any more the waves of euphoria drown me. Just when I think I can no longer move Ben changes one little thing, renewing our collective energies. I can't get enough of him. I reach up to run my fingers through his hair. It's so soft, black glossy waves so thick my fingers get lost and he takes my hand down, kissing the palm, smiling.

Abruptly he pulls us up and turns, leaning back against the pillows, pulling my thighs up over his until I have him straddled. He is now my prisoner but I am not in control as he lifts my hips away and back, over and over until I beg him to stop and then he covers my mouth, pulling me back down, turning over and then once again I don't get to breathe as he starts anew.

I am face down now, nose pressed against the blanket, out of strength. Ben is just getting started and so I brace myself, balling the sheets up in my little fists as if that will help or something.

It doesn't.

Somewhere around lunchtime he asks if I am still hungry.

Yes, I croak weakly and he laughs. Starving.

I'm going to go and make us something. He turns me over as he gets up. He pulls on a t-shirt from last night and his pajama pants from the laundry I never put away yesterday. He turns back at the door and orders,

Don't you go anywhere, little bee. I'm not done with you yet.

I grin. I have no plans. None that involve clothes anyway.

Pie hearts.

This whole month so far has been tough. I'm done with it and ready for September, I think.

Oh, well I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me

The song is stuck in my head. I'm hoping it doesn't become an earworm such as What's the Frequency, Kenneth did that persists for years and years but at the same time it's easy enough that if it did, it might not bother me so much. Maybe I'll just listen to it a thousand more times and then it will stop looping within my head. Or maybe not.

It's Ben's fault. He has the CD in his truck and I was a little surprised. It borders on country, no? Ben does not listen to country music. He says that sometimes expectations and pigeonholes are closer in the mirror than they appear and that I mellow him out. That I make everything so much more visceral emotionally and he isn't used to that. That sometimes he feels a little bit lost but then the moment I am beside him he feels home. Or maybe he said whole. I don't know, he has a quiet speaking voice and is sometimes difficult to hear.

I sat and thought about what he said for a helluva long time, I did. I wondered if I should agree, apologize or just pack and get the fuck out after all. Which is sort of what I did when I left with Lochlan.

Ben said he wasn't worried. He knew I was safe. He knew I was okay because I called him four times a day and sent him pictures. I should not have gone but I had to. I couldn't let Lochlan leave alone and I couldn't tour with Ben and yet look at all the rules, all the plans and all the impulsive moments that we strung together to build chaos. Look at this beautiful mess. Look at what we've done and marvel in the fact that any one of us still knows what day it is or can answer a few suggestions when asked what makes us happy.

Oh, yes, please pat me on the back for the hole I have dug is now far deeper than I am tall and a lot darker than I imagined it when I drew it on paper, held up against the glass with paper tape to trace the light.

Leeway.

A tray is placed beside me on the table. Uncovered for my approval, which I give readily. Another test. My default when pressed.

Um....a Monte Cristo and fries, skin on, sherry mayo on the side and a Jack Daniels and Lemonade, double, please. No ice. Thank you.

I just say that to see if he will do it and so far so good. It's been years now and it still works perfectly. The steward turns to leave, apologizing when he realizes Caleb is standing directly behind him.

Caleb looks at the tray and then smiles tightly. I'm surprised you don't order cotton candy or something.

This is not the place for that.

Definitely not. This is a far cry from the camper, isn't it?

Another universe. I say it quietly, redrawing the line.

Point taken. He says it softly, lifting up my glass and using the corner of his towel to wipe down the outside where the cool liquid has clashed with the warm evening. The boat is in dock in its new berth on the water directly below the house instead of over at the yacht club. It's more private so we don't have to take it out to be alone. I watch as the crew disembarks, their work finished and I tug at my wet bikini bottoms. They are too loose and sliding over my hip bones every time I breathe. He watches. It was too cold to swim but I lasted eleven minutes in the water anyway, to be stubborn.

I feel lucky, Bridget.

I let my head loll back against the headrest of the seat and gaze up at him. Do you? Why?

Yes. It could have gone either way and I'm surprised your feelings were as strong as they were.

As strong as they are.

Yes. Surprised and...humbled. Thankful.

Maybe I have a soft heart.

Do you?

No. Can I eat now? The sandwich is still warm but so is my drink now. He isn't touching his own food. I make him nervous. I love being in this position. He asked for a quick swim and dinner on the boat and then I am free to disappear and he and Henry have a boy-movie night planned on board. Henry wanted to rewatch the Dark Knight series. I think Caleb deferred on Batman in favor of Iron Man instead. Henry is fine with that. They'll be making popcorn and pulling down the super-screen which is pretty neat even though it's not quite as big as the theatre in the main house.

If I can keep talking while you eat?

Fill your boots.

Are you going to fill in the blanks on your blog?

Huh?

The events of the past week. Do you plan to write about them?

I don't know. Maybe.

Can I ask that you don't?

No one reads it, Caleb.

I just wish we had some secrets left, princess.

Oh, I think there are lots of those.

Not enough.

You're looking for ground again. Already. Jesus. We're an infinite loop.

Just like you and Lochlan.

I stand up, hiking up the ties on the sides of my bikini bottoms. I'm not really hungry. Save this plate for Henry. I pick up the glass and drink the bourbon in one gulp. It's a small glass, no worries. See you tomorrow. Have fun.

What are you up to tonight?

Ruth's at a friend's for a sleepover so I think a quiet night would be good.

With Ben and Loch?

Yes.

I see.

What? What do you see?

What? Nothing. See you tomorrow.

I call him on his evil and the mirth fades from his eyes. That makes me sad. We made up some ground but it buys such fleeting peace. Damn straight I will write about it, as soon as I sort out how.

Life on the edge.

My phone became nothing more than a camera, my soul nothing more than a sponge, standing three hundred metres out in low tide.

I left my heart there if anyone needs it and I don't plan to be back here for long.

I learned that sketchy wi-fi means the ferry service will lose reservations that I might not have actually had, after all, but that's okay because they'll let you on a different one since you're there anyway. I learned that new food is fun and that Creme Brulee is just as much of a treat as a glass of wine.

I saw that surfing looks terrifying and fun, and I laughed and laughed and did not even swim. I walked. I walked until my legs hurt, and then I walked some more.

I found that my hair, like Jake's, turns completely white after being outside that long.

I noticed Lochlan still burns. (Take that any way you want.)

I discovered that when Caleb shuts up finally, I like him better.

I lost four pounds. I was hardly ever hungry.

I knew Ben could build a campfire, but I didn't know he could build one out of practically nothing and I forget how good woodsmoke smells the next day, filtered through the hoodie I wore the whole time and might burn now.

I discovered that some things change and some things stay the same:



I had an honest-to-goodness do-nothing VACATION.

I bought souvenirs.

And I cried when we left.

No woman no wifi.

Back into Oregon we go, making our way up the coast with big huge plans to meet Ben and the children and have an actual family vacation for the remainder of this week.

Things are better. Things are great. You're not missing me, are you?

Farthest point.

Laundromats in Santa Monica have free wi-fi, and I still have the same problem I had when I was a preteen and would fall asleep on long drives, waking up tremendously carsick.

I've made some headway, however. I managed to get OUT of the camper. But it was a small victory in that I still managed to barf on Loch, who was not all that impressed and then almost barfed himself.

We're doing great, thanks.

Oh. Oregon just ROCKS.

But listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering
What you had and what you lost

Road trip, he said. Right now. Pack.

I wanted to ask where or how long but I know better than to ask that when he looks like that.

Yes, Loch. I said instead, and went to get my things.