Honorary boy.

When I was nine years old I walked up the street, giving out invitations to my birthday party. Cake, games, treat bags. My mom liked to keep things simple. I had chosen Strawberry Shortcake as the theme, even for the invitations and I tucked each one carefully into a pale pink envelope that I wrote the boys' names on as neatly as I could.

LOCKLEN.

CRISTYIN.

CALIB.

COAL.

DILAN.

My mother bit her tongue and probably planned a back-up event, because the youngest boy was Cole, at twelve years old and no way would a bunch of neighborhood teenage boys want to come to a Strawberry Shortcake-themed birthday party for a little girl.

But they did. They wore their church shirts and pants and good shoes that they took off at the door and they handed me presents and they played the games I had picked and sang Happy Birthday to me and and ate cake and helped clean up when it was over. At the door they thanked my mother and collected their treat bags and we all agreed to change and meet up at the baseball park, except for Lochlan, who said he would come get me in five minutes because at that age I wasn't allowed to walk the path alone.

I watched them play pick-up baseball for the rest of the day and in between his turns Lochlan took a big stick and taught me how to spell their names in the mud the correct way. Oh. Lochlan. Christian. Caleb. Cole. Dylan.

I took the stick and showed him how to spell my name. There's a D in there. Bridget. Everyone else got it right on the cards except for him. He wrote Briget.

As we walked back when it got dark they sang Happy Birthday to me again and lit their lighters and it was the most magical thing I've ever seen. I opened all of their presents after dinner that night and all of it was hockey and baseball safety gear, in the smallest sizes they could find, though still slightly too big for me. But none of it was pink. None of it was fruit-scented. None of it was a hand-me-down.

My parents were confused but I was the happiest little girl on the block. I packed away all of my Apple Dumplin', Apricot and Strawberry Shortcake dolls in a box, shoved it far back under the bed and never played with dolls again.

Fight club.

How can I believe when this cloud hangs over me
You're a part of me that I don't wanna see

Jacob used to bring all of his paperwork and books into the dining room to work when I played piano. Sometimes I would be very serious, burning through Beethoven, Vivaldi, Borodin. Other times I would hack away at jazz standards or alternative rock songs. Sometimes I played Heart & Soul about five hundred times in a row. It didn't matter what it was, Jake would be smiling every time I stole a glance.

Sometimes I would turn around on the bench and yell WHAT? at him and laugh but he would just chuckle and keep making notes, books spread all over the table, his lap, the floor.

I thought he was happy.

I picked out a few notes on the piano in Caleb's living room this morning and wondered if he truly appreciated Scott Joplin's compositions as I started to play The Sting but I have forgotten how to play it over the years. And he won't stay on the subject anyway so what does it matter, so I cheekily switch to Chopin's funeral march and try to look very fiercely up at the Devil as I play.

Very funny, Princess. Caleb breezes past me, phone in hand. He shows me a photo.

Nice dog, I say and keep playing and he finally closes the lid on my fingers.

It's a horse. No games today, Bridget, I'm trying to get some things accomplished. They can deliver him tomorrow.

Delivered? Like a pizza? That's what I'll call him. I'll call him Pizza.

So yes? You like him?

I know nothing about him! Thick or thin crust? Pepperoni or chicken? Anchovies? Extra cheese?

It's a horse. If you don't want to be here then why are you here?

I want to know if you're going to rat yourself out or if I'll have to do it for you. That's the topic, Diabhal.

The topic should be the ease with which you roll your sordid words around on the internet like a wet finger in a sugar bowl. Your fucking blog-

That was the worst metaphor-

BRIDGET.

He picks me right up off the floor and pulls me in close to his face but then he doesn't know what to say. It's only when there's no space left that he sees how small I am in comparison. It freaks him out.

Your jealousy is showing. I tell him point-blank, false courage blowing a hole through his torso, detonating his heart too (since it runs in the family), knocking him down to writhe in front of me, a victim of his own clear intent. I'll morph into a helpless bystander, rushing away while his life soaks into the wet pavement in the glare of a pool of light from a streetlamp above.

What's gotten into you?

You're trivializing something you have no right to measure the importance of and I think for once you should just let me run this show so they don't kill you.

Ah. The fake courage of a little girl who had to be in charge because everyone let her down. I can smell your fear from here.

Just like a big dog, like that one in your picture. It's a bloodhound, is it?

We're not finished here! Don't you walk out that door! 

I'm walking. Watch  me! Rolling out the door, just like a finger in a fucking sugar bowl, Caleb! 

I'll talk to you later, when you've calmed down a little. 

I'll send for you when I want to see you. Don't hold your breath waiting, you'll die.

Ben's favorite sort of homecoming after being away for any length of time is to have us perform. He wrapped his hands around my head and kissed me hard and then pulled my head in against his mouth and told me what he wanted. He deviates a little but nothing I can't handle.

Well, mostly.

Loch takes you first, he whispered. Ben likes to watch. He can almost get off without being touched, it's extraordinary. I rain a chorus of mewls at him in protest. I haven't seen him in almost a week. I need him to touch me. They can work something out, I won't wait for him.

He just smiles and I get one more rough kiss before I am dropped into Lochlan's lap. Loch's a performer, he no longer minds. By the time Ben is spooling up Loch can disappear and sleep or he can hang out and watch. We've got this down to a casual science.

Or rather a lottery with the same winner every night. Jackpot. Bridget's a gazillionaire if sex were money. It's currency, that's for sure.

When Loch's arms slide down around my hips Ben pulls my arms back hard. I arch my back and he kisses me again. He's going to stay so close we can touch him, or rather, he can touch us. Loch swears at him and lifts me up, bringing me back down into his flames. I cry out. There was no foreplay, just need dealt all the way around. I fight to slow him down but he's hammering into me. He's putting on a show. He spoils Ben without even realizing it sometimes. Ben sits back in surprise. He doesn't want to miss anything. He reaches out with one hand and grabs my hair, twisting it up into one hand, keeping me up in the air until the tension threatens to tear my skin and he loosens his hold, running his hands down my throat, across my shoulders and down my arms to my wrists, which he takes and pulls hard once more, up over my head.

Loch's hands slide under my hips and I'm no longer touching the earth at all, I'm suspended here in the night on the moon, which glows white hot and hums with a electric current I can almost taste, a sweet metallic flood into my mouth.

Loch loses his nerve three-quarters of the way to heaven, pulling me close, shoving Ben's hands away, fighting off guilt and regret even as his limbs begin to shake as he grabs the edge and flings us over. His lips press against my forehead, his fingers tighten around my hips and he cries out, a harsh exclamation of joy followed by a grin of relief. His face finds mine and his hand comes up to hold my chin level with his as he kisses me. It's a long one. I can't catch my breath. He asks me how many and I say three and he laughs and then Ben pulls a little harder and I am in his arms at last. Loch lies beside me, smoothing my hair back off my forehead, tucking it behind my ears, telling me I am beautiful. Telling me to let go.

Ben gives me a longer kiss still and I wonder if they're trying to kill me. I get early confirmation when Ben leans up on his elbows and flips me face down, sliding one arm around my hips, lifting me right up off the bed, driving in so hard I scream. His other hand comes up to cover my mouth and he asks me if I like it. I nod. I do. I'm awful, evil, terrible. He laughs against my ear and tells me to let go and I nod once more as adrenaline and waves of euphoria threaten to knock me out. I can't breathe and he's forcing me into blackness and he likes it so much I trust him and I do let go and just at the moment I relax he loosens his holds on me and Lochlan steers my head to one side. He kisses me and then Ben kisses him. It's quick and perfunctory, though, nothing passionate. 

Loch strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. Then he gets up and leaves. Ben turns me back over, parking his elbows on either side of my head. He begins to move harder, faster, shoving me right up away from him on every stroke and I wrap my arms and legs around him just so I don't get hurt. He holds himself up with one hand and wraps the other arm around my back, lifting me up close against him.

I love you, Bee, he says as his grip on me tightens. He grunts and then cries out my name when he comes, slowing to the barest aching crawl. He brings me back down to rest against damp sheets and collapses against me, his thumb rubbing my forehead, fingers against my cheek.

I love you, Benny. I say it in my sleep for I have already gone to dreamland. It's right on the other side of heaven. Lochlan returns, pressing close against my back, pressing yet another goodnight kiss against my skull. Love you, Peanut. Sleep, Babygirl. I turn over and echo my words to him. Love you, Locket. Sleep, boys. Sweet dreams. And I'm out.

Home is where your Ben is.

Fuckers, all of them.

Lochlan and the rest spent a lot of time talking me into dinner tonight. I'm so tired. I didn't want to go but he convinced me that a bourbon and some chicken wings would perk me up. I think it would perk him up, he means.

We walked in just as the Blackhawks scored on an empty net and there in the booth with a cup of coffee in front of him and his carry on bag beside him on the seat was Benjamin.

What a sight for my sore eyes. Ever cry in a pub? Someone walked by and tried to console me, telling me I shouldn't put any more effort into rooting for Minnesota.

 

Thirteen hours with the Devil.

I staged a bit of a sit-in last evening and had I known it would run past an hour or two I would have planned better and ordered food, kissed the children good night and told Duncan and PJ not to sit in the kitchen waiting up for me. Lochlan sat out in the driveway for most of it but he doesn't mind the hot sun and then the cool moon.

I had to pinch myself to stay awake, at least four times Caleb yelled at me to stop fidgeting so much because he jumped every time I jumped and basically we never even talked, we just sat and stared each other down.

My vote is all or nothing. Everyone is to know. Come clean. Fess the fuck up already and then the questions will stop, take whatever punishment they have for you and let's get on with our lives. Maybe things will be better, after all. Because all the things we've tried so far, time, money, absence, didn't work. What do we have to lose?

Everything, is the answer. I don't like his answer. I go back to being quiet in hopes that he, too, will shut the fuck up.

His vote is to continue to the course, to find out what it will take to win absolution from Lochlan.

You can't ask for absolution from Loch. Loch can hold a grudge forever. Loch is an elephant, he never forgets. He's loathe to forgive and stuck in his ways. Be kind, be quick and be good. The thefts, the bad things we did were so we could eat. He always told me it was only for enough to eat, or pay for a safe place to sleep and I believed him. His pride is larger than his brain, trust me.

So I sit back, sipping a bourbon watered down by an ice cube that disappeared an hour ago. I sit and watch the Devil and I think about the things I do that drove him to show up and ruin things and then to have him stand here and tell me he thought it would be the worst thing I ever went through and that I was young and resilient and would soon forget and move on and life would be a fairy tale, just as soon as he got rid of Lochlan. Once we were apart, once I was Cole's or anyone's just as long as it wasn't Loch, that everything would be okay.

His brain is smaller than Lochlan's, apparently.

Watch here now as I fire up my flamethrower and leave a path in front of me that reaches a hundred miles in every direction because that's how I feel and that's what Jacob was. A break from this. A break from Cole and from Caleb and from Loch and from everything I know and everything I am.

God has other plans for me. I wish he'd drop a note. I don't know what they are.

Caleb asks if I want a refill. I wake up and snap at him that I don't, I want an answer. 

I don't have one for you. 

Then I guess I'll wait some more. Until you do. 

Oh, and in case someone is about to call me out on this, no, I don't expect some of the boys to take up my defense even as I leave them out of the loop.

I don't expect anything except for maybe the hope that things will smooth out a little for all of us if we finally put our cards on the table but at the same time I expect men to be men and volunteer their mistakes and wait to be judged, punished, ostracized or absolved. I don't know what will happen if he tells them. I don't know if he will tell them. At this point I don't think it even serves any purpose, to tell you the truth. It's a dance we've been performing too long to change the steps now.

I don't know if Loch will ever forgive him. I don't think I would (if I were him) but there's nothing conventional about us and maybe that's how we've survived this long as it is.

bawk, bawk.

Lilting grace.

(A brief excursion to the boathouse as I am passed around, evaluated and comforted. I'm doing much better today. Yesterday seemed to be some sort of minefield I couldn't navigate without blowing my limbs off every step I took. I remember that she was ready and it's easier now.)

Oh, father of the four winds, fill my sails, across the sea of years
With no provision but an open face, along the straits of fear

Caleb reaches up and smooths my hair back behind my ear as I sit on the edge of the couch and he lounges on the floor.

Zeppelin today for the devil and Skyping with Ben to keep him in the loop at all costs, by my own request because I'm tired of everyone dismissing him because he's not around a lot. He is to be kept informed of all developments or issues and his input will be sought before decisions are made.

So there!

That makes things difficult, everyone tells me.

For you, maybe, not for me, I reply.

And Caleb, well...Caleb would like actual, functional forgiveness. From everyone but mostly from Lochlan. This has gone on long enough. That's his bone to pick this week.

Interestingly, I don't believe it ever once occured to him that I didn't tell everyone what happened. For some, it's none of their business. For others with a vested interest in helping me cope/survive/thrive, it's an incredibly important piece of information that can't be left out.

Some of them have asked, mind you. Out loud. Up front, with their naive curiosity exposed in a way that made me cringe and then further dissolve as I said it wasn't my place to explain.

So I told him if he really wanted to clear the air/make amends/seek forgiveness he should apologize to the whole point, en masse.

They will rip him to pieces.

While I balance this tiny thimbleful of composure, oh, nope, there it goes.

My grandmother died last night. My mom's mom. I now have one grandparent left and he's a century old. I have one baby tooth as well. Who says adulthood is a specific path taken? Mine meanders, it doubles back, it charges forward in a rush that takes your breath away and then the phone rings.

She taught me so much. How to milk a cow, grow carrots, radishes and peas. How not to pick blueberries. How to sew, embroider and crochet. How to work a dual-fuel kitchen stove and conserve well water during a drought. How to find pennies in the dirt under the post office window for Pixy Stix (Ha, you thought that was Lochlan, didn't you?) and where to grab the leeches to pull them off my legs in Ponhook Lake. How to pull the chains for the furnace to make the house warmer and why sliding down the bannister is a bad idea if there's a large glass-fronted cabinet at the bottom.

She taught me that she braided hair far too tightly, had no patience for night terrors or homesickness but had time to cook everything from scratch. She taught me you can love someone but not show them until they realize the difference. I inherited her migraine headaches and her birthday and most likely her osteoarthritis.

My regrets include not getting home more often to say hello, even though she would not have known me this past while, and never really figuring out her secret to making perfect cinnamon rolls from scratch. She could do it without a recipe. I can't even do it with a recipe. My stitches will never be as even as hers were but my house will never be cold.

I have absolutely nothing to report except I stuck a paring knife under my thumbnail when I was cutting mushrooms and I'm beginning to think my blood doesn't want to clot but whatever. It's Tuesday. At least it's not Monday anymore right?

We thought Caleb was going to make a formal pitch to bring horses to the point, now that the stables are complete. Or maybe he would bring up high school football for Henry again. Because that's been a very sticky point as of late and I keep waiting for him to appeal to the boys to convince me that it's a good idea.

NOPE.

(Henry doesn't even WANT to play, and if his father would listen to him instead of deciding for him, we'd be all set, don't ya know.)

I didn't get much out of Lochlan at all, except that he now thinks Caleb is an artless thread-bolted miscreant. The more he sputtered and grumbled, the more colorful the insults became.

Sometimes he can be so glorious.

Caleb called and asked told me to come down and see him so we could discuss things and I said I couldn't (because I'm not allowed presently anyway but I didn't say that to Caleb), that I was going to church to help Sam by sweeping and spring cleaning and listening to music loud, with good acoustics. Also I'll be roped in to folding bulletins. I fold them all. I think Sam just likes the company, frankly but I'll go and at least make myself useful. Indispensible to someone. Sam will turn around often and tell me I have God's grace but I didn't get it by cleaning His house and I'll yell Liar! and keep working. We're a team.

Me and Sam, I mean, not me and God.

Loch gave me another bone-crushing squeeze on my way out the door behind Sam and told me to come straight back. Yes DAD. He's working on a thing or he would have come too, he says. We'll talk tonight, he says. No worries, Peanut, he says.

ARGH.

I'm actually sort of anxious to know what they discussed, if I'm being honest. Curiosity is my biggest character flaw. I'm pretty sure that's why Loch makes me wait an entire day. He's trying to frustrate it out of me.