My flannel best.

PJ has spring-cleaned his closet, deep-conditioned his hair and beard and is playing Saudi Arabian grindcore right now and it's not half-bad. He says he's going to clean and condition his boots and wallet and coat today and I was going to join him to clean up my Doc Marten boots and switch the winter coats into storage now that they're all clean and mended but it's freezing and they're calling for a little snow tonight so instead I'll just marvel at how pulled together he is and now how glossy his hair and boots are. Damn. He would have made the best husband if only he didn't find me so fucking annoying all the time.

(Likewise, dipshit.)

What is this? Caleb walks in and indicates the music, bursting into a goofy smile when he sees PJ's head wrapped up in a huge towel. Did I interrupt a spa day?

Join me, Brother, PJ asks him earnestly. We're spring cleaning our very...existences, man.

Depends, what's in it for me? 

Clear skin, shiny locks, and an eerie calm feeling like you don't have to wonder if your deoderant's working or when you last washed your jeans. PJ looks so pleased.

These are things you worry about?

You don't? 

Not really. Caleb is back to business, dismissing PJ with a wink, addressing me. Ready?

For what?

It's Tuesday. We're going for a drive to see the cherry blossoms and I need to pick up some paperwork. 

It's 2020. They can email it. Or hell, take pictures and text you. 

Not everything can be done that way but I appreciate your efforts. They are, however, having someone run it out to the car. And I need company for the drive. 

Okay, let me get my things.

And change. 

Why? 

Because Hello Kitty pajama pants aren't all that cute outside the house. 

Pretty sure you're the only one who thinks that, Caleb. Aw PJ. I really do love him to pieces.

Paul Barton, I'm coming for your job.

That's all I'm looking at online these days. Piano for elephants. I can play piano, hell, I can play a mean Pachelbel or a Liszt , if you prefer and I'm going to take over for Paul when he retires. The piano is closer to my size anyway. It'll be great. Packing my shit now, see you soon.

***

August is moving in effective this morning. The only thing he'll miss about living alone is not sharing a kitchen (no one's going to eat his weird chai pudding, I don't know why he's so concerned) and his beautiful hanging bed, which will be abandoned however briefly for a sturdy pine four-poster that will hold him just fine.

(Gage has his own bed, don't worry. We always keep a furnished spare room for guests and such. This room is removed slightly from the living quarters so it's a true guest suite. It's tucked off the library with an ensuite and separate entrance into the front garden. It's nice. I hardly ever see it.)

He is relieved but a little surprised at the strange turn of events. I mean, they all are lately, aren't they? Every event seems like a mockery of real life these days, every new story a caricature of  something tangible, but not quite.

He is firmly in the 'Against' camp but was an easy approval to bring in only because he doesn't leave the grounds. At all.

I'm in the Against camp too. Don't bring me a Collective and then rip them away without closure. Don't deny me my boys. Even to bounce ideas off for writing or deciding on paint colors or just sharing music.

Others in the Against camp are Batman and New Jake, who don't go out either. Batman has groceries delivered and works nonstop from home. New Jake polishes his motorcycles and kitesurfs all day long (we're...not sure exactly what he does anymore but he's a mean chimney sweep and also has his gas ticket now and is helpful and fun and a good conversationalist and I guess he works for Batman and sometimes Sam but I no longer see how, truth be told. They tend to be happier when we're apart.)

Daniel is Against. He needs people. He's like me. Affection is oxygen, touch is blood running through our veins.

Andrew and Christian are For isolation. They're concerned and they're newlyweds.

Gage doesn't care. Hahahaha. I'm not surprised. Gage flows like a river.

Schuyler is in the For camp. He's travelled extensively this spring already. He picks up groceries and take-out. He's scared to death he's going to give it to Daniel. He's scared he might get it or have it or transmit it. He was the first one to bring up the idea, apparently, even though I'll go to my grave blaming Caleb for it, but at the same time if now is the time to do this, then it's far too late.

I am their biggest fear with my endless colds. My penchant for pulling pneumonia out of thin air every eighteen months like a parlour trick. My intense wanderlust, my need to get out of the house and at least get what we need at least twice a week and do stupid things like forgetting about germs or replying politely when people speak too close, because I lean in in order to hear them better.

So this is for me. 

Everyone in this house is in the For camp, in other words.

It's not as if I'm going out and trying to live business as usual. The only time I leave the house is once a week for groceries, with help and once a week for drugstore/sundry errands, most of which have been cut back so far I may be able to roll that in with groceries. My wanderlust shouts at me in the background somewhat constantly and sometimes it's so loud I want to drown myself.

We need food and we're perfectly able-bodied so I won't be putting a strain on delivery services or any other human beings right now. This is my family, I will get our food.

Caleb's right. Schuy's right, Bridge. You can't go out anymore. 

What am I supposed to do, Locket. Risk someone else? 

No, PJ and I will go. We're healthy. We'll take precautions.

You won't buy broccoli though. 

That's right. It's disgusting. I'll get corn, though. He laughs but he looks concerned.

The irony. This is the same man that more than once brought me to tears, threatening to ground me from the nightly fireworks show at close of day if I didn't eat the broccoli trees that were still on my plate. The same one who told me the world wasn't safe and to stand behind him and we're still struggling with this decades later.

I'm now home for the duration of whatever this is, or until the elephant videos and the music runs out.

Then I'm running. Screaming.

Jake would have hated this turn of events in the world. But he would have hated everything that happened before it too-

Bridget. Ben says my name, a warning as he watches my brain derail into a field, blowing the townsfolk to kingdom come.

WHAT?

All the same.

Early Jesus Brunch this morning to replace early service, as it's cancelled indefinitely and we're making absolute epic feasts over here these days, but only once a day so if you miss it or want something later, you're on your own. The house is spotless. Now the gardens are spotless. The trucks have all been washed, waxed and detailed and now I'm looking at learning how to give better haircuts at home because I'm a novice by far and not everyone here wants long flowing locks.

In the meantime, Sam stood at the centre of the long table on the patio this morning as we all reached out to take the hands of the people on our left and right, clasped tightly, bowing our heads for his words of grace. He asked for patience, protection and peace for all of us and for everyone we love and know and everyone suffering or afraid right now, he said a prayer for contentment, fortitude and acceptance and he spoke about helping and then he asked that we all take a moment sometime in the coming days to seek out the person most generous in our lives, pointing out that for him and many others, that person is me, for allowing the Collective to be together in good times and in difficult ones, for providing a roof over their heads, food for their hunger and companionship and leadership for their days. Cultivating friendships such as this is a gift from God and so is Bridget, apparently.

Caleb stands up, drops Ben's and Duncan's hands and walks away, heading inside without a word. Sam says that people deal with stress differently and that we can also seek out Caleb and anyone else who is struggling right now but that we should thank God for what we are about to eat to replenish our souls and our bodies, for strength for the week ahead.

We ate, we talked, we passed the honey jar and the raspberry jam and we all cleaned it up together, taking dishes inside and talking in small groups. Once the dishwasher was started and everyone seemed ready to drift off to the four corners of the point, Ben to a virtual meeting, Lochlan to the camper, where he's cleaning it up for summer, I went to find Caleb, who was on the phone. I turned to go back out but he motioned for me to wait. When he's finished I pay attention. Today, it's free.

That was Schuyler. 

Is he alright-

He's fine. We've made the decision to isolate the houses here, from each other, just to be safe. That will include the Boathouse and the Loft-

I have to address the immediate glaring emergency and do the rest in order. August will move in, then. This morning.

Where are you going to put him? 

Gage's old room. Poor Gage, who went to Schuyler's, then the Boathouse then back here then back to Schuyler's. He's easygoing though, God bless him.

Caleb nods.

Nice way to try and keep Sam away. 

It's not. 

Okay. Whatever, I'll go say my goodbyes. 

It's effective immediately, Neamhchiontach. No goodbyes. Facetime only.

Oh my FUCK, Diabhal. 

Lochlan and I have been talking about this for a few days now. 

You're really going to drag him into this? 

We're all in this, Bridget. Except maybe your selfish preacher. 

He isn't selfish-

The hell he isn't. 

You are, though.

Maybe I'm just reflecting you, Bridget. 

Everyone is generous (to a fault).

Lochlan held my face and my eyes flew open. It's so late. I was just about too deeply asleep to notice when he touched me but not too deeply, thankfully.

He leans down and kisses me and tells me to be quiet. Then he laughs, and puts all of his weight on me. I cry out and he swallows the sound with another kiss, pulling my arms around his neck, forcing his hands underneath me, pulling me up away from the bed. It was more forceful and less sweet then usual but not too unusual because sometimes he is extra-hungry. He finally ends up with one hand around the back of my neck and one around my hips and we find our common ground. He bends his head down against my forehead and gives me one long kiss, says he loves me and then he's gone.

And then Sam is here. Pulling me up to a sitting position, Lifting me into his lap, giving me a whole different kind of kiss, one that says I didn't touch you yesterday or even the week before. It's been five or six months and he isn't about to waste a second. I cry out and he shifts position, lifting me up again, putting me down on my stomach, pushing my head down with his hand, while his other hand pushes against the small of my back while he drives against me. I want to cry. A pattern so familiar but so far away. I didn't think he would touch me again, never expected him to, frankly and I wonder how he got to this place tonight, and where Matt is, and what happens tomorrow.

Matt is sleeping, Sam says and I don't think about it anymore.

So is Ben, I point out, and he laughs.

Grief is a one-way street, she said and I didn't forget that.

I missed all of the movies last night, including The Outsiders AND Footloose. I'm so disappointed at myself but I settled in tight between Ben and Lochlan on the couch and I was out. Asleep hard. Fuck. I didn't get any pizza (Henry helpfully ate my slice after Lochlan pointed out I was zonked) and was sent to bed when the credits rolled. This is nothing new but I'm hoping to stay awake tonight for 2020 movie night. I don't know what's out though, except for The Hunt. I'd like to see that. Hell, sometimes I'd like to participate in it. With circa-2006 Bridget, not the shell of her that exists now. I don't think she could wield a weapon, let alone find her way out of a wet paper bag. Things have changed.

And welcome, listeners to a sunny Friday morning here on the point. Your girl Little Bee has had no sleep, save for what took place when I could have been watching Kevin Bacon dance (God, Lochlan was SO JEALOUS of my Kevin Bacon infatuation when I was 12 and Loch was 17 and now it seems funny) and I'm feeling a little down this morning, opening a browser with a wail that every inch of every thing I read each morning is covered in a virus. 

Caleb promptly banned me from the Internet. Lochlan quickly amended it to the news and social media parts of the Internet. Fine by me, my blog is also a one-way street though after listening to so many podcasts as of late (I am struggling with Limetown because the player wants to jump to season 2 episodes all the damn time and if I get distracted and let it load automatically I can't follow it because it's at the end suddenly.)  I'm so tempted to try my hand at it, and just talk to you.

There are problems with this plan.

Firstly, if you've ever heard deaf people talk you'll get this. My hearing was there at birth and not as bad as it is in adulthood so I can pronounce my words more easily than you might expect. But I'm loud and highly inflective because I can't hear my own voice, which means not only will you think I'm yelling at you and way too enthusiastic about whatever it is, but it's ridiculously expressive and almost comically sing-song if singing was always a sharp or flat and never on key or on time.

Right. Off-key sing-song with weird timing and loud. I've been assured it's compelling and sweet (RIGHT). I can quash it half to bits when necessary, like when meeting someone new and I feel like I make myself sound like a robot.

Secondly,  if I started a podcast what would I talk about? Myself? Nothing? Grief? Sure, it's the only thing I'm an expert on, unless you count my award-winning multi-time consecutive Sugar-Babying gigs that are ongoing. I could talk about that but Caleb wouldn't appreciate it and would probably draft me a C&D before supper.

If I did a podcast, what would I talk about, Locket? I ask him mid-word.

He doesn't even hesitate. The show. Talk about your time on the circuit. Talk about the highwires and the crowd and the costumes and the mental preparation. 

Only with all of Cirque newly laid off I bet I wouldn't be the only one.

Talk about Jacob. My brain screams and I smack it back, hard. No. That's for me. 

Talk about boys, PJ offers helpfully.

Right. So I can just read my blog out loud then?

If you want, he shrugs. I don't think PJ understands me at all anymore.

Sam comes in and a surprise kiss lands on the top of my head. Talk about secular faith in trying times, he says and Caleb says his name, drawing his attention.

We're not talking about news today, he warns.

Ah, Sam says. Neither was I.

Get tough and nothing can hurt you. Not even the bread shelf.

A distortion pedal and a pair of wings
An anthem played on broken strings

The distancing is for me. Want to hear the shopping-cart-handle-licker story?

Well, I cut my finger just as I started shopping two weeks ago for groceries. The shelves are sharp and I reached back to one side for English muffins. When I pulled my hand out with my prize I had sliced right down the side of the nail on my index finger on my left hand. It started bleeding straight away so I did what I always do, I stuck my finger in my mouth. With my other hand I frantically checked all of my pockets and my bag for a stray tissue or a bandaid, finding neither. And the store was so hectic I didn't want to commandeer an employee to deal with the sharp shelf or find me a bandaid. I don't need to buy bandaids (I have thousands. At home!) and so I did my entire shop with my finger in my mouth. By the time I had to pay it had mostly stopped bleeding and yeah. If anyone caught a virus from a shopping cart handle at this point if it isn't me I'd be surprised. But that was two weeks ago and I have since recovered down to just a mildly-stuffy nose and there are five bandaids and two folded up tissues in my purse all the time now. But yes, I've probably single-handedly murdered every senior or compromised person with my germs within a forty-mile radius because I made an automatic motion. So it's manslaughter, not murder, in my defense. I'm sorry.

Never said I wasn't a walking calamity now, did I?

***

Today's special activity is brought to you by Dalton and Duncan, as we are taking turns trying to lift each other's spirits and make being home even more magical and wonderful than it is on a daily basis by planning surprises or out of the ordinary things. This is Retro Weekend (but on a Thursday) and it includes all eighties fun all day followed by eighties movies and snack foods tonight in a giant new blanket-fort we have built in the theatre room.

We're all wearing eighties fashion (which is funny, except for Caleb who came down as a greaser, and pointed out the Outsiders film came out in the eighties, sparking a huge debate on films versus books (the book came out before Lochlan was born even). Anything goes, I guess. I had to steal one of Ruthie's ringer t-shirts and rollerskating shorts. The shirt says Let's All Summon Demons and Caleb questioned that too, saying no one did that in the eighties.

That's what you think, Lochlan says and I wonder right now if we'll even make it to the movie activity part of the day or if they're just going to murder each other first.

Perhaps I should threaten to lick them.

We pretty much always live like this.

I have news fatigue and therefore have put on a pretty linen spring dress, no shoes and left my hair to curl up lazily around my shoulders and it looks like Lochlan's hair when it gets so long the curls come out, weighed down by the length.

And freeze my toes off in the kitchen because it's minus two outside and PJ burned the eggs and so he's opened the windows.

Peej, Christ!

Gimme a sec, he rumbles. PJ isn't conversational until at least his third cup of coffee. I finished a second cup yesterday at three pm and took a sleeping pill and was still up all night. I don't know how he does it.

I wait five seconds, eyebrows raised. He goes around closing all the windows and points out a little fresh air if good if one is properly dressed and someone definitely isn't. 

If it's like yesterday it will be eighteen degrees by after lunch. I remind him, since yesterday I was wearing lined jeans and a black hoodie and was so hot I practically melted.

You have a cold. You should stay warm.

It's getting better. 

Right and rush too much and it'll come back. 

He's so bickery I turn my attention to Caleb who does a small double take at all the tattoos visible suddenly and the dress and asks me if I'm warm enough as he makes a coffee. His altruistic demeanor is amusing considering a week ago when I developed a runny nose and the world's driest cough he lost his mind, mostly because Lochlan wouldn't let him near me.

I am. I may go get socks and a sweater though.

If you put on some warm things we can take a walk.

Where? 

Beach, field. You decide. 

Both? And the pool. And maybe up the road towards town and-

Let's start slowly. Go.

I run upstairs, chuck the dress overhand into the closet and find black fleece leggings and a longsleeve black Lamb of God (perfect timing!) t-shirt, black socks and a black clip for my bangs, which are driving me batshit crazy.

Ah. You look like you now. 

I almost wipe out in surprise. He hates these outfits.

I meant defiant and dark. I'm not condoning the choice of attire, just pointing out it's predictable. 

I wait for more. What a backhanded compliment.

It's warm, he settles on finally and I nod.

It is.

Let's go then. 

We start out on the left side of the property if you're facing the sea, walking up the driveway and out onto the road, and past Schuyler and Dan's, past Batman's house, heading down around Batman's driveway to the yard, through the trees, and across to the pool, then down to the cliffs, across the fence and then finally to the beach. Smart, as Caleb knows I'll comb every inch of the beach and if I start there I never make it anywhere else, running out of time or patience or oxygen (the coughing). Or he runs out of time. Or Lochlan runs out of good graces or patience or common sense.

The waves are crispy, icy and fresh. The wind on the water takes bites from my soul, leaving tiny teeth marks in halfmoon patterns, tasting the despair and the hope too. Bittersweet. I dunk my hands in the water and sit back on my legs, hunched over to be as close as I can without soaking my shirt or my leggings. Caleb stands back further but close enough that if I pitch face first into the sea he'll be able to reach down and pluck me out of the surf.

I stand up finally, not looking out into the ocean or into his eyes (close enough with their medium blue today) but at the smallest rocks to sweep for glass or shells when my eye catches light.

Is it jewelry? No, it's a silver dollar. From the eighties. I used to have one actually-

Look for more, maybe. He looks amused.

I stare at him briefly and then do as instructed. All OVER the beach he has tucked silver dollars into the rocks, under logs and into holes in driftwood. At one point he asks me to count them and I fail to clue in. At another he offers me his hankerchief, and I tie them up in a neat weighty bundle.

How many do you have now, Neamchiontach?

Nineteen, I tell him and he nods.

So, a final sweep and then we'll go up and show off your treasure? 

You think there's more?

Possibly.

How many more could there be?

Maybe one more.

You think I missed one. I clue in, at last.

Yes, you've missed one. He laughs and indicates the last bonfire and I run to it. Sure enough, in the centre, under the ashes and cinder peeks out another flash of silver light.

Twenty.

That's it then.

That's like an Easter egg hunt but way better.

I thought you might enjoy that.

I did! Except I think I made a terrible mistake.

How?

If I had left the coins where you planted them, the tide would have come in later and watered them and they would have grown into money trees. 

God. Your brain.

The whole thing is like a parable for greed-

Neamhchiontach.

Yes?

Coins don't grow into money trees.

But WHAT IF THEY DO and we never knew?

Fake glass in case of emergency.

I am stocked up on bird feeder suet and furnace filters and LED lightbulbs for the foreseeable future. I forget to change the furnace filter for almost a year and wow. It was almost black. Oops. I can't remember everything.

The eye doctors and dentists and piercers  and stores have all closed that I enjoy. So no upcoming medical appointments or shopping and I refuse to go for my mammogram, because the first time I went, two years ago, it came back all wrong and the followup appointment was for after Christmas and it was very stressful. Somehow it feels less stressful to do my own self-checks. Something I never forget. Your health is not a furnace filter, and health seems to be all anybody talks about these days.

We went grocery shopping this morning and faced a large amount of vitriol from the gathered crowd, even as we left a lot off our list, as items were limited and are limited, with or without signs so we carefully took one of each thing instead of many. But we buy a heaping two or three carts every week so suddenly people think we're hoarding. Which is horrible and I never want to go back but honestly we go through a lot of food here on the point. There are twenty adults living here fulltime. If I need three packs of toilet paper rest assured it will only last a week.

But you can only buy one, so the other households have been splintered off to get their own.

And no. 

Don't suggest Costco.

I won't go in there. I hate it so much. I've had memberships twice in my life. The hassle isn't worth the savings, even for a household my size. Superstore is good for bulk and the other little stores scattered up and down the hill good for everything else.

What else? This is the first day everyone is home and I didn't have a plan for the extra meals so I may have to go back to the store tomorrow. Help me.

(For those saying Let them get their own: Have you seen how the average guy grocery shops? Some frozen chicken wings and a loaf of bread. A case of chocolate ice cream. Naw, I still have a centimetre of toothpaste left. Oh, chocolate milk too. And Froot Loops. 

But no plain milk for the Froot Loops. Dude, you'll run out of toothpaste on Wednesday and hey, did you forget you're lactose intolerant? Oh, and those twelve chicken wings will feed one person one meal. But you were saying?)

At least the new Lamb of God single is out and it's fucking delicious. I can eat that. Perfect. It's called Memento Mori, which means Remember you will die.

What timing.
 

This is what I mean.

I  would say the majority of people hate the things I love. Anything that makes you hurt. Makes you feel. Makes you scared or angry or sad. Makes you feel something for someone or something else in time, and that to me, as referenced by my title yesterday, which made perfect sense to me and no one else, is the hallmark of an incredible creation.

This week I finished the third book that made me place it on the table, smooth the cover and then promptly burst into tears.

(The others? Sole Survivor by Dean Koontz (don't knock it til you read it) and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King, a book I recently reacquired and can't wait to reread.)

This third book? The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris. I saw it in passing over Christmas and put it on my Must-Read list and Lochlan bought it for me, as he has always tried to foster a love of reading as big as his own in me and not only am I slow on a page but I'm narcoleptic so I sleep more than I read when I pick up a book and stop moving.

I read this sitting up in bed late at night with all the lights on in order to stay focused. He had to sleep somewhere else because I couldn't put it down and then when I finally did I cried so hard. So hard.

I didn't know it was a true story, refusing to read a thing about it until I had read it, proper. I didn't even register the dedication at the outset, on the page right before the story begins and I am crushed. It unfolded more in the acknowledgements, the interview at the end and the aftermath and if not for a curiosity about the author's need to write this I never would have found out.

What a good book. Holy. Give me more of those.

My favorite everything is moving, profound.

Though the winds of change may blow around you
But that will always be so
When love is pain it can devour you
If you are never alone
I would share your load

Church is cancelled for the next three Sundays and Sam is hoping for a Palm Sunday miracle to resume services, as his congregation is evenly split between rich young money and very old people who still disapprove mightily of Unitarian hippie Jesus vibes while demanding tradition hymns in with the Christian rock music, at least. Sam's been walking an easy tightrope for years, able to manage both groups and conduct a fun church environment overall but at the same time there's fifty percent of your flock that don't even know what a podcast is, let alone how to google something on a computer.

If you sent them a link to their hotmail they'll call you on the phone and yell Now what? It opened a purple window and I heard God talking, or maybe it was Reverend Sam and it startled me so I threw my computer out the window. You owe me a new one. 

(This might have been an actual conversation, I'm not telling.)

I'm glad he cancelled. I wanted to get day-drunk anyway, after wasting an hour this morning transitioning back to my winter coats and bag, as it's below zero and still windy. I'm not interested in being cold. I'm waiting for endless heat, sunshine and forest fires to complain about and I was trying to embrace the nippy bonfire season with newly lighter sparkly nights as we march toward Ostara and every night I triumphantly announce that the sun went down two whole minutes later than last night, thank you very much and I feel so much lighter. I was trying to embrace but it's hard, so I'll go back to bed for two weeks and then try again in April.

Except I can't, because Matt is making us Socotranian breakfast wraps featuring spices from the port of Comandante Ferraz (going to have to rechristen them The Geography Boys but I didn't recognize either place so I'll rechristen myself Sheltered and I'll do my research after I'm done here, I only asked him for the spellings) and I'm pretty sure both my juice and my coffee hold more Devil than God at this point as he is famous for helping his guests relax by mixing lethal incendiary cocktails, with permission, of course. But they're good and I'm possibly the only one on the point who still drinks (we won't even talk about Ruth who came home around one-thirty this morning, set the alarm with a flourish, threw her leftover beers in the fridge and came up stairs calling good night.) and the food smells delicious, and I'm suddenly starving.

This is Matt's belated housewarming/welcome. Maybe it's a celebration of another, albeit hopefully smaller and less beautifully devastating wedding to come. Maybe it's confirmation that Bridget getting day-drunk makes her so easy to love you back or maybe it's because we've discovered strange new worlds we can daydream about running off to, with more time to get there now that the days are longer.

Breakfast is ready.