And Ben made cupcakes.

"Well, then, I think it's time for a shot. You?"

You want to be with her right now. Janie. But you can’t because Charlene is here.

Fucking Charlene. Fuck me. Shit. Stop it.

Jack should sleep tonight. Fuck, I hope he sleeps through the night. Bad night. Has to be the left leg. Favoring that one again. God forgive me for the extra dose, but he took it so late because you’re here. He wanted to be awake. Company. When do we ever have company since we’ve been here? When does he ever look at anyone besides us? But the leg. Favoring the leg. Maybe he didn’t see that I could tell. Hope he’s sleeping.

Shit. Fucking stop it.

If I could just smell her. If I went to bed now it might wake him. Hell, it would probably wake him. God the look on his face when I fell asleep on the couch. But I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it, Jack. Come on, let’s see what we have for breakfast.

Please.

The skin between her breasts. The little line there, just a fine crease. How long has that been there? Beautiful. She laughs low in her chest and it rumbles through her ribs. Too many cigarettes.

I’m going to jump. From the bar top. She’s laughing in the background, which is so good, so enough. Catch me, Jack. Carry me up the stairs. Fucking laughing. She knew how much I wanted you.

Stop.

Did I really let myself get this drunk? Am I even drunk anymore?

Remember that little while when everything just kept lining up? Planets, chakras. Remember when the pain was just background noise, and it was only sometimes that you had to smile though it? Remember when pain pills were for fun?

Fuck I would love a pill.

Can not take Jack’s pills. Where the fuck do you get a pill around here? Might help to make an acquaintance or two. Time. In time.

I miss home. That fucking huge bathtub. Did we really install that shit? Did we really make a haven in that monstrosity? All that beer we drank. Everything was so funny, just leaning back against the wall and watching you try to read how to do it from a library book. A library book. We fucking did that. I remember because I grilled you a steak for that shit.

Sleep through the night and it’s steak and eggs for breakfast, Jack. The girls will bitch to high heaven, but yes.

If I could just smell her. If she was just here, sitting at the table with me, I think my hands would stop shaking.

Quit it, Mona.

The renovating of downtown Dogwood has always happened in irregular spurts. Office buildings got coughed up first, when some genius decided to wrap a couple of old store structures in new windows and some sort of bland gritty substance. There are still a couple of those left, but the folks like my brother are edging them out slowly but surely. Creatures tend to prefer that the history not be rubbed off of their locations.

We have a blues bar, a couple of restaurants, a coffee shop in the reopened Galaxy Theater, and a bar that’s just a bar, but which is really adjacent to the blues bar. By we, I’m not really referring to my immediate family; I’m talking about, you know, those of us who are not them. There’s a used book store. We’re friends with the owners there, even though the Merc has a blue million used books as well.

Don’t squint or you might catch one of us. We’ll be arranging bluegrass at the gazebo or Shakespeare on the library lawn. Gutting an old ice cream truck for a mobile soup kitchen. Teaching a class at the Craft Shed. Comping a drink for one of the willing.

Maybe you saw me earlier today, walking back from the Galaxy with a recycled cardboard carrier full of frozen lattes I’d picked up as an apology for being such a sulky bitch last night when Ben told me that Stephen wants me to start drinking my supplement twice a day. Yes, I pouted, and I imagined that it bothered him that I was bothered even as he dolled himself up and then left to hook up with his latest mystery.

And yes, I did drink a second last night, but not before I crept into his room and sneezed into his closet. So today it was lattes on my tab.

You’d be amazed and appalled at what I have to do to make myself sneeze.

“Yes, twice a day. He thinks it might motivate you.”

“Motivate me? What does that mean?”

“Look, Ramona, I really don’t know what that means. He just seemed to think it was important, and that I should be the one to talk you into it.”

There is so much color in the world. Living surrounded by second hand, I notice that the patina of age filters some of this color, creates washes and richness from it. This removes some of that feeling of chaos that can freeze me. Sometimes I feel myself ticking in the dust.

I spent over an hour today rearranging the pulp novel shelf in the book room. First I alphabetized, then even replaced the tape and marker labels I’d put up the previous time I decided that the shelf needed a makeover. After that, I sat across from it, squinting at my handiwork and sipping on my third coffee of the morning.

Sometimes I just need to be away from natural light for a while. Anthony frowns when I pull the blinds out front too early.

The book room is just what it sounds like it might be. It is windowless and filled with second hand books. When Anthony actually acknowledged that I was working for him, there was only a stepstool and an overhead light to cozy the place up. Since then, I have added the two saggy chairs that were left over when I moved out of the place on Merry. I have papered an end table with a falling apart copy of Jurassic Park, and smile a little every time someone snickers at the bad crafty of it.

“Just stop it,” Ben said, having locked the store for lunch and taken a seat in the other saggy chair.  “If you arrange it any more it’s going to look more deliberate than you want it to look.”

“You know, I’m thinking about slip covering these chairs.”

“You’ll get over that soon enough.”

I chewed the big mouthful of pasta salad I’d just forked in and tried to think of something clever to say to that. I wanted the room to feel comfier. I knew that I needed to stop myself before I dragged in a futon and set out to learn the fine art of bead curtain construction. Had I seen an ottoman in the spare furniture storage room?

“Or maybe lamps. Actually, I think it’s the lampshades that would make it just right.”

That worked. It brought the grin I was looking for. Sue me. Redheads have my number, even when they’re interfering with my nervous guilt parties. Anyway, he did bring me lunch.

“Seriously, Mona, do you really want people staying in here longer than they do already?” He waved his fork at me. “I usually close it off when I’m working by myself. Makes me nervous enough as it is without any of your candles in Chianti bottles.”

“You know, that’s a pretty good idea. The candle, thing, I mean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anyway, I’m more likely to lock the front door and hide in here myself. And I don’t mind so much if there are people back here. Not like I don’t know what they’re doing. Hell, you’re on speaking terms with every rat and bug in the walls.”

“Someone’s gotta keep them in line.”

“Exactly, so you know what’s going on in here, no problem.”

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t change the fact that people who hide in the book room creep me out a bit.” 

“Like me?”

“Especially you, dearest.” Full on dazzler smile. “Most especially when you’re pretending to punish yourself while you’re at it.”

I stopped frowning at him when I noticed how scrunched up my forehead felt. “You look good in blue. You need to let me borrow that shirt. I probably look good in blue as well.”

“Very nicely diverted. Smooth, seamless.”

I thanked him.

“It would never button over your tits, I’m afraid.”

“It would. You’re just not taking into account your own big strong shoulders.”

I’m always thinking of myself as a soulless fuckup when it comes to Cassidy. Then again, perhaps always is a strong word. Often is better.

Right now I’m not sure that what I do with her is so wrong. If I’m pulling her away from anything when I call, it is her little studio. This is what she always tells me.

She usually says, “I’m working.”

She sometimes says, “I’ve been working all day.”

If the answer is yes, she’ll say, “I think I need a break.”

If she were to ever bring up her girlfriend, I think I would probably be pushing her out the front door before I could stop myself. Ok, so maybe I am a soulless fuckup. Still, I know I’ve done worse than the occasional couple hours of mutual, obligation-free feel good.

Cassidy falls pretty low on my list of sins.

“You beat yourself up,” Ben says, “more because you think you should feel bad about it.”

He grins his little ginger tabby grin and shakes his head.  

See, these men who surround me do not equate a little fucking with home wrecking. I suppose Anthony and I could be considered extreme proof of that.

Seriously though, someone around here needs to go ahead and get happy.

Dragged myself into the shop at around eight this morning. Anthony was already there, reading the paper in his office. Coffee was already done.

“So, Stephen says to tell you he’ll have your supplements for next week ready by this afternoon. Don’t be surprised if he brings them here,” he said. He folded back the page he was reading and set it to the side. “You finish up the last of what you had this morning? He’ll want to take the bottles with him.”

I nodded. It never occurred to me to confess to my one skipped day. I’d emptied that bottle down the sink and then rinsed it out. Can’t have Ben reporting these little slips to Anthony, and I know he’s keeping an eye on me for that sort of thing.

See… those two conspire so well together.

And it works. It keeps me passably well and safe.

“And how is Ms. Cassidy?”

See.

I sat down on the loveseat, careful of my full mug to the point that I wouldn’t have to look at him. Yes, there was weather last night. Yes, Ben laid low in his room, listening to Amy Winehouse cds.

“She says she might be a couple of days late on the order. Trouble in paradise, apparently.” Yes, I always say just a little bit more than I want to say.

Anthony smirked at me, lifted the eyebrow a fraction.

“Look,” I said. “I’m the least threat to that domestic bliss.”

Anthony chuckled.

“As long as I get everything by Wednesday everything should be ok. Lots of custom requests this time, so I planned ahead for it. If it helps, call her and tell her to focus on the custom stuff. You can fill in the gaps in the case from that estate stuff we got in last month.”

“Pray for sunny skies.” I did say this with a smile on my face.

I actually try to go a month or so between distress calls. I swear.

Fucking weather.

I think I might have put my hand to my throat to hide my new garnet pendant.

Crazy storms last night.

I don’t like storms so much. Oh, I like the way they look enough, but there’s something about the way they feel that unsettles me. I get antsy. Sometimes I clean. Sometimes I make elaborate soups that require much fine hand chopping of vegetables. Sometimes I call Cassidy.

I should probably take up scrapbooking. But no way is it more fun than Cassidy during a storm.

Last night I called Cassidy.

The store is a hotspot. Over the years it has drawn our sort and other sorts to this area. I wish Stephen and Alex would have come up with this idea when Anthony and I were kids, instead of just, you know, forcing us to blend into what was available. I wish Jenit had stuck around long enough to see Anthony stand out among those who might be considered unusual.

Shit, though- he probably knew it all along. I wish he’d been stronger, then. He was so damn likeable.

But my fathers chose what they chose, and so I am fairly adaptable. I can make a hat and bag out of anything, and when the components are good, well, everyone wants one or both.

I waited what I felt to be an appropriate amount of time to try and hook Anthony up with someone. I did. I waited years. Jenit is a hard act to follow. I understand that.

Also, I admit that the first few guys I threw into his path were not perfect for him. Yes, they were pretty boho wannabes. Okay, I apologize to the world. They were pretty, though. Fascinating is never easy, right? To my credit, not one of them looked a bit like Jenit. I did try that hard.

And I admit that it might be a bit twisted to try so hard to throw your brother into a relationship. Fuck it, no I don’t. Anthony is happier when he’s with someone. That’s my theory.

When Jenit was around Anthony actually engaged with the people around him. He grinned like a fool. His voice was louder. He occasionally got up to mischief. He neglected to police me as hardcore as Stephen has always expected. I miss that.

I’m trying to build a really good motherfucking hat here. A better hat, when the old hat was just fanfuckingtastic.

Anyway, I liked Ben as a component from the first time he walked into the store.

I think I'll say, "Definitely having my supplement in the morning. Even if blueberry is all I have left."

I think I'll say, "Even if I have to gag to keep that shit down."

I think I'll say, "This is how it has been for us."

I think I'll say, "You know, I'm kind of tired."

I think I'll say, "I think I just need to sleep for a while."

Now I’m carrying this fucking laptop everywhere. Seriously, I only have a phone because Anthony and Stephen teamed up and decided that I needed one for my birthday. I only have the laptop because Ben decided he needed a new one… And now I hardly have room for a book or a wallet in my bag.

Fuck the phone, but I carry it just in case. They panic if they can’t find me these days.

I skipped my supplement this morning. Couldn’t face it. I feel a bit tired, but I’m okay. Hopefully I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

I think I'll say, "Look at us. I could be your mom."

I think I'll say, "Who the fuck are you?"

I think I'll say, "Thank you for allowing my fathers to dismiss you so easily."

I think I'll say, "Thank you for teaching me to cut and run."

I think I'll say, "I need a drink. Maybe a pill. Got any pills?"

I think I'll say, "So you're where these came from."

I think I'll say, "Thanks, I guess. People seem to like them."

I think I’m pretty normal looking. My hair is pretty long, but that’s not uncommon. It might look odd to some that, at forty-three, I look old enough to be Anthony’s mother. No one ever says anything about it, though. They’ll tell me I need to grow up, blithely ignoring the fact that I look twice his age, knowing that he is my brother.

Stephen says we’re lucky to get to make this sort of choice. Stephen also tells me that I am beautiful, even though I look so much like Alan.

But I know he thought Alan was beautiful. He put away all of the photographs only last year. After that, I couldn’t compare my reflection to them anymore. Trying to compare from memory is just too frustrating.

Dark hair and dark eyes, skimpy lips.

It has just been so many years since Alan lit himself up, and nothing looks the same as it did when I was nineteen. Not even the backyard. Looking back is a bark of a laugh.

Eventually I’ll probably meet my mother. They didn’t keep pictures, though Stephen did manage, quite drunkenly, to describe her to me once. Seems there was a whisky voice, and tits out to there. Seems my father liked these things for a little while, so Stephen had learned to like them as well. For a while.

Three years later a blonde one came along. Seems they liked me enough that they thought Anthony would be a good idea. Eventually maybe Anthony will meet his mother as well.

Even after what must have been a couple dozen jack and cokes, Stephen said, “Christ, don’t say it like that.”

I shrugged and said it didn’t mean I was mad about it.

Ben gave me this laptop. He got a new one. “Take this,” he said. “Maybe you’ll actually write this way.”

So I took it, and I’m probably writing a bit more these days. Still, I have my favorite journal and pen beside me. Just past the edge of Anthony’s desk blotter, close to my right hand. As though I might actually use them, ever.

The journal is really nice, hardbound, has good paper. It is the best of the twelve or so that I’ve collected over the years, and I really do love holding it. Sometimes pressing the cover against my face calms my thoughts. The pen is lovely, ordered from a website that specializes in expensive, beautiful things. I’m sure it writes flowing and true.

Ben calls these things my teddy bears. I often call him my kitty cat, so there’s a certain balance to us.

Right now Ben is upstairs in his room, most likely sleeping. Tuesday is his ban on social activity night, and we did tear up some wine with dinner. Also after dinner, while ignoring a movie.

Also, there’s the bottle at my left hand. This one has been mine alone, and I have actually used it. Honestly, though, it takes more for me. Nature. Even now I’m hardly fuzzy.

Sitting on what is probably the only new item in the room. It’s a pretty nice desk chair. Comfy. Hopefully built to last. The previous desk chair somehow divided itself sometime last month. Possibly at around three in the morning as a medium sized woman tried to perch upon it.

“What, I’m not allowed nice new things?” was all Anthony said when I commented on the shiny and sturdy of it all.

It in no way matches the heavy, dented metal desk. Actually, nothing in here matches if I look too closely. It’s all just Anthony, from the dust on the concrete floor to the cobbled together shelves filled with the things he loves too much to think about selling. Even the second hand love seat, which is where I’m supposed to sit, was his choice of a thing to do for my benefit.

I added the pillows. I do sit there when he’s here. I do realize that this is his office. Why else would I come here to feel safe?

I need to find him a nice old rug for in here.

 

Because of what we are, we slip by. Anthony first opened the store, just slightly right of center in tiny downtown Dogwood, about fifteen years ago. Anthony has looked twenty years old for about that long.

He and Jenit had originally planned to use only the front part of the deep old building as a comic shop, but now that Jenit is long lost the place has become something else. A bit of this and that. Side openings lead to rooms full of vintage clothing, records and old paperbacks. Paintings and photographs by local artists share space in the front with the pretty junk that Anthony pulls from dumpsters or buys at yard sales. He has a knack for good junk. He’ll even sell it to you if you press the issue.

There’s coffee. Anthony restored the old Bunn restaurant monster himself, and most of the time it does work.

Last month Ben and I moved into the apartment above the place. Local zoning says no, but we slip by because of what we are. It's much less hassle breaking in now.

Anthony moved back in with Stephen, our surviving father, after Jenit. Just after Jenit. A few years back. When I ask him about it, he just says that the old place is too big. No need for Stephen to ramble around in there alone.

I probably agree with him.

I was just thinking about how I used to sometimes sneak out of that little house I lived in on Merry Street. Usually the urge would hit me at around two in the morning, and I’d creep around in the dark, avoiding creaky floorboards and pretending like I had a real process for gathering my shit together. My intent was to get to Anthony’s shop, break in, and relax in the back office. This is one of the few things I actually accomplished in those days, and I’d come to think of it as a required prequel to sleep. Six months ago was ridiculous, really.

I always spent more effort sneaking out of my empty house quietly than I did breaking into the store.