everything means less than zero.

[sister_saviour]

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When I thought about getting up here today and giving some spiel about how much I loved my wife, I realized that I couldn't tell anyone here something that they didn't already know. I loved Corinna Richmond more than anyone in this room, save for maybe her mom, Sue. That's a big maybe too since I was in no way obligated to love Corie. She didn't come out of my body. Instead, I met Corie in '94 coming out of Mitch's office. I distinctly remember their conversation being something like: Oh yeah? Fuck you!, Fuck you too! That was Corie. I was twenty-two, fresh out of UCLA and oh, what the fuck was it? Seventy thousand dollars in debt. I was living in a dive with Jim and Matt in Northridge and making twenty-eight grand a year. I had just signed on with Radar and Corie was working as the Fashion editor. Thank god it was fucking December and she hadn't had time to hear about the fuck-up in copy writing by the time that the company party rolled around. I think I probably lied to her and told her I was a male model or in accounting, but she still put out that night. When I woke up the next morning, she still had tinsel in her hair and a Santa hat was covering up my cock. I think that moment really set the tone for our relationship. Now that she's gone, I can tell you: Corie was thirty-three, successful, and already divorced. I don't see what she saw in me other than that I was perfect material for a boy-toy. So, I think she was just keeping me around until she got tired of me, but then a year passed and we moved in together. I got a haircut, a promotion, and season tickets for the Dodgers. We got married. She got a pug. And I thought life would always be like this: Just the two of us. Fuck Corie. Way to screw things up, right? The thing is that I know that if I had been the one in the box right now, I'd be really getting reamed. I think Jim would have to keep her from like, ripping off a limb or something. She'd probably still do it though, like just rip off my arm and start beating me with it. Corie got cremated though so there's only so much I can do with a box. I mean look at it. Everyone knew Corie was like, fucking string bean, but that's it? It's just a box. Probably two pounds of dust, tops. What a light weight. This is it, I guess. This is what it all comes down to. So, I'm just going to take my wife and leave now. Enjoy the food and booze. Corie really wanted to have one last big party.

<center> Joel Martin, April 2004</center>

[sister_saviour]

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You know one band I just don't get? Bachman Turner Overdrive. It's like, total cock music. They are so taking care of business, working overtime, and letting it ride. I'm sure if I ran into the band in an alley, they'd totally kick my ass. Let's face it: I'm kind-of a pussy. I run one of the top men's fashion magazine. I've had a rhinoplasty. I wax my chest and back. If I watched Steel Magnolias on a bad day, I might even squirt a few. Actually, that's a lie. I don't think I really know how to cry. When Corie died, I just said, Fuck! and held her hand until it was creepy and cold. I was more angry than anything else, I gess. I told Edie about her last night and now I'm feeling a little exposed. Do you want to know a band I totally get? Wings? Total girly boy pop. Once Alex was listening to Abbey Road and "Something" came on and I was like, Wings? Let me tell you, if looks could kill. I'm smarter now though. I think the family was surprised when I turned out straight. Don't get me wrong, I love the ladies. I think I just relate a little too well to them. Sometimes.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 31, 2007 10:42 PM: Message edited by: sister saviour ]</font>

[sister_saviour]

1997, Los Angeles

He had made the cake himself. The result was a towering mess of uneven layers and dribbling cream cheese frosting. Carrot cake was Corie's favorite and while he could have called up Le Petit Chien or any of the other bakeries in the area to have one made, he had chosen to bake. The frosting was flecked with orange and oozed down the sides of the cake. In an attempt to distract everyone from its flaws, he had stuck a multitude of candles into the top and lit them like a bonfire. The room glowed as he brought it out to the birthday girl.

Corie leaned back in her chair, an arm hooking casually over the edge while her other hand skimmed over a tight, almost-grim grin. She eyed the cake through the cool blue of her narrowed cat eyes and held back her commentary until the cake was in front of her. "Thanks asshole," she said before the chorus kicked in.

Joel's family had drove down for the event. He knew that the kids made Corie nervous, but they seemed to add to the festive atmosphere. His dad had barbequed tofu and fresh vegetables on long skewers and everyone else had contributed a dish here or there. Quinoa salad and chunks of roasted potatoes mixed in oil and herb. Bottles of imported beer. Dessert was his. He could hear his sister Alex snickering into Sam's shoulder as four little bodies competed to be the closest to the birthday cake. They were lined up in accidental order: Maya, Levi, Asher, and Marcus. He smoothed fingers over the heat-kinked curl of Marcus' hair and joined in. "-- Happy birthday, dear Corie! Happy Birthday to you!"

"And many more, on Channel four. And Scooby doo on channel two," Bernie Martin, the gray-haired patriarch, sang in the background before his wife, Rachel shushed him with a hand smoothing over the front of his gaudy Hawaiian printed shirt.

"How old are you, Aunt Corie?" Maya said, sniffing at the cake.

"Maya," Sam warned as she moved around the mill of bodies in the kitchen to peel the kids from the edge of the table. Sam was Alex's partner. A dandy dyke, blonde hair spiked and the sleeves of a fitted Oxford rolled up her forearms. She hoisted the tawny body of her son Marcus onto a hip and tapped on Maya's shoulder. "Let Corie blow out her candles."

"Thirty-eight," Corie answered nevertheless in a resigned tone. She had the taut pale skin of a woman in her early thirties rather than her late. She took good care of herself and, as Fashion editor of Radar, took pride in her appearance. Leaning into the cake, hands held back her curling hair as lips puckered. The candles died in a quick flash. Smoke filled the air.

Later, once cake had been doled out on small round plates and everyone had bravely taken the first bite, chatter filled the kitchen. The kids sat out on the patio, smearing frosting on themselves and cackling over nonsense.

"Good cake," Corie said, slapping Joel's thigh.

"Who would have thought it?" Lauren grinned, her green eyes wheeling over towards her brother.

"I," Rachel emphasized with a tilt of her chin. "taught him everything he knows."

"Ma, how many Jewish mothers does it take to screw in a light bulb?" Joel asked, his eyebrows waggling towards Rachel. She didn't dignify him with a response. It was a joke that he had already circulated around. Still, he waited for a What? to rise up. Rachel gave a dignified sniff and rolled her dark eyes. "It is okay. I v'ill sit here in the dah'k," he finished in a mournful Yiddish cluck.

"Very funny," she murmured as a few snickers punctured the silence. She countered in the only way she knew, as much as it would reinforce stereotyping. Rachel put her plate down upon a knee and daubed at lips with a napkin. "Corie, do you ever think you and Joel will adopt?"

"Adopt?" Alex said with a furrow of her eyebrows. "They could have their own."

"I suppose," she said lightly. No one added the obvious: But there were risks.

Beneath the table, Petunia the pug startled awake with a sudden sneeze. Her little nails clinked against the tiles as she scampered from her napping spot against Corie's ankles. The dog was her closest form of maternal expression. Everyone eyed the animal, but the conversation seemed to strain and lull. No one knew how to respond. After a moment, Corie took a sip of wine from its bell-glass and shrugged. "No. No kids. I don't get them."

"What is there to get?" Bernie asked wondrously.

"Bernie," Joel began before being cut off. It was to be expected. He hadn't completed a full sentence since his Bar Mitzvah and that would have been in jeopardy had it not been for tradition.

"To state the obvious: I'm too old. To state the second-most obvious: I'm too self involved. I would have to stop taking bumps off Joel's ass if I were a mom. It's just not dignified," Corie said. She didn't miss a beat as words rolled dry and grinning over the surface of her tongue.

The liberal group was scandalized. They didn't know whether to laugh or gasp. After a moment, Sam leaned in to knock her fork against her wine glass. Ding, ding. The sound lifted richly off the liquid inside. "Here here!"

[sister_saviour]

Joel woke sprawled open in an empty bed. His arms were flung out, legs dangling from the mattress. Pillows had been left above him, smashed against the headboard. He had no memory of his dreams or the cycle of poses that his body had twisted to in the night. The only thing he knew was that Edie was gone. A hand smoothed over her end of the bed, fingers twisting in the expensive thread count. Her home was a luxurious hide away in the Hollywood Hills. High above the city, they were protected by the treacherous spiral-drive up a craggy road. He was naked. His clothes had been neatly folded the night before into a pile for laundering. His boxers were a haphazard crumple on the side of the bed. Next to him, on a nighstand that was not his, he saw the red flash of his phone.

"Shit," he said as he rolled through the mix-and-match of paternal numbers. He pressed call on his father's name and waited as the phone began to hum alive. Joel pushed himself up the mattress, settling against pillows. It was a strange ritual of comfort. He had grown used to sleeping in this stranger bed. He had adopted the scents and patterns of its owner. Late to bed, late to rise.

"Joel! Where are you? Your mother has been sick. Why did you not tell us you were going to be out of town?" Bernie Martin yelped in greeting as the lines connected. He spoke in paragraphs, great animated blocks of words. "I was just reading the paper last night and your mother told me she had tried to call and you weren't picking up. We even called your cell. Late!"

Joel was trapped. He imagined making up some business trip off the cuff. Worse, he imagined telling them the truth. He felt trapped, like his parents had caught him with one leg out the window and a knot-rope of sheets to climb down. He grunted lamely, fingers knotting against his hair.

"--And this isn't the first time! I can never get ahold of you anymore. You're hiding something! I always can tell when you kids are up to something, but you've never been like your sisters. I thought we were buddies, huh?"

"Bernie," he said with fingers pinching the narrow bridge of his nose. "It's complicated."

"Bah!"

"I'm at a woman's house."

There was silence then. In one fell move, everyone back to start and forced to cope with this new and sudden change. Joel felt relief. He wasn't alone anymore. Instead, he had his closest confidant on the phone and processing. He waited expectantly for any signs of life. Bernie breathed low into the phone, his shock felt. "Good," he said finally. "Good. It's about time. She a nice girl?"

"Sometimes," he laughed.

"Wowie!"

"I met her at Grief Support," Joel said. "So, we both have something in common. Bern, I didn't expect it to happen. I mean, she tried to run me over with her fucking car the first day we met and! She threw a brownie at me."

"Sounds like love," he clucked.

"Or psychosis. You know how I like my women though."

"Yes, Corie was a very lively woman."

"She was, to say the least," Joel said through a flagging grin. His heart still hurt at the name. It tore back a scab and made the daily wound fresh. Better now than later, he supposed.

"And her name?"

"Edie Goldman."