Collateral

  Present

  AS WILDERNESS

  Oahu must have been incredible.

  So much raw beauty was bound

  to draw humans, intent on messing

  it up completely. First they came

  from neighboring islands—who knows

  how they managed to outrigger all

  that way? Settle in, make the place

  home, and the next thing you know,

  a more advanced people come along,

  conquer you, set up housekeeping

  in the very huts you built! Turnabout

  is fair play, however, because just

  when Group Two thinks everything’s

  coming up pineapples, Captain Cook

  and crew sail into view, carrying

  fabulous stuff like cholera, measles,

  and Jesus. And once white people

  discovered this little corner of heaven,

  next thing you know, relatively speaking,

  it’s high-rises on top of volcanoes,

  strip clubs peddling a lot more

  than leis, concrete, and asphalt

  choking sand, and jet fuel blowing

  in the breeze. Honolulu represents

  the worst of all that. Yet every time

  I fly in, anticipation begins to build

  just about the time I think I’ll go crazy,

  stuffed into a narrow airliner seat

  between honeymooners and retired

  couples looking for Shangri-La.

  I’d like to tell them to hold on tight

  to that person beside them, because

  that’s where they’ll find paradise.

  It is not a beach or a palm tree grove

  or the brim of a smoking black crater.

  It’s a plateau inside their hearts, one

  that can only be reached in tandem.

  And as the plane circles to land,

  I draw closer to my Wyoming mesa,

  not so very far from me now. Wonder

  what he’s doing right this minute.

  Cleaning his weapon? Scrubbing latrines?

  Running laps or lifting weights?

  In my mind, he is a snapshot, frozen

  in time. I don’t picture him in motion.

  Wonder if he’s imagining me—our last

  time together, where I am at this moment.

  How I’ll look when he sees me. What I’ll be

  wearing. If I’ve cut my hair or lost a few

  pounds. Do men even think that way?

  The jet bumps down on the tarmac.

  Some people sigh relief. Others laugh.

  Not a few are already on their cell phones.

  Conversation picks up, speeds up.

  We are safe on the ground in Honolulu.

  People collect their things, prepare

  to join tours or embark on self-guided

  adventures. Few except me arrive solo.

  NO LEI AWAITS ME

  No soldier, either. I won’t see Cole

  till tonight, after his workday ends

  and he can drive the fifteen or so miles

  from the base to me. Meanwhile,

  I’ll catch some sun. Cole doesn’t care

  much for the beach here. Says the sand

  is filthy. Dirtied by tourists and their trash.

  Maybe. But it’s warm this time of year,

  unlike San Diego sand. I plan on a nice,

  long walk, a little warm ocean swimming

  and time to sit, doing nothing but watch

  the surf break. I grab a cab to the Waikiki

  hotel Cole suggested we try, an affordable

  high-rise two blocks from the ocean.

  As affordable goes, it isn’t bad. At least,

  the lobby is well kept and the desk

  clerk—Sherry—seems friendly. When

  I give her my credit card and ask to leave

  a key for Cole, she smiles. Marine wife,

  huh? We’ve had a few check in today.

  I could correct her on my marriage

  status. Instead I just smile back.

  “They’re deploying soon. Again.”

  The tone was sadder than I expected.

  “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

  Sherry shakes her head. I’ve got one,

  too. But mine’s coming home soon.

  He’s transitioning into the Reserves

  then. It will be weird, having him

  around on a regular basis.

  I nod. “You kind of get used to being

  alone. The waiting is hard sometimes,

  though. I wish Cole and I could have

  a little more time together before

  he has to go, but he used up most

  of his leave last summer. His mom

  was really sick, and . . .” I realize

  I’m running my mouth. Shut it

  before too much personal stuff spills

  out all over this total stranger. “Sorry.”

  Sherry smiles understanding. Hey,

  no apologies. I’ve been there.

  Tell you what . . . She consults her

  computer. I’ll upgrade you to a room

  on the water side. Very romantic.

  I thank her, carry my small bag up

  to the room, and before I change, text

  Cole: IN THE HOTEL. OUR ROOM IS UP

  HIGH, ON THE PACIFIC SIDE. I CAN SEE

  THE WATER FROM HERE. LOVE YOU.

  HE WON’T GET THE MESSAGE

  Until he gets off duty. But I want him

  to know he’s the first thing I thought

  about when I arrived. I open the sliding

  glass door. Step out on the balcony. Salt

  wind blows warm through my hair, weaves

  it with the potpourri of plumeria, jasmine,

  diesel exhaust, and streets wet with recent

  downpour. One day I’ll explore the other

  islands, inhale the tropical air outside

  of this city. Cole and I never seem to

  have enough time to do that when I visit.

  I add it to my bucket list, go back inside.

  I slip into the purple bikini Darian

  sent to Hawaii with me—her excuse

  to put Kenny and me in the same place

  at the same time. She got what she came

  for. Manipulator. I do love the swimsuit,

  though. The full-length mirror says

  I’ve dropped some weight. Can’t imagine

  why. But it does look good on me.

  Regardless, I cover up my midsection

  with a short pink shift. Tie back my hair.

  Off I go. It’s really lovely outside. Not too

  hot. The rain has raised a gentle steam.

  It wraps around me as I walk along

  the quiet sidewalk. Late October lies

  between the heaviest tourist seasons.

  The street vendors are voracious.

  THEY TURN AGGRESSIVE

  As I pass by, moving

  toward me and shouting,

  Discount tickets!

  Sunset cruises!

  Learn to surf!

  Pearl Harbor bus tours!

  Best luau on Oahu, guaranteed!

  A massive Samoan guy

  in a loud Hawaiian shirt

  shoves a coupon into my hand.

  That gets you in, no cover,

  at the Pink Cherry Club. Single

  women are always welcome.

  I keep walking and a greasy-

  haired haole drops in beside me,

  meters his steps to match mine.

  Hey there, pretty lady.

  You here all by yourself?

  Want some company?

  I lower my head, shake

  it. The negative answer

  doesn’t discourage him.

  How about some pakalolo?

  Best green bud in Wa
ikiki.

  Give you an awesome deal.

  I DECLINE

  With a quiet, “No, thank you.”

  But when I speed up a little,

  he does, too. So I brake to a halt.

  He comes around in front of me,

  looks into my eyes, and I can’t help

  but notice his pupils are completely

  dilated. When he opens his mouth,

  the condition of his teeth confirms

  my suspicion that he is into much

  more than weed. Don’t want to go

  down? I can take you up. Way up.

  He reaches into his pocket, extracts

  a small plastic bag. Asian ice. Pure

  as it comes. One little hit keep you

  going for days. His breath, when he

  exhales, smells like rotten cabbage.

  It makes me gag, and for the first time

  a small rush of fear lifts the hair

  on the back of my neck. I shove it

  aside. We are on a public sidewalk,

  within rock-tossing distance of one

  of the most populous beaches in

  the world. He’s not going to hurt

  me here. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

  What? You don’t like me? He grabs

  my arm, jerks it, gives a strange,

  little laugh and it strikes me that this

  man is totally out of his head. I try to

  remember the limited self-defense

  moves I know, when he suddenly

  releases my arm and without

  a word, slinks off, a weasel into

  the shadows. I turn to see what

  spooked him—a hulking cop,

  double-timing toward and now

  past me. Looks like he’s after the ice

  man, who’s obviously a known

  quantity. All of a sudden, walking

  the beach by myself—even with plenty

  of other people around—has lost

  its appeal. I look up at the hotel

  in front of me. The flamingo pink

  Royal Hawaiian. It’s a Waikiki

  landmark. Old. Beautiful. Safer

  than the sidewalk. I duck inside,

  cut through the lobby, to the alfresco

  Mai Tai Bar. Find a quiet table,

  overlooking the ocean. As close

  to the sand as I want to be until

  I have Cole by my side. A nice-looking

  waiter brings me a drink menu.

  I open it with tremulous hands.

  Pina Colada? Not strong enough.

  Blue Hawaiian? Too sweet. Sex

  on the Beach? Really don’t think

  so. I order the bar’s namesake drink.

  Rum, liqueur, fresh juice, and more rum.

  That works for me. I sip mai tais

  and watch the surf for almost two hours,

  accomplishing one-third of my plan.

  I CONSIDER LEAVING

  A couple of times. But, oddly enough,

  rather than fortify my courage,

  the alcohol only bolsters my fear.

  Afternoon segues to early evening, and

  I might just keep on sitting here,

  except I get a call. Hey, sweetheart.

  Where are you? I’m at the hotel.

  And what did you tell the lady

  at the desk? She was damn nice.

  “I told her you were a little off,

  so she’d better tread carefully.

  I’m at the Royal Hawaiian, and

  starving. Come find me?” No

  hesitation at all, he demands,

  What’s wrong? Is he psychic?

  Can he tell I’m buzzed? I don’t know,

  but when I try to deny, he says,

  I can hear it in your voice, Ashley.

  “Everything’s fine. I promise.

  What do you want to drink?

  It’ll be here when you get here.

  And I’m buying, soldier.”

  It takes a half-hour for him

  to shower, change into civvies,

  and walk over. By the time

  he gets here, a double scotch

  on the rocks is waiting for him.

  Much more patiently than I.

  WAITING FOR A SOLDIER

  Is never easy. Whether he’s gone

  off to war, or on duty at home.

  But there is nothing quite like

  that much-anticipated moment

  when you first set eyes on him again

  after so much time apart. When love

  connects you, it’s like your heart

  draws you to him, though distance

  eclipses the space between you.

  And when he’s close, no way could

  you miss him, not even when he’s clear

  across a crowded bar. I spot him

  the moment he steps through

  the doorway, and before I have

  the chance to wave, he has seen me,

  too. That must be what they mean

  by “heartstrings.” Only ours are more

  like heart cables, near impossible

  to sever. Despite all the activity,

  he reaches me in four long strides

  and lifts me into his arms; we kiss

  with the knowledge of Eden.

  I can feel people staring, but hardly

  care. For these few perfect seconds,

  every minute without him is ground

  into dust, left for the sea breeze

  to blow into memory. “I love you,”

  I breathe into his mouth. “I love you.”

  IT HAS BEEN ONLY

  A couple of months since I last saw him.

  But it feels borderline forever. We sit

  very close and under the table my leg

  is hooked around his. Touch is what

  we need to catch up on, not gossip about

  our family or friends. We discuss them

  regularly, long distance. Of course, a few

  questions are expected—how’s his mom,

  who’s slowly recovering from meningitis?

  (Answer: Better, though she’s lost some

  hearing.) Or, have I heard from my little

  brother, who’s backpacking Europe?

  (Answer: Yes, and he’s found a girlfriend

  so he’s staying for a while.) It’s so lovely here,

  we decide to hang out and order a seafood

  pizza to go with our drinks, which keep

  coming. I’ve lost count of how many,

  but the fuzz which has sprouted inside

  my skull is a decent clue. It actually

  doesn’t feel so bad until, uncomfortably,

  the conversation turns to Darian.

  How’s she doing? I heard from Spence.

  He’s a little freaked out. She doesn’t

  return his calls. Do you know why?

  I know it’s an innocent question.

  But how am I supposed to answer

  it honestly without betraying her

  trust? An unpleasant high-tension

  wire buzzing starts in the hollow

  behind my lower jaw. “No clue.”

  Cole takes a bite of pizza. Chews.

  Doesn’t swallow before he says,

  He thinks she’s messing around.

  A few crumbs escape his mouth.

  Disgusting. The buzz volume increases.

  “Really? Why would he think that?”

  He shrugs. Sips his drink, chasing

  the food down his throat. I’m not

  sure, hon. Maybe he’s just paranoid.

  For some stupid reason, the “hon”

  irritates me. For some stupider reason,

  I actually say, “Maybe he deserves it.”

  Cole’s mouth drops open. Glad

  it’s empty. His cool yellow eyes

  measure me. No man deserves that. r />
  No man deserves that? I need to shut

  up. Can’t. “Not even a man who hits

  his wife?” The buzz swells, fills my head.

  FIVE MINUTES AGO

  Everything was perfect. How could

  it turn so bad so fast? I suspect it has

  something to do with the alcohol,

  this avalanche toward all-out verbal

  battle. Is that what she told you?

  Did she happen to mention the rest?

  “The rest! What rest? Wait. You knew?

  And you never said anything?”

  Would you have said something

  if I hadn’t brought it up first?

  I hate when he uses logic to turn

  things on me. The couple at the next

  table stands up abruptly. The lady

  tosses a nervous glance in our direction,

  right before they hustle toward the exit.

  I lower my voice, fight to keep it steady,

  attempting my own reverse logic.

  “So, tell me, Cole. What is the rest?”

  I’m surprised you don’t know. Darian

  was pregnant with Spence’s baby.

  She got rid of it while he was gone.

  He only found out because they got

  drunk and she confessed the whole

  story, just to hurt him. It worked.

  Oh, my God. Darian, how could

  you? The far side of the tale comes

  around to shade the beginning gray.

  Why are things never black and

  white? My stomach lurches. Still,

  “But that’s no excuse for violence.”

  Cole snorts. Violence doesn’t need

  an excuse. And sometimes it’s called for.

  I’m getting pissed all over again.

  “Against women? As bad as that was,

  Darian didn’t deserve to get hit. I suppose

  you think rape is deserved sometimes, too?”

  He is quiet much too long. Finally,

  he says, I think maybe it can be.

  The buzz becomes an explosion.

  “Seriously? What if I told you today . . .”

  I relate the cabbage-man story, doing

  my level best not to slur words. Or cry.

  Obviously the guy was disturbed.

  And considering how you’re dressed . . .

  I stand. Pick up my drink. Let it fly.

  Rewind

  COLE AND I DON’T ARGUE

  Often. In fact, we’ve had only a few

  disagreements, and even fewer that

  led to serious exchanges of anger-

  driven words. I’ll never forget any

  of them, especially the first. It was

  going into the Christmas holiday