Collateral

  game

  of war, there are no rules,

  no codes of honor.

  Civility loses all meaning.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  THEY SAY TRUTH

  Is a double-edged sword. I see

  it more like a multibladed gyroscope,

  spinning one direction, then the next,

  with minimum external input.

  I love Darian, with that deep kind

  of best-friend love that forgives

  almost anything. But this . . . goes

  against more than my grain. This

  is contrary to the core of who I am.

  It’s hard to side with Spence’s parents.

  But the purest elements of my belief

  system insist they’re right in wanting

  to take Spencer home to Kansas,

  if and when he can be moved.

  Darian isn’t equipped to nurse him.

  Changing bandages, soaked through

  with body fluids? Not even close

  to her thing. So why does she feel

  the need to push back? Even her mom

  agreed, which is why Darian fumed

  out of the hospital and, instead of

  going home where she could be easily

  located, wound up taking a taxi here.

  His mom insisted I divorce him,

  so she can collect his disability

  money, Dar explains. Can you believe

  she thinks she can dictate something

  like that? I told her any decision

  to divorce was totally up to Spence

  and me, and that it seemed premature

  to plan on collecting any disability.

  “But, Dar, weren’t you going to

  ask Spencer for a divorce anyway?

  I mean, I know this isn’t exactly

  the perfect time, but still . . .”

  I don’t know what I’m going to do,

  Ash! Why does everyone keep

  pressuring me? Anyway, until

  I decide, I need income. I’m entitled

  to Spencer’s paychecks until those stop,

  and his disability or death benefits,

  depending. I’m not giving those away.

  His mother’s just a greedy bitch.

  Who is this person? What did

  my best friend become when I

  wasn’t looking? “Take it easy, Dar.

  I’m just playing devil’s advocate, okay?”

  No! That’s exactly what my mom said.

  She’s supposed to be in my corner,

  and so are you! God, the only one

  I can trust anymore is Kenny.

  “That’s not true. We’ve been

  friends for a long time, Darian.

  I only want what’s best for you.”

  WRONG THING TO SAY

  Her body language is a scream.

  What comes out of her mouth

  is closer to a petulant whine. Shut up!

  You sound just like my mother.

  How do you know what’s best

  for me, if I don’t know it myself?

  Can’t you all just give it some time?

  Can’t you just let me breathe?

  You can’t fight this kind of emotion

  with logic. “I’m sorry, Dar. Of course,

  you need time. Just, please, try to

  understand where we’re coming

  from. I know your mom wants

  to support you, and I do, too.

  Whatever you decide, I’m there

  for you, okay?” I go over to her,

  try to give her a hug. She balls up,

  as if protecting her heart. “Listen.

  I didn’t sleep much last night. I need

  a nap, and I might just sleep through

  until morning. You’re welcome

  to stay as long as you want. And

  just so you know, I love you, Dar.”

  I GO INTO MY ROOM

  Shut the door. Close the blinds.

  Create a dark, safe lair. My bed

  is soft. Warm. Inviting. All I want

  to do is turn off. Slip away. Fade

  into gentle dreams. Why won’t

  my brain cooperate? Scattered

  thoughts litter my pillow. Darian.

  Spencer. The two of them, together.

  Happy, once. Together. His mother,

  demanding they not be together, before

  even knowing for sure he will survive.

  Kenny. Dar. Does that make two

  or three? Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

  You are on the beach, your back

  settling into autumn-warmed sand.

  Surf breaks. Soft. Not so. Loud.

  You should grab your board, accept

  the challenge of big water. The boys

  are out there. And Jonah, calling.

  But it’s nice here, on the cushion

  of sand. Close your eyes. Somewhere

  a door closes. Door? Far, far away.

  You’ll find it later. Pull your pillow

  over your head. Swim. No, float

  upon the midnight sea. Toward winter.

  I DO SLEEP THROUGH

  The night, wake right at dawn,

  starving. I go to the kitchen,

  where Darian has left a note.

  Kenny picked me up. Thanks

  for letting me vent. I know

  you care. And I love you, too.

  I microwave a breakfast sandwich,

  check my phone for messages. Find

  a couple. One from Mom, asking

  if I’ll be home for Thanksgiving.

  Another from Cole, saying his mom

  is thrilled about the engagement.

  A small attack of guilt threatens

  my decent mood. I probably should

  have called to tell my parents

  about the upcoming wedding. In

  a big way, however, I’d rather tell

  them in person. I text Mom to confirm

  my presence at her Thanksgiving

  table. Text Cole, with a tiny white

  lie: MY PARENTS ARE HAPPY, TOO.

  Because, of course, they’ll have

  to be. Not like they have any choice

  in this decision. Or Darian, either.

  THE REST OF THE WEEK

  Is an emotional roller coaster.

  Long, slow ups and belly-twisting

  downs, with plenty of loops to

  keep me guessing. I manage

  to make up missed class work

  and tests. The fieldwork—intake

  at a woman’s shelter—is daunting.

  Some of them run, urged

  by the knowledge that death

  cannot be far behind the regular

  onslaught of callous fists.

  This ain’t their first rodeo.

  Others must be talked into flight.

  They arrive in silent shame,

  the terror, loud in their eyes,

  the only testament to what

  they have escaped. Maybe escaped.

  The ones that rip my heart

  from my chest are the little ones.

  The children, with tangled hair

  and dirty clothes, covering

  their own ugly secrets.

  And all they ask of me

  is shelter, food to warm

  their hollowness,

  a bed free of nightmares.

  They look at me, and through

  me. And it’s hard to tell

  who’s more haunted—

  them or me.

  I DON’T HEAR

  From Dar, which must mean

  good news, though it would

  be nice to know that for sure.

  I’m afraid to call her. Don’t want

  her to think I’m her mother,

  checking on her welfare. I wait

  for her to ge
t in touch with me.

  After three communication-free

  days, I call the hospital directly.

  All they can tell me is that Spencer

  remains in ICU. He’s there, alive.

  That must mean he’s improving.

  At least, that’s what I must believe

  until his wife, my friend, who knows

  more than some receptionist,

  says otherwise. I have faith. And that

  in itself is strange, because I could

  have sworn any personal relationship

  with the Master of Faith had long

  since passed away. Does every strayed

  believer return to faith in times of

  crisis? Does God use that to his advantage?

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  Is the spoken word poetry competition.

  I decided to ride over with Jonah, who

  claims the parking lot is going to be full.

  Somehow, I doubt that. How many high

  school kids are likely to compete? How

  many parents and friends will give up

  a Saturday afternoon to support them?

  The event kicks into gear at one p.m.

  We’re supposed to get there at eleven

  thirty, to go over the judging rules

  and read through the poems ahead

  of time. Jonah knocks on my door

  at ten forty-five. I’m just about ready.

  “Come in. Give me five minutes.” I go

  back to finish brushing my damp hair,

  slip into my well-loved Doc Martens.

  When I exit my bedroom, I find Jonah

  looking at the picture of Cole I keep

  on the end table. It’s a favorite, with

  him in cammie pants and a khaki T-shirt

  which shows off his superbly defined

  biceps and pecs. Jonah smiles. I could

  never be a Marine. He imitates a body

  builder’s pose. They’d laugh me out of there.

  “No one starts out looking like that,

  you know. It’s called conditioning.”

  I go over to him, touch the small

  bulge he has pumped up on one arm.

  “Besides, I kind of like this. It’s cute.”

  When we laugh, it cuts the sudden tension.

  THE SUDDEN SEXUAL TENSION

  Caused by my touching him in

  such a semi-intimate way. Wow.

  Did I really just do that? Again,

  I’m struck by a charge of energy

  that can only be described as desire.

  Our eyes meet, and his inform me

  he feels it, too. In the movies,

  a kiss would come next. But this

  is real life, my life, and I turn away

  instead. “Okay, muscle man, let’s go.”

  I follow him to his car, a newer BMW

  two-seater, midnight blue out,

  silver leather in. “Wow. They must

  pay poetry professors really well.

  I’ve been considering changing

  my course of study, and this reinforces

  that idea. I don’t think too many

  social workers drive BMWs. But, hey.

  Wait a minute. Where do you put

  your surfboard?” I wait as he opens

  the door for me, chuckling. I’ve

  also got a restored ’39 Ford Woodie

  wagon. Plenty of room for a board.

  The Beamer gets better mileage, though.

  A Woodie. Wow. I can definitely

  picture him behind the wheel,

  longish sun-streaked hair tossed

  and crazy from the sea breeze blowing

  in through the open windows.

  Then again, he looks perfectly

  fine behind the wheel of his BMW

  Z4. I watch him shift, admire

  his profile. When he punches the gas

  to merge onto the freeway, my renegade

  eyes are drawn to his slender

  thighs. So, are you really thinking

  about changing your field of study?

  I mean, why social work, when you

  seem so drawn to writing and lit?

  “My BA is in English, and I always

  meant to teach. But so many people

  need help. Volunteering at the VA

  Hospital has shown me that. Working

  at the women’s shelter, too.”

  But you’ve had second, or third

  thoughts? Switching now wouldn’t

  be impossible, but it would be

  expensive, I’m afraid. Personally,

  I think you’d make an amazing teacher.

  “I think I would, too. I’m not

  sure why I keep vacillating. My dad,

  who is underwriting my education,

  is becoming irritated. Of course, he’d rather

  I just get an MBA and forget all this

  ‘service to others crap,’ as he calls

  it. ‘Too little money and even less

  respect,’ he says. Maybe he’s right.

  But there’s more to life than money.”

  HE’S NODDING

  Like he agrees. God, he’s cute

  in profile, and I really wish I’d quit

  thinking about how cute he is.

  Even if I were free, he’s my professor,

  for Pete’s sake. It’s probably not illegal

  to flirt with him. But there’s a high

  probability that it would be frowned

  upon in pretty much every circle.

  What about your mother? Is she

  against your teaching as well?

  “My mom is a high school librarian.

  She has nothing but respect for

  teachers. And, anyway, she supports

  most of my decisions.” It’s like

  he knows exactly what my answer

  will be when he asks, Most?

  I have nothing to hide, nothing

  to apologize for. “Neither of

  my parents is very happy about

  my relationship with Cole. I mean,

  they like him. But they are not

  pro-military at all. My dad actually

  thinks following orders emasculates

  him. My mom has personal reasons.”

  I see, he says, and leaves it there.

  Maybe—or maybe not—because

  apparently we have arrived.

  THE PARKING LOT

  Isn’t overflowing, but we are here

  ninety minutes early, and it is half

  full already. “Wow. Who knew so

  many people liked poetry? I’m

  impressed.” We follow the human

  stream into the gym, where we’re

  directed to the judges’ green room.

  Jonah greets a pretty brunette

  with a kiss to one cheek. My face

  heats, and when he turns to

  introduce me, I hope neither

  of them notice. This is Heather

  Marshall, who teaches English

  here. She’s wholly responsible

  for this event. And this is Ashley

  Patterson, one of my favorite

  students, and a very good poet

  herself. The jealous wave passes

  and Heather hands us a sheaf

  of papers, pointing out the judging

  rubric. Jonah adds a few words

  about what he looks for and I absorb

  all that, despite thinking about poetry

  and changing lives and how teachers,

  not just social workers, do that, and

  about a major shift of direction.

  Rewind

  IF I REALLY WERE TO DISSECT

  My reasoning for choosing

  my grad-school path, I’d probably

  have to start with the way I felt

  after finding Lar
a’s letters. I came

  home from Wyoming, already

  reassessing my life. Changing

  career paths seemed like a brave,

  new start. Until then, social work

  hadn’t even been a consideration,

  but when I went over the SDSU grad

  school web page, that’s where I

  ended up. Psychology had always

  fascinated me and the idea that you

  could manipulate that for the better

  was appealing. There were kids

  at the preschool whose families needed

  interventions. And it was becoming

  clear that so many returning soldiers

  would need services. The damage wasn’t

  always obvious. Sometimes it hid

  for years before surfacing. I wanted

  to help those already home. Those

  coming home soon. One day, Cole

  might even be among them. I wanted

  to be able to recognize the signs, know

  what to do if I saw them. Because,

  as furious as I was with Cole, I really

  needed to believe he loved only me.

  IT WAS A BAD TIME

  For shaky faith. Cole would be

  deploying to Afghanistan in just

  a few months. Meanwhile, he would

  spend some weeks at Pendleton’s

  sniper academy, if that’s what you

  could call the obnoxious tract of

  swampy coastal land he crawled

  through, across, and over. I did get

  to see him on his off-hours, and that

  was crucial to our survival as a couple.

  I needed every fiber of me to believe

  he would come home. Not to Lara, ever.

  Always, to his Ashley. What bothered

  me most was my eroded certainty in

  his code of honor—that intrinsic

  element that had first pulled me to

  him. My inner cynic had long insisted

  that no man truly respected such

  a thing. Cole had changed that for me.

  Or had he? I just wasn’t sure anymore.

  And in that fertile ground of doubt,

  a garden of nightmares took root.

  WAR WIDOWS

  Sometimes pick up the phone, certain

  their man will be on the other end,

  speaking to them from wherever it is

  his spirit now wanders. Sometimes,

  I’m told, they even hear his voice.

  My nightmares were kind of like

  that. Cole would come to me in

  the middle of the night, and even