Collateral

though I knew he wasn’t really there,

  he was. We would talk about life—

  his, mine. Ours, together. We would

  plan. Remember. Commiserate.

  When he touched me, my skin grew

  warm. When he kissed me, he wetted

  my lips. When he made love to me,

  orgasm came easily. And it was real.

  The nightmare was waking up, sure

  he was there, and not finding him

  beside me. When he finally went

  off to Afghanistan, the dreams grew

  scarier. Sometimes when he came

  to me, he would describe a kill

  in all its gore and glory. Sometimes,

  he would show me the shrapnel-

  strewn landscape. Once in a while,

  when he talked, his voice sounded

  foreign. And on more than one occasion,

  he tried to kiss me without a mouth,

  because he was missing half of his face.

  THAT IMAGE

  Must have come from one of the many

  video clips I watched about the war.

  Okay, it wasn’t a brilliant thing to do,

  but I wanted to know what he would

  be facing in Helmand Province.

  It became something of an obsession.

  Truthfully, as Cole’s third deployment

  approached, I was more afraid than

  ever before. Afghanistan wasn’t Iraq.

  Fed by al Qaeda, the Taliban claimed

  much of the country, teaming with

  the drug trade in the poppy-rich land.

  There was more money there, more

  resources, and a deep-seated hatred

  of the American infidels. Used to war-

  fare and shifts of power, the Afghan

  farmers simply went with the flow,

  tending their crops and pretending

  friendship to whomever wandered

  their fields with weapons. Charged

  with identifying insurgents, detaining

  or removing them, American soldiers

  might have been better equipped

  than their enemies. But they were dying.

  WE DIDN’T KNOW IT THEN

  Of course, but 2010 would prove

  to be the most deadly of the war

  up until that point. All I knew in

  the few months leading up to

  Cole’s deployment was the casualty

  counts were high. Rising. President

  Obama had ordered thousands more

  troops into the region. Cole was one

  of those troops. And he was raring

  to go. I flew to Hawaii to say good-bye.

  He could only give me a few hours.

  And, though I understood, it made

  me incredibly sad. Made me angry,

  because his excitement eclipsed

  my disappointment. He was leaving,

  and I didn’t want to let him go. I stood

  glued to him, kissing him as if I had

  some sort of insider knowledge

  that he would not return all in one

  piece. He dismissed my fear.

  How many times must I promise

  that I will always come home

  to you? I love you. And that’s

  a magical force field, all around me.

  But then he had to go. When he tore

  himself out of my arms, I thought

  I heard the chink of a new crack

  in our plaster. Splintering hope.

  THE CHASM WIDENED

  With the dearth of communication.

  The battalion was split by company,

  and moved to different operating bases

  within the Helmand Province.

  Conditions, according to the battalion

  newsletter, were “spartan,” computers

  only available at a few locations. The men

  would rotate between them, and a satellite

  phone would get passed around, but

  we were told to expect long periods

  without hearing from our soldiers.

  On top of that, “River City” often denied

  communication. This happened when

  a secret operation was in the works,

  or if there was a casualty, to allow

  time for the family to be notified

  before the press could get wind of it.

  And there were casualties, and the press

  let us know, sometimes with photos

  of flag-draped coffins. As I finished

  my senior year, my BA mattered

  a whole lot less to me than knowing

  I wouldn’t spend an afternoon

  in Arlington National Cemetery,

  mourning for my beloved Marine.

  I SPENT A LOT OF JUNE

  Combing the desert, as if navigating

  California’s heat-shimmering sand

  could somehow bring me closer

  to Cole. I even borrowed his truck

  from Uncle Jack, who seemed to

  understand my growing obsession.

  I did not chase rabbits, though

  they were plentiful enough. I did

  pick late wildflowers, pre-annual

  wilt. Determined to avoid any echo

  of the summer before—no Jaden-

  type temptation—I didn’t go out

  much. In fact, I became quite

  the hermit. My only real human

  contact was at my job, where

  most of that was with young kids,

  who I did not have to worry about

  crushing on. I did take a special

  interest in one little girl. Soleil

  was extremely quiet, and had a hard

  time making eye contact. It took a lot

  of work, but when I won enough

  trust to be able to push her on

  the swings, it felt like a real victory.

  COLE FINALLY CAUGHT UP

  With me at home, via sat phone.

  It had been some seven weeks

  since I’d heard a word, and when

  the call finally came, the words

  I heard were disturbing. Not:

  The Afghani people are so happy

  we’re here. They say they’ll feel

  safer with us patrolling their fields.

  More like: Bastards can’t even

  thank us for keeping their women

  and kids safe. Probably wish

  they’d die so they don’t have to

  feed them. I’m not allowed to tell

  you what all kind of patrols we’re

  doing. Suffice it to say we’ve wiped

  our fair share of Taliban assholes

  off the face of the earth. Praise Allah.

  Lost a good buddy last week, though.

  Motherfucking IED. I swear I’ll get

  the guy who did it and if not him,

  his brother or father or fucking

  grandfather. Sight. Lock in. BLAM!

  Oops, there goes another hajji head.

  Hey. I have to go. Keep the home

  fires burning. I love you, Ash.

  And he was gone. The voice

  of a ghost. I didn’t even get to tell

  him I loved him, too. So I sent that

  off in a letter. Hoped it reached him.

  CLOSE TO MORNING

  A noise brought me up out of sleep.

  Was it a door? My bedroom door?

  I couldn’t quite tell. Wasn’t exactly

  awake. So I stayed very still. In

  the silence came the whisper

  of feet. “Who’s there?” I asked,

  but when I tried to see, the room

  was empty except for the sound

  of footsteps, soft and sinking into

  the carpet. I wanted to move but

  crushing fear kept me pressed

  ag
ainst the mattress. “Go away!”

  It came out barely a whisper.

  The foot of the bed compressed,

  as if someone had dropped there

  on their hands and knees. I saw

  no one, and yet the presence—

  ghost?—came crawling toward me.

  I tried to scream, but the weight

  of something invisible and needy

  fell against my body, cutting off

  all sound. “No!” I tried. “No.”

  I choked on the “n.” Then a hand

  covered my mouth and the thing

  whispered, I love you, Ash. I’ll

  always come back to you. This

  time noise escaped my mouth—

  the high, anguished keen of a new

  widow. I woke, certain Cole had

  just returned for a final good-bye.

  SOMETHING INVISIBLE

  Lurks there, just this side

  of the battlefield, at the fringe

  of the poppy field. If I were

  a romantic, I might call it

  evil

  but that would signal intent.

  It’s more like invitation,

  a test of will. It is what

  remains

  when hyenas and buzzards

  have finished their work,

  picked the bones

  clean, and it

  calls

  with the voice of the siren,

  the song of wind-tossed

  sand. It is a ripple

  of enlightenment, teasing

  the weak

  into its embrace

  and squeezing the air

  from their lungs, pressing

  them to their knees

  to worship.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  SPOKEN WORD POETRY

  Is an amazing experience. First

  of all, the gym fills up completely.

  As Jonah and I take our seats

  at the judges’ table, I whisper,

  “This is like the American Idol

  of poetry. Why are they all here?

  Only twenty-six kids are performing.”

  He smiles. Some teachers give

  extra credit. And some kids

  strong-arm their friends. No

  one wants to be the only one

  who doesn’t get cheered for.

  That is not a problem. Everyone

  cheers as each poet finishes

  reciting a memorized piece.

  Some are more theatrical, but

  that doesn’t necessarily make

  for the best performance. In fact,

  we’re supposed to deduct points

  if theatrics outweigh the correct

  interpretation of the piece. I’m glad

  I know most of these poems, and

  understand the poets’ intent.

  Still, seeing them in this way

  brings a deeper meaning. I love

  it. A few kids definitely rise to

  the top. We narrow it to five, ask

  them to perform again so we can

  rank them. The winner will go

  on to represent San Diego at

  the state level. There are five

  of us judging, and our scores

  are averaged. The girl who finishes

  first totally rocked it. “Thanks for

  inviting me to do this,” I tell

  Jonah, once we’ve wrapped it up.

  “If you ever need another judge

  for one of these, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

  These kids have such great energy.”

  How’s your energy? I’d love to take

  you to dinner. To thank you. And

  then, if you’re not too tired, there’s

  a slam downtown tonight. Have you

  ever been to one? If you enjoyed

  this, you’ll go crazy over that.

  I should say no. But he’s so sweet,

  and I am hungry. And I’ve never

  been to an actual slam, though

  I’ve always meant to go to one. Oh,

  why not? It’s Saturday, and all I’ll

  do is go home and wonder what

  Cole’s up to. So I say, “I’d like that.”

  HE CHOOSES AN UPSCALE STEAKHOUSE

  I’ve never eaten here. Too pricey

  for my budget. But I’ve heard

  about it. The décor is simple

  dark wood, polished so it glows

  in the low light. Brass and crystal

  embellishments add glitter.

  It’s early yet, but the place hums.

  “Are you sure we can get in?”

  He grins. I was an Eagle Scout,

  you know, and I live by the motto,

  “Always be prepared.” I made

  a reservation. Hoping you’d say yes.

  We wait only a few minutes before

  the maître d’ escorts us to a table

  in back. Jonah pulls out the chair

  for me, more gentleman than explorer.

  “Were you really an Eagle Scout?”

  You betcha. He sits across from me,

  stretching his long legs toward mine,

  the warmth of them obvious, even

  without contact. My dad signed me up

  for Cub Scouts the day I turned seven.

  I glance at his hair, which hangs

  straight down to his collar.

  My expression must change

  because he says, What? You

  don’t think I look like a scout?

  I think my feelings are hurt.

  But he laughs, so he must be

  joking. Why is it so hard to tell?

  Maybe because Cole is always

  so serious. And why must I over-

  think everything, anyway?

  The waiter arrives to take our

  drink order. Red wine okay? I nod,

  so he orders an expensive Napa

  Valley cabernet. The waiter seems

  pleased. So, what looks good?

  I scan the menu. Oh, my God.

  How much do college professors

  make? “I, uh . . . don’t know. Maybe

  a dinner salad?” Maybe just water.

  Hey, now. I didn’t ask you to

  go dutch, you know. You’re not

  a vegetarian, are you? All the beef

  here is locally raised and hormone

  free. I suggest the blackened filet.

  I refuse to look at the price.

  I haven’t had a really brilliant

  steak for a long time. “I’ll take

  your word for it. Sounds good.”

  Back comes the waiter, plus wine.

  He opens it, invites Jonah to taste.

  Very good, thanks. Once our glasses

  are poured, Jonah orders our meals.

  Filets, medium for me, rare for himself.

  Baked potatoes. Salads with balsamic.

  I’M ALWAYS JUST

  The slightest bit suspicious when a guy

  seems to intuit things like the way

  I like my steak cooked, or that balsamic

  is my favorite dressing. He looks at me

  for approval, of course. What can I do,

  but give it? “Did you do a background

  check on me? Or maybe you’ve been

  peeking in my windows?” The thought

  makes me blush. I’m glad it’s dark

  in here. “Or, are you just psychic?”

  No background checks and not

  psychic. I’ll keep you guessing

  about the windows. Um, but if

  I were a betting man, I’d say

  blinds, not curtains. At my raised

  eyebrows, he laughs. I’m just good

  at assessing people. You watch

  your weight. Balsamic. You have taste

  but are conservative. Medium
beef.

  Okay, I like that he thinks I watch

  my weight. Not much, but whatever.

  I have taste. Good. But the conservative

  thing bugs me. “Wait a minute.

  I’m one hundred percent progressive.”

  Really? Not sure how I missed that.

  A dedicated liberal would be hard

  pressed to give up her dreams to make

  other people happy. Don’t get mad.

  That’s only what you’ve told me.

  HE’S INFURIATING

  But only because this little voice

  keeps whispering, “He’s right.”

  Okay, I’ve told him more than

  I should have. Given him insights

  few enough even care to know.

  What is it about him that makes

  me want to expose my innermost

  eccentricities? Did I just think

  of myself as eccentric? Damn it.

  He’s eccentric. I mean, he teaches

  poetry, at a university. Does he have

  a PhD in poetry? What does that take?

  And why does he have to be so freaking

  intriguing? Okay, I really must chill.

  The best defense is a solid offense.

  I’m ready to spar. “So, how did an Army

  brat end up teaching poetry? What did

  your parents have to say about that?”

  You know, I blame my mom. All that

  Dr. Seuss got me completely hooked.

  He’s funny. And totally charming.

  “No, really. I’m being serious.”

  So am I. Growing up, we didn’t have

  a lot of things because we moved

  pretty often and Mom hated all that

  packing and unpacking. But she was

  a rabid book lover, and insisted on

  reading out loud to my brothers and me.

  Wherever we went, one of our first

  stops was always the library. Books

  were our entertainment. Books, and

  BB guns. That was pretty much it.

  The salads come and the waiter

  refills our glasses. I wait until

  he’s finished before I ask Jonah,

  “How many brothers do you have?”

  I had three. But I lost one four years

  ago. In Fallujah. The other two

  are still in the Army. Lifers, like Dad.

  They used to tease that I must have

  been adopted because I just never

  had an interest in artillery. I was,

  in fact, born a pacifist. A hippie gene

  must have snuck in there somewhere.

  CONVERSATION SLOWS

  As we eat our salads—the dressing