Collateral

  Two stories, actually, or maybe

  a pair of epic poems. “So far, Cole

  has only been assigned to one PDS.”

  Except for deployments, you

  mean. Not like they’d send families

  chasing their soldiers into Iraq

  or Afghanistan. With the coming

  draw-down, who knows where

  he’ll go? Are you ready to follow

  him wherever? Especially if you have

  kids one day? It’s worth thinking about.

  The military is a highly engineered

  machine. It’s only as good as the sum

  of its parts, however, and its parts

  are fragile. But easily replaced.

  Cole, fragile? Not so much.

  But I’m not about to argue

  the point. “Thanks, Mr. Clinger.

  Guess there’s a lot to consider.”

  I START TO TURN AWAY

  Ms. Patterson? Er . . . Ashley?

  You forgot this. He offers me

  Cole’s poem. I’m sorry if I seemed

  unsympathetic. This really is good.

  Tell your boyfriend when he’s done

  defending freedom, he really should

  do something with his writing.

  The tension between us dissolves.

  “Thanks. I’ll be sure to let him know.

  He’ll probably freak that I showed

  it to you, but I really wanted to get

  your opinion.” I reach for the paper

  and our fingers brush, initiating

  a totally unexpected electric jolt.

  Holy crap! What was that? My hand

  jerks back, zapped, and my cheeks react

  with a furious blush—half shame,

  half ridiculous lust for a man who is

  my professor. A man who is several

  years older than I. A man who most

  definitely is not Cole. “S-s-sorry,”

  I stutter. Stupid! What am I, twelve?

  THE REAL QUESTION

  Is, why am I apologizing? And,

  to whom? Mr. Clinger smiles

  at my obvious consternation.

  Oddly, I smile back, despite

  my discomfort at what just

  transpired between us. Or,

  maybe nothing at all did. Maybe

  I imagined the whole thing.

  But I don’t think so. There

  is some weird chemistry here.

  Travel safely, Ashley. Let’s find

  a good time next week for you

  to make up that test. By the way,

  we’re moving to spoken word

  poetry next week. Here . . .

  He scribbles some names on

  a personalized Post-it. If you have

  a few minutes before I see you

  again, check them out on YouTube.

  He offers the paper, and I take it

  gingerly, hope he doesn’t notice

  the way my hand is shaking.

  I glance at what he’s written.

  “Oh, I know Rachel McKibbens

  and Taylor Mali. Alix Olson, too.”

  His grin widens. Of course

  you do. Have a great trip.

  I MANAGE

  To make it through the rest of the day

  without getting turned on by another

  professor. Or fellow student, campus

  policeman, or janitor. To be fair to myself,

  it has been a few months since I’ve seen

  Cole, but I’ve successfully sequestered

  the thought of sex with him, or anyone.

  Until today. But to say what happened

  earlier meant nothing at all would be

  a lie. In that moment, I wanted to fuck

  Mr. Clinger. Jonah. That’s the name

  on the Post-it, above the slam poets.

  Some tiny, niggling splinter of me

  was desperate to fuck Jonah Clinger

  and all the rest of me believes that

  shard is a no-good traitor. And tonight

  that’s what I’m obsessing about.

  Not research. Not writing the paper due

  Wednesday. Not packing bikinis

  and sexy nighties to wear for Cole. Nope.

  Instead, I’m trying to drown every

  recurring image of Jonah in a huge glass

  of Chardonnay. Doesn’t seem to

  be working. Maybe if it was tequila

  I’d have half a chance. Instead, I keep

  flashing back to ice blue (not golden) eyes.

  I need someone to talk to. But who?

  Darian, my forever friend, who’s likely

  dumping her Marine husband for

  a guy who’s definitely dumping his Air

  Force–focused wife? Probably not

  my best choice. My other local friends

  are UCSD students with no military

  ties. I already talked to Sophie today,

  and got her to agree to watch

  my apartment. After all the hype

  I just fed her about needing to see

  the love of my life before he leaves

  for Afghanistan, how could I possibly

  discuss the seedier side of my psyche?

  Brittany, who’s all sass and easy sex,

  no desire for commitment, ever (at least

  until she finds someone actually worth

  committing to?). Another wrong call.

  I PACE THE APARTMENT

  Putting out of place things back

  into place. Tossing stuff that needs

  tossed. Seeking order in disorder.

  I dust. Vacuum. Clean counters,

  sinks, and the toilet. At least when

  I get back from Hawaii, everything

  will be in its place and I can dive

  straight back into my class work

  without having to do this stuff first.

  Finally, I refill my glass. Turn on

  my computer. Cruise over to YouTube

  and some of the best spoken word

  poets in the world. I’m not familiar

  with a couple on this list, but before

  I’m through watching, I will be.

  There is order in this, too. I can read

  my poetry out loud, but this is pure

  performance. Rhythmic. Bold. Passionate.

  Sort of like great sex. The kind I’ll

  have in a couple of days. With Cole

  Gleason. Not Jonah Clinger. Stop it,

  already. I turn off my computer, reach

  for my pen and the notebook I write

  poetry in. Find order in formal verse.

  SLOW BURN

  by Ashley Patterson

  What happens to kisses never kissed—

  those we pretend not to have missed?

  Do they fall from our lips and settle, silt,

  compress into fossils, layered in guilt;

  Do they crumble like wishes, their magic lost,

  or wither and curl, seedlings chewed by frost;

  or perhaps they take flight, buoyant as screams,

  to tempt us again in the heat of our dreams.

  What is the ultimate cost of kisses not kissed?

  What becomes of passion we choose to resist?

  Does it sink like hope on a cloudy morning,

  mire us with doubt, muted forewarning;

  Does it rise from the groin, seeking the brain,

  creeping like quicksilver, vein into vein,

  to bewilder, an answer we cannot discern,

  or smolder, a candle condemned to slow burn?

  What can we say about passion dismissed,

  or the import of kisses consciously missed?

  Scorned passion is truth we’re doomed to forget,

  kisses wasted, the weight of final regret.

  Rewind

  IN THE DAYS

  Right before Cole
shipped out

  for his first Iraq tour, his enthusiasm

  was almost contagious. Almost.

  When he’d call, he’d talk about

  a hundred klicks (military speak

  for kilometers) a minute. Fallujah,

  here we come! Get ready for a major

  ass-whooping. Did you hear about

  that sonofabitch suicide bomber

  at that funeral? Crazy bastard!

  If he harbored the tiniest hint

  of fear, he never confessed it,

  and it never, ever showed. In fact,

  he felt immortal. Untouchable.

  The way he’d been trained to believe.

  Personally, I was thrilled for him.

  Petrified for me. Fallujah.

  I did my research, and it scared

  the crap out of me. When this

  whole Iraq mess started, Fallujah

  was, according to everything I read,

  the “deadliest city” in the country,

  a stronghold of insurgency, and

  who knew, exactly, who the bad

  guys were or where they hid

  their weapons? When coalition

  forces first went in, casualties

  were assumed—and that included

  civilians. Bombs aren’t selective.

  And grenades truly are colorblind.

  Killing women and children

  is not conducive to goodwill.

  It took years to rebuild, and

  by the time Cole arrived in Iraq,

  the corner had been turned.

  That’s what they were saying,

  and I clung to that. Cole and his

  buddies, however, were primed

  for a fight. And that worried me

  more than the very real threat

  of IEDs or stray bullets. The peace

  that had been forged was fragile.

  Depending on who was doing

  the talking, the silence in the streets

  represented a suffocating culture.

  The Iraqi police force was no kinder

  to Fallujah citizens than U.S. soldiers,

  looking for trouble where perhaps none

  lurked. Or perhaps it did. The situation

  was confused, even if it wasn’t chaotic.

  WHEN COLE ARRIVED

  In the Anbar Province, communication

  became less frequent, and actual calls

  were rare. He did send fairly regular e-mails

  from Camp Fallujah’s Internet café.

  At first, they were tinged with excitement.

  YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE THIS PLACE. IMAGINE

  A GHOST TOWN. TOMBSTONE OR SOMETHING.

  ONLY IT’S A GHOST CITY. MOST OF IT HASN’T

  BEEN REBUILT SINCE THE 2004 OFFENSIVE.

  IT LOOKS LIKE A BUNCH OF STONE SKELETONS.

  BUT, SOMEWHERE IN THE GUTS OF THOSE

  RUINS ARE FUCKING INSURGENTS, BUSY

  BUILDING IEDS AND POKING THEIR HEADS

  UP JUST LONG ENOUGH TO TAKE POTSHOTS

  AT US. BY GOD, WE’RE GOING TO SMOKE

  THE MOTHERFUCKERS OUT AND SQUASH

  THEM LIKE HORNETS. AND IF THEY’RE PISSED

  HORNETS, SO MUCH THE BETTER. ON ANOTHER

  NOTE, PLEASE SEND SOUR CANDY AND CIGS.

  DOESN’T MATTER WHAT KIND. I CAN TRADE.

  LOVE YOU. MISS YOU. I’D SAY WISH YOU WERE

  HERE BUT I DON’T. TOO MANY PERVS AROUND.

  AS THE WEEKS WORE ON

  E-mail often became gripe mail.

  The Fallujah action had slowed

  in the months before Cole’s unit

  arrived. Courageous Marines spent

  less time actively being brave and

  more time training Iraqi policemen

  to handle local issues. The city

  had been divided into walled-off

  sections. The locals were required

  to travel by foot and show military-

  issued ID in order to move between

  neighborhoods. As Cole wrote,

  WE MAN CHECKPOINTS AND KEEP

  CURFEWS AND HELP REBUILD

  INFRASTRUCTURE. ALL OF US ARE

  JONESING FOR ACTION. AIN’T HAPPENING.

  He complained a lot that first swing,

  but I was happy to hear casualty

  counts for his unit remained steady

  at zero. Once in a while, an e-mail

  would hint at ugliness. HAD A LITTLE

  EXCITEMENT. CAUGHT TWO DUDES

  TRYING TO PLANT AN IED. WE BLEW

  THAT MOFO SKY HIGH. ALMOST FELT

  SORRY FOR THOSE HAJJIS THOUGH.

  THE IRAQIS HAULED THEM OFF OUT

  OF SIGHT. CAN’T SAY FOR SURE BUT

  I DOUBT THEY MADE IT TO LOCKUP.

  SOME TIME LATER

  I became aware of free press

  stories leaking out of Iraq. Stories

  about detaining Sunni Arabs

  for no other reason than that’s what

  they were, and locking them up for

  months or more, no judge, no jury,

  not even a day in court. Sometimes

  their families didn’t hear of their fate

  for a very long time. Sometimes

  they just disappeared. Other stories

  made it very clear that all the American

  goodwill we saw on videos—delivering

  boxes of food or handing out candy

  to children—was tolerated, not

  celebrated, as we in the U.S. believed.

  Tootsie Pops and MREs hardly

  compensated for destroying

  the Fallujah economy or executing

  its men. Farmers and storekeepers

  often met the same fate as tried-

  and-true insurgents. But, who knew

  who was who? Especially with

  the growing Awakening movement—

  former insurgents bought off by the U.S.,

  in the hopes that three hundred

  dollars a month would temper their

  extremist ways. The Awakening forces

  were paid to patrol neighborhoods,

  help with the rebuilding, and maybe

  do a little spying. It didn’t make them

  love the Americans any more, but

  they didn’t care much for al Qaeda,

  either. In theory, the idea worked well.

  In reality, it was working to a point.

  Except, what if it wasn’t? Iraq is a land

  of tribes, and as more and more sheiks

  signed on to the program, infighting

  was unavoidable. Not only that, but

  with millions in aid pouring in, every

  tribal leader wanted a piece of the pie.

  And, as Cole wrote, WHO KNOWS IF ALL

  THESE DUDES ARE REALLY SHEIKS OR NOT?

  SEEMS LIKE HALF OF WHAT WE DO IS TRYING

  TO FIGURE THAT OUT, OR KEEPING SUNNI

  HAJJIS FROM MURDERING SHIITE HAJJIS OVER

  WHO GETS WHAT. GODDAMN. WHY DON’T

  WE JUST LET THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS KILL

  EACH OTHER AND BE DONE WITH THIS MESS?

  It was a mess, but less a mess than

  before the surge that made it a mess.

  At least, that’s how the brass saw it.

  AN UGLIER MESS WAS BREWING

  In the years since the 2004 siege,

  Fallujah doctors had seen a huge

  swell of infant mortality and serious

  birth defects, including a two-headed

  baby and too many born paralyzed.

  Breast and brain cancers increased

  fourfold, childhood cancers

  twelvefold, and leukemia cases

  skyrocketed to thirty-eight times

  usual levels. Not only the sheer

  numbers, but also the speed of this

  rise was reminiscent of another

&nbs
p; wartime nightmare—Hiroshima.

  Scientists went looking for reasons.

  What they found—evidence of white

  phosphorous, napalm, and uranium

  in civilian neighborhoods—would

  cause enough of a stir that denial

  was useless. The blame rose higher

  than the offices of military brass.

  It went all the way to the boardroom

  of the Commander in Chief and his

  advisors. By that time, the grumbling

  had long since begun that the war

  in Iraq was a sham, a fabrication.

  Six months before the initial invasion,

  Congressman Dennis Kucinich took

  an unpopular stand, saying there was

  no credible evidence Iraq had weapons

  of mass destruction, nor provided aid

  to al Qaeda, either before 9/11 or since.

  And, “Unilateral action against Iraq will cost

  the United States the support of the world

  community.” Eventually, even our staunch

  ally, England, would lose respect.

  I was still in high school then and, though

  I heard plenty of antiwar sentiment

  coming out of my parents’ mouths,

  I had more important things on my mind.

  Cheerleading. Honor choir. My latest crush.

  Those are what I worried about.

  Not invented excuses for a war on

  the other side of the world. I would

  never have predicted it would mean

  one damn thing to me in the future.

  But as that long, gray autumn

  of 2007 wore on, I couldn’t help

  but wonder if what we were accomplishing—

  or not—was worth sending our warriors,

  especially one of them, into harm’s way.

  I COULD BARELY WATCH THE NEWS

  The casualty count kept rising.

  When they added up the number

  of dead U.S. soldiers in December,

  2007 would go down as the deadliest

  year yet in Iraq. Sometimes I didn’t

  hear from Cole for days at a time.

  Though I did my best not to think

  about what that might mean,

  I would flash on possibilities,

  none of them good. I was back in

  school, and at the time still thought

  I’d be an educator, so I was student

  teaching part-time. Nothing like

  helping first graders learn to spell

  and add to lift the focus off oneself,

  at least for a little while. Though

  I didn’t mention it to Cole (a rabid