Collateral (21 page)

where we'll live?” It vaguely creeps

me out that he's thought so much

about this without consulting me.

Well, sure. It's just, I want us to

start out ahead of the game. Mom

could use some help, and Dale

made sure the ranch was paid for.

Cole's stepfather passed away last

April, leaving his mom alone again.

No rent would be a good thing, right?

I can't exactly argue with that.

“Well, sure. And, hey, we've got lots

of time to work out all the details.”

Comforts me the rest of the day. Cole

had that all worked out, too. After

our bubbly-soaked afternoon, rather

than risk driving back to Honolulu,

he has us booked at a bed-and-breakfast–

type room here on the North Shore.
Nothing

fancy, and we have to share a bathroom,

but it's just overnight.
We make the best

of it, and the celebration continues

with local mahi burgers, the last bottle

of champagne, and Cole's crazy idea

for dessert—banana cream pie, using

our bodies as plates. I shudder to think

what sort of magazine or movie might

have made him come up with that.

But I have to admit it's kind of fun,

especially since I don't have to wash

the sheets. The bed is a small double,

and after we finish, we lie sticky (in more

ways than one) in each other's arms.

It will be our last night together

for several months. So we don't waste

a lot of time sleeping. Toward morning,

totally spent, Cole dozes. I'm wasted tired

but the tornado of thoughts twisting

inside my head defeat sleep for me.

By checkout time, shadows semicircle

my eyes and I'm mostly incoherent.

Have done wonders for Cole,

and he chatters all the way back

to the Waikiki hotel. We return

via the East Shore route, which

takes us past Kaneohe Bay.

The base sits on a jut of land

surrounded by ocean. “You know,

some people would kill to work

in a place like this,” I observe.

Some people have.
The offhand

comment bears a lot of weight.

It's more like many men, and maybe

even a few women stationed here

have taken lives. Innocent people,

no doubt, dropped right along with

deserving insurgents. “Does it ever

bother you? The death?” I've avoided

prodding him for details. Once in a while,

my curiosity won't leave me alone.

Not when I'm over there. Death

is a part of the landscape. Dead dogs,

dead donkeys. Dead camels. Dead

people. The only thing you don't get

used to is the fucking bloat-rot smell.

He steers around a pothole.
When

I get home, the memories get to me

once in a while. You see things . . .

the things humans do to each other

sometimes are downright sickening.

“I can only imagine.” Not that I

want to. Except I have this morbid

need to understand. “Even guys

you know?” I expect him to deny

it. Unfortunately, he doesn't.

Oh, yeah. Even guys I know. One

time, I saw an MP let his dog go

on a prisoner. A kid, really. Maybe

sixteen. He acted all tough, but not

for long. After the fourth or fifth

chomp, his thigh looked like sausage.

When the dog aimed for his personal

sausage, the kid talked.
Cole laughs,

with neither malice nor genuine humor.

Not sure his information was any good,

though. If I were that boy, and someone

sic'd his dog on my huevos, I would

have come up with some information,

accurate or not. It is a problem with

that particular method of interrogation.

Cole seems so comfortable talking,

I decide to try a more direct approach.

“So, you're saying the boy was innocent?”

This time derision laces his laughter.

Nope. I'm not saying that at all. No one

over there is innocent. Every single one

of them is guilty of wanting us dead.

He almost sways me. I haven't been

“over there,” so it's hard for me to

dispute his obviously heartfelt opinion.

However, his callousness remains, and

maybe always will, a wedge between us.

Because I simply can't
not
believe that

a common string of humanity ties me—

us—to the Iraqi and Afghani people. Some

of them are hell-bent to serve evil, yes. But

so are plenty of Westerners. Hard to tell

who is who sometimes. And when one

of the ones you're unsure about is someone

you love—uh, someone you just agreed

to marry—things get really watery.

Arguing would serve no purpose, though.

Maybe asking this question won't, either.

But I'm going to, anyway. “Have you done

things over there that you're not proud of?”

Everyone has, Ashley. It goes with

the territory. You get bored, you get

scared, you go looking for an outlet.

But the thing is, for the most part,

I can sleep just fine at night. Not

everyone I know can say that.

And I'm not really sure I want him to,

so I lean back in the seat, close my eyes.

Next thing I hear is the sound of a city

bus shifting gears. I jump awake right

about the time Cole maneuvers the Jeep

into a tight parking space. “You're good

at that.” My voice is husky from sleep.

I'm good at a lot of things, as I would

hope you know by now.
He glances

at his watch.
I have to be back on base

by five. It's a little after three now.

Are you hungry, or . . . ?
We agree

to the “or.” It will be the last time for

many months, so we take special care

to make it memorable. I even wear

my engagement ring, though I have

to put it on my middle finger so it

doesn't fall off. By the time we finish,

exhaustion has claimed me—muscles,

bones, brain. I want food, but I need

sleep more. I sit against the headboard,

watching Cole get dressed. “Did anyone

ever tell you how graceful you are?”

Like a gazelle—built to escape death.

Uh, no. And I hope that isn't in

any way questioning my manhood.

Somehow, I doubt it. He comes over.

Kisses a bittersweet good-bye.
I'll be back

before you know it. I love you.

Behind him, leaves me here,

counting tears. They brim, fall,

splat in syncopated rhythm.

The door is closed. Cole is gone.

I will never get used to this.

Hollowed. Emptied. Drained.

I put the pillow over my head.

Inhale the darkness, pungent

with the smell of Cole's sweat

and our sex. How
would
it be

to see him every day? Is it even

possible that we can be a regular

married couple, both of us off

to work in the morning. Dinner

at home together each night?

And children. Babies? Am I

the only girl my age who hasn't

thought about having a family?

I'm still figuring out what I want

to be when I grow up. Wife and

mother is not at the top of my list.

Then again, neither is childless

spinster. It's just too much to think

about right now. Sleep deprived.

That's what I am. Once I'm rested,

the answers will come easier. Right?

So many crystals of sand, reflecting

the high, hot sun. No shade to speak of,

no shelter from the inexorable heat

lifting off the rutted street. Footsteps

slap behind me. I turn, ready to fight.

No one. The sidewalk is empty. Silent.

Where am I? I'm hungry, and looking

for the marketplace. Did I take a wrong

turn? I walk faster but don't know

which way to go, and there's no one

here to ask for help. Suddenly, I hear

yelling. Dogs barking. Laughter. The noise

is to my right. I follow it down a deserted

avenue. And now I see kennels. Men.

Soldiers. Standing in front of wire

enclosures. Laughing. “Hello?” I call,

but they can't hear me past the barking.

Snapping. And now, someone is crying.

Praying. I reach the first pen. Two soldiers

stand back, let me look inside. A boy

is chained there, on his knees. Naked.

A huge Doberman is mounting him.

And the soldiers laugh. “Bastards!”

I run along the chain link, eyes in front

of me. Suddenly, a German shepherd

lunges at its gate. When I turn, I see

it has something in its mouth. Red

drool drips, and the dog bites down,

crunching bones. “Drop it!” I scream,

and the shepherd obeys. What falls

to the ground is a hand. A lady's hand.

On its third finger is a diamond ring.

“No, no, no, no!” The keen of my own

voice yanks me from the nightmare.

Pale light leaks in through the window.

Evening? Morning? I lie, panting like

the dogs in my dream. My stomach

growls and I reach for my cell to check

the time. Seven eighteen. Morning.

I slept for fifteen hours. No wonder

I'm starving. I put the phone back on

the table and when I do, the glint

of a two-carat diamond catches my eyes.

All of a sudden, I don't feel so hungry.

I clean up, get dressed, and start

to pack, I'm famished again.

Checkout is eleven. My flight,

barring delays, is a little after one.

I've got time for room service.

I think about steak and eggs.

Order an omelet instead. Cheese.

Spinach. Onions. Bell peppers.

No meat. While I wait, I organize

my suitcase. Cosmetics in the middle.

Running shoes at the bottom. Tank tops,

shifts, and shorts, folded in fourths,

placed around the sides. Flat over

all, the sweater I brought, just in case.

I've never needed to use it here.

But what if I did, and didn't have it?

Breakfast arrives and I eat it

out on the lanai, watching white-

tipped Pacific waves break gently

in the distance. That same ocean

is breaking against California

cliffs and sand. Connecting here

and there. Connecting Cole and me,

at least until he leaves for Afghanistan.

And then, the sky is what we'll share,

the earth's spin, forward movement

of time. That, and the love that makes

all things seem forgivable. Most of the time.

On my way to the airport before I check

my cell for messages. The first is from Cole.

WOULD HAVE CALLED BUT

DIDN'T WANT TO WAKE YOU
.

I LET MOM KNOW ABOUT

THE ENGAGEMENT. SHE SAID

TO GET IN TOUCH IF YOU NEED

HELP PLANNING. IT'S THE BEST

I'VE HEARD HER SOUND SINCE

BEFORE SHE GOT SICK. WEDDINGS

ARE GOOD MEDICINE, I THINK
.

FLY SAFE AND LET ME KNOW

WHEN YOU GET THERE. I ALWAYS

WORRY UNTIL YOU'RE OVER THE

OCEAN AND STANDING ON SOLID

GROUND. SPEAKING OF OVER THE

OCEAN, WE LEAVE ON FRIDAY
.

DON'T TELL THE TALIBAN WE'RE

COMING. I WANT IT TO BE A SURPRISE
.

I LOVE YOU ASHLEY, GIRL. ALWAYS
.

He told his mom. Guess I'll have to tell my

parents, too, which will make the idea legit.

I need a few days. The second text is from Dar.

WHEN WILL YOU BE HOME?

I NEED YOU, ASH. IT'S SPENCE
.

THERE WAS AN ACCIDENT
.

HE MIGHT NOT MAKE IT
.

Returned early from his second tour

in Iraq, and he did qualify for sniper

school. Cole was a crack shot. No

brag. Just fact. What I didn't know