Collateral (27 page)

okay?” She doesn't look too distraught.

Yeah. Uh, no. I mean, it's not
that.

Spence's condition hasn't changed.

I follow her to the living room,

put my book bag down as she says,

Spence's parents arrived today.

Mom and I were at the hospital

when they got there. It was . . . ugly.

I met Spence's parents was a few months

after he and Darian got married. They had

not attended the wedding. The last thing

a couple of Kansans want for their patriot

son's wife is some leftie California girl. Really.

Spence was barreling toward his first

deployment. Unlike Cole, whose mom

has always come just a nudge ahead

of me, Spencer was never focused

on going home to his native cornfields.

What energy he didn't invest in training

was sucked up by his spitfire wife.

Dar does demand attention, and their

marriage was young. Mostly what he

wanted when he got home in the evenings

was a few beers. Dinner. A little TV.

And Darian, who he would be leaving

behind when he went off to the Middle

East in only weeks. They were wading

through paperwork—wills and banking

and such. Both felt overwhelmed.

Drowning in details and “just in case”

preparations.
I hate thinking about

him dying,
Dar complained.
I never

signed up for that.
Like, who does?

Wasn't happening. Spence's parents

had to come to him, which influenced

the visit's tone. Cole was already in Hawaii,

so it was just me, helping Darian make

salad for the occasion. She's not much

of a cook, and that includes chopping

lettuce. Spence was outside, firing up

the barbecue, when his parents arrived.

I answered the door, and had to smile.

Picture a forever farm couple—the mister

tall and burly, the missus petite and plump.

Now, reverse that. Mr. Blaisdel wasn't

much taller than me, with a gently-rolling-

hills physique. Mrs. Blaisdel was a regular

she-bear. She looked at me. Cocked her head.

You're not her,
she said. Apparently,

Spence had sent photos. Mrs. Blaisdel

stormed past me, toward the kitchen.

Mr. Blaisdel shrugged an apology,

stepped inside. I extended my hand.

“I'm Ashley, Darian's friend.” His grip

surprised me. I expected Play-Doh,

instead got iron. Despite his stature,

he could probably carry a cow.
I'm Jim.

Pleased to meet you. And don't let

Clara fool you. She's mostly bluff.

Clara was at that moment mostly

bluffing Darian in the kitchen.

Jim and I arrived, not quite in time

to interfere.
Our Spencer tells us

you're born and bred California.

This is my first time here. So far,

I'm not impressed.
Never mind

that all they'd seen was the airport,

freeways and a military base.

Darian, terrified, kept chopping

vegetables. “California is a very

big state, Mrs. Blaisdel,” I said.

“Darian and I grew up in Lodi, in

the Sierra foothills in the northern

part of the state. It's mostly ranchland.

I bet you'd love it. And while you're

here, I hope you get the chance to go

to the beach. The Pacific's beautiful.”

Spence came in through the side

door. He kissed Dar as he walked by,

then went to shake his dad's hand

before hugging his mother.
Hey,

Mom.
His goofy grin alone should

have melted her ice shell. But, no.

And she wanted us all to know it,

and I was pretty sure she wasn't

faking her anger one little bit when

she said,
I really don't understand

why you made us travel all this way.

Like you couldn't spare a little of

your paycheck on airfare to come

home before you leave? Where's

your respect for your family, son?

Bam! Darian and I exchanged

anxious glances. Spence stayed

totally calm, calling her bluff, if

that's what it was. He kissed her

cheek. Went to the fridge and

grabbed a beer.
Anyone want one?

He was still shy of twenty, and his

mother reacted like it was a sin.

Beer? You're drinking now? Is

this what California teaches

young men?
The way she glared

at her daughter-in-law made it very

clear that in her mind, California

and Darian were synonymous.

Spence forged straight ahead.

The thing is, Mom, I'm about to lay

my life on the line for my country.

I'd think my enjoying a brew should

be at the bottom of your worry list.

He knew exactly how to manipulate

his mother. She retreated. A little.

Still, the afternoon was not pleasant.

I probably would have begged off

early, except I didn't want to leave

Darian to face the she-bear alone.

Neither of us drank beer. But when

the Blaisdels went outside to watch

Spencer flip the burgers, Dar and I

chugged from a bottle of Jäger.

It helped us paste obviously phony

smiles on our faces throughout dinner.

In retrospect, I can see how Spence's

mom looked at him as a stranger. Or

maybe more like an alien, who had

invaded her son's body. He had yet

to leave American ground, though

to her California was a foreign land.

But Spence had changed, evolved

from Kansas farmer into U.S. Marine.

Darian was not to blame for that,

of course. But she was responsible

for another, subtler transformation,

one many a mother has regretted

for her son. And that was the shift

from boy into man. For some women,

this translates to loss, and so the source

of that loss becomes someone to envy.

Jealousy is never pretty. But when

a mother becomes jealous of her son's

love interest, it can become hideous.

I felt so sorry for Dar. Despite everyone

else's best efforts to divert the negative

attention away from her, Mrs. Blaisdel

kept refocusing it squarely Darian's way.

There was dust on the living room shelves.

The ketchup bottle was gooey and there

wasn't enough mayonnaise. The burgers

were burnt—that one squarely Spence's

doing, but somehow she blamed Dar.

By the time they took off for their hotel,

the Jägermeister bottle was drained.

I've helped drain a lot of bottles

since I met Cole. Not that I was

even close to a teetotaler before

we hooked up. In high school,

there were plenty of postgame

Friday-night parties. Keggers up

in the hills. Jello shots at friends'

houses whenever their parents

took off for a couple of days. And,

once Dar and I started school

in San Diego, oh those frat parties.

Weekend benders. The odd midweek

celebration. But I was pretty much

a lightweight. Hated hangovers.

The one time I woke up in my bed

and couldn't remember how I got

home, I almost swore off drinking

completely. Never did I imbibe

to deal with stress. Never to help

me fall asleep, dunk me deeper

than nightmares could follow.

Never, ever to make me forget.

Are harrowing. Triple the amount

of problem military drinking since

the war in Iraq began. Not to mention

how said drinking figures into suicide

attempts and victories, and vehicular

deaths. Marines—especially frontline

warriors—top the lists. Why wouldn't

they? Oh, the things they've seen!

The things they try to scrub from

their brains, through self-medication.

I've seen it too often at the VA hospital.

But dope only masks their memories.

I'm sure many of their significant

others are much like me—we drink, too.

We drink, playing hide-and-seek

with the omnipresent fear. We drink

to find a pathway into sleep.

We drink to believe The Reaper

cannot harvest us. To attempt

common ground with our soldiers.

We are too young, most of us,

to go looking for hope in a bottle.

If soldiers can drink while deployed

to Iraq or Afghanistan, where alcohol

is frowned upon—or rejected completely—

by the Muslim population. He laughed.

Believe it or not, with the influx

of Westerners, not to mention

the exodus of the Taliban, you can

find bars in big cities like Bagdad

and Kabul. Good Muslims won't

drink in them, and bad Muslims

get kicked out of them, but foreign

business is much appreciated.

Soldiers aren't supposed to drink

except every now and again, for

a special occasion, with a two-beer

limit. But it isn't hard to find liquor.

Some guys get it in care packages.

They're not supposed to, but it

comes, looking like mouthwash.

And local moonshine is plentiful.

That there is some crazy shit,

let me tell you. I've seen guys go

totally off the deep end drinking

that loco-juice. Gotta be careful.

We were drinking together at

the time. When he's home, it's one

way he tries to fight the depression

that sometimes gulps him down.

That night, I also saw him pop

a pill. Prescription. Maybe his,

maybe not. I couldn't see the label,

but I recognized the Prozac. My mom

took them for years. Cole's voice

got all thick, heavy.
The brass

don't condone alcohol. Shit happens

when soldiers go a little out of

their heads, you know? This one

dude got all fucked up and started

shooting stuff, just for kicks.

Took out four or five Humvee

tires and the side of a crapper.

Good thing no one was inside.

I mean, that was kind of funny

and all. But another time, these

guys drank a whole lot of moonshine

and went all apeshit. Grabbed

a little girl, like thirteen or fourteen.

Gang raped her. Jesus, man.

She didn't even have titties.

And then, when her father tried

to stop them, they up and killed

him. The girl, too. Blew 'em away,

left them bleeding in the street.

Were court-martialed, even the one

who shot up the outhouse—for conduct

unbecoming. But others got away with

much worse. Like assaulting their fellow

grunts. Female and not. Rape among

the deployed reached epidemic proportions

in Iraq and Afghanistan. And, while those

in command got a little better about coming

down on the offenders, often they looked

the other way, or blamed the victims. Many

never reported being assaulted. Those who

did were insulted, even called traitors, for

turning on their battle buddies. Some buddies.

As emotional as Cole got when he told me

about the Iraqi girl, when I mentioned

the story I read about rape in the ranks,

he actually jumped on the defensive.

We're under a lot of pressure. Some guys

can't handle it, and it's how they blow off

steam. Anyway, some of those women

ask for it, the way they wear shorts and all.

I blew off a little steam myself. “Are you

kidding me? Do you wear shorts when

it's a hundred degrees, Cole? And do you

really believe anyone deserves to get raped?

Rape isn't about sex. It's about violence.”

Why do women want to be soldiers?

If they can't stand the heat, they should

go back to the kitchen. War is violence.

It is putrefaction, steaming

upon sun-brittled clay,

flesh-chewed corpses

staring with vacant eyes

at the steel-edged sky.

War

is a shivering child, alone

in the street, mourning

the father dragged off