Collateral (28 page)

to hell, the home that

is

burned to ashes,

a smoldering memory.

War is men, fueled

by hatred for a philosophy

they don't understand and

a

soul-deep fear of what

they can't see, but suspect

is on the far side

of any wall. And when a

man's

instinct screams,

he hears a voice much

louder than his own.

All bets are off. In the

game

of war, there are no rules,

no codes of honor.

Civility loses all meaning.

Cole Gleason

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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 get 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?

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.

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.”

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.”