Collateral (32 page)

She turned me down, however.

I'm pretty sure she plans to spend

the holiday with Kenny. And that's

all right by me. I leave very early

Thursday morning. Driving seventy,

it will take around six hours. I nudge

the speedometer to seventy-five. Hope

the highway patrol feels generous today.

For coffee and another to pee

it out, I arrive home a little after

one. Nostalgia sweeps over me

as I turn up the long, curved driveway.

It's been a dry autumn. The hills

are parchment brown, beneath

sprawling, green oak canopies.

Representative California. I park

in front of our low stucco ranch-

style house with a red-tile roof.

Buster, our golden retriever, lifts

his head from the front porch, too

lazy to come investigate. Besides,

he knows it's me. I can see his tail

thumping. I get out of the car, stretch

a minute, inhaling familiar air.

Why is it appreciating home comes

easier after you've been away for

a while? I stop long enough to pat

Buster's head, go on inside.

I hear football in the family room.

That will be Dad, and I know Mom's

in the kitchen. What I don't expect

is to see my brother, no longer in Europe.

Three heads swivel toward me—

Dad's, Troy's, and one very blond one,

with a cute, freckled face I don't recognize.

Hey, Sis. Come meet Gretchen.

She's a very sweet German, who

speaks delicate English and hangs

on to Troy like he's her anchor

here in this crazy country. I say

hi, hug Troy, and give Dad a quick kiss

right before the Niners score.

He and Troy both jump to their feet,

cheering. Gretchen looks anxious.

“I'm going to go help Mom with

dinner. Want to come?” I invite.

Now Gretchen looks grateful.

She follows me to the kitchen,

where Mom is peeling potatoes.

“Hey. Can we help you with that?”

Hi sweetheart. How was your

drive?
She keeps on peeling.

“Uneventful.” I look for something

for Gretchen and I to do. “How about

if we open some wine? I know it's early,

but hey, it's Thanksgiving, right?”

Go for it. The wineglasses are in

the hutch. Gretchen, white or red?

Gretchen barely looks old enough

to drink. But she chooses white.

I hand her a bottle of each and

a corkscrew, go off to find the glasses.

And a muffin for breakfast,

the wine produces a nice, little

buzz before very long. I try to

keep it in check, sipping slowly.

I also try to let everyone else

do most of the talking. We learn

Gretchen is from Dresden, but

she met Troy at a café in Munich.

Her dream is to work in publishing.

As an editor, perhaps, or public

relations. Whatever will get her foot

in the door. Meanwhile, she's living

off a small inheritance.
This is the time

to travel,
she says.
Before I must get

serious. I think then I will grow old.

Mom laughs.
Getting serious

about a man will make you grow

old. Don't you think so, Ashley?

“Depends on the man, I guess.”

I've been hoping to steer clear

of talking about Cole. No such luck.

Ashley's boyfriend is a soldier.

Mom tells Gretchen.
This war

has made her much older.

Except she's right. I turn twenty-five

in a week. I feel ten years older.

It's the war, yes, and Cole's fighting

there. It's a consequence of worry.

The oven buzzer sounds. I go to take

out the turkey. Open the door. Find

ham. No wonder the smell wasn't

familiar. I guess I'd noticed that on

some level. “Ham this year? Was

there a turkey shortage I didn't hear

about?” We've never had ham for

Thanksgiving dinner. Mom drains

the potatoes.
Nope. Plenty of turkeys.

Just thought it was time to shake

things up a little. It's a lovely spiral

cut. There's some pineapple-cherry

sauce on the stove. Would you mind

basting it? It should sit a few minutes

before we carve it. By then, I'll have

these potatoes mashed.
Gretchen

beats me to the pan and baster,

so I refill our glasses. When I reach

into the fridge for the Pinot Grigio,

I notice a beautiful chocolate cheesecake.

“No apple pie, either?” This shaking

stuff up thing is slightly disturbing.

Wonder what else she's agitating.

This feels a little bit like a revolt.

As we sit down to dinner. Mom's chair used

to always be right next to Dad's. Today,

they're at opposite ends of the table.

Putting Gretchen and Troy straight

across from me. We say grace, then

Mom and I go into the kitchen to get

the serving platters. Dad gives

the sauced-up ham slices a hard

double take.
What the hell is that?

Okay, he has been drinking rum

most of the afternoon. But that

was pretty harsh. “It's ham, Dad.”

Yes,
chirps Mom.
And you paid

a pretty penny for it, and I've spent

most of the day making it special

for you. Us. Is there a problem?

It's not like you don't eat pork.

We have ham all the time.

He looks at her like she's crazy.

Not for Thanksgiving. But I guess

there's a first time for everything.

Troy and I exchange “phews.”

Gretchen looks alternately terrified

and relieved. We start passing trays,

bowls, and baskets of meat, veggies,

and Mom's homemade buttermilk

biscuits. And I think it might all

be perfectly fine until suddenly Troy

whistles.
Hey, Ashley. What's that?

Did you forget to tell us something,

uh . . . kind of important?
He's staring

at my left hand, and now everyone

else is, too. I swear, I forgot all about

the ring, which I just got back, sized,

from the jeweler's two days ago.

“Uh, well, yeah. I guess I did.

Cole and I are getting married.

Probably in June. We haven't set

a date yet or anything, but that's

what we were thinking. I know,

relatively speaking, that's not a whole

lot of time, but I think we can pull

it together . . . .” Troy is grinning.

Gretchen is nodding. Dad is shaking

his head. But Mom . . . I don't know.

All color has drained from her face,

and any hint of a smile went with it.

Did she have too much wine?

She kind of looks sick. “Are you okay,

Mom? I'm sorry I didn't mention it.”

Approximating a smile.

Says she's fine. Turns

her attention back to

her dinner, though she's

really only picking at it

now. It is Dad who says,

Have you thought this

through, Ashley? I mean,

all the way through? Why

get married now? Aren't

things good just as they are?

Déjà vu, and annoying

déjà vu, at that. “You sound

like Darian. God, Dad, I'm

almost twenty-five. Don't

you think that's old enough?”

It's not exactly over the hill.

Why rush into marriage?

You're not . . .
Okay, now

it's anger-inspiring déjà vu.

“Pregnant? No, Dad. No

shotguns involved. And

as far as ‘rushing,' Cole

and I have been together

for five years. Not exactly

jumping the gun. Why do

I have to keep defending

this decision? Everyone

should be happy for me.”

I push back from the table, carry

my plate into the kitchen. Rinse

it, put it in the dishwasher, along

with the pots and pans Mom left

in the sink. Then I step outside

to cry in private. The back patio

is in the sun, and warm. But I'm

shivering. Nerves. Anger. Hurt.

I'm cold, from the inside out.

It's quiet behind the dining room

window. At least they're not talking

about me—about what a fool I am

or how I'm too young to know

what I want. Ha. What would

they say if I told them I'm not sure

about social work, either? Dad

would freak, that's for sure. I can

hear him now.
After all that time

and money invested you want

to change your mind now?

I sit on the old porch glider.

It has seen better days, for sure.

The door opens, and Mom comes

outside.
May I join you?
She sits

beside me, knowing I'd never say

no. We rock gently back and forth

for a minute. Finally, she says,

I need to tell you something I've

never shared with you before.

You know my mother and father

died in a car accident, right? What

you don't know is that it wasn't

really an accident. It was a murder

suicide. Daddy was never right

after he got back from Viet Nam.

It was a long time ago, and I was

little, but I remember how the sound

of a helicopter sent him to the floor.

How he heard noises that I never

did. How if someone looked at him

in a certain way, he'd go ballistic.

He was arrested a couple of times

for starting a fight in a bar. Drinking

made everything worse because

then he saw ghosts. Really. I know

he did horrible things in the jungle.

Things no amount of alcohol or pills

could erase. War stains soldiers,

all the way through their psyches,

into their souls. I understand that,

and could almost forgive him for taking

his own life, to quiet the ghosts. But

I can never forgive him for taking

my mother with him. He thought

of her as a possession. One he wouldn't

leave behind for someone else to own.

And I worry about that for you.

Cole reminds me of my father.

One I never even suspected.

I am trembling. Mom slides

her arm around my shoulder,

pulls me into her embrace.

I can't remember the last time

we sat like this. Now I am young.

Like, four or five. We freeze

in this place, wordlessly watching

a covey of fat quail foraging

for several minutes. Finally,

I clear my throat. “I understand

why you're worried for me, Mom.

But I've never seen Cole do

any of the things you described.”

Wait. Not true. There was the time

he heard the helicopter and

pushed me to the floor. Except,

he was protecting me, so that

was not the same thing at all.

“Cole would never, ever hurt me.

It would go against his code of honor.”

Her arm falls away.
That's what

Momma thought. I want to support

your decision. I'm just not sure I can.

It's Troy, checking up on us, though

he pretends it's all about cheesecake.

Dad said I had to ask you before

I cut it. He also said to ask if you

bought brandy for the eggnog.

Mom vacates the slider.
I'll cut

the cheesecake. Think I'd leave that

to a man? You up for eggnog, Ashley?

“A little, I guess. Actually, maybe

straight brandy. Save the calories

for the cheesecake. I'll be right in.”

Mom brushes past Troy, who

doesn't follow. Instead, he comes

over to me.
So you know, I think

it's cool you're getting married.

I have to smile. “Thanks, Troy.

You going to be here this summer?

I don't think we can have a wedding

if you're not going to be part of it.”

No worries. I'll be here. I like

Europe. But it's not California.

“What about Gretchen? You