Collateral (35 page)

But his infrequent calls were vaguely disturbing.

Not so much because of what he said.

Because of how he didn't say much

of anything. “Are you feeling okay?”

I always asked. “Headaches gone?”

Mostly,
he always answered.
Except

when they're not. Sometimes they're

regular motherfuckers.
He was manning

up, I thought. But I wanted the truth,

not that I knew how to pry it from him.

I checked out his Facebook page

more regularly than at any other time

in our relationship. His posts remained

few and spare. From time to time, I saw

replies from his mother. From Spence.

Other grunts he knew, or didn't. A school

buddy or two. But from Lara, just that

one post for weeks and weeks. And then

came a second.
YOUR MOM TOLD ME YOU

WERE INJURED. PROMISE ME YOU'RE OKAY
.

Cole's response was nothing more

than congenial.
AH, YOU KNOW MOM
.

SHE WORRIES WHEN I GET A BLISTER
.

I'M ONE HUNDRED PERCENT EXCEPTIONAL

BUT YOU KNOW THAT ALREADY, RIGHT?

Nothing in the exchange sounded

like anything but a concerned ex-girlfriend,

stress on the “ex,” asking about Cole's

welfare. His reply was rather ambiguous.

A little flirty but with no overt hints

of romantic entanglement. My jealous

reaction to their ongoing communication

was totally unreasonable. Probably.

And my anger at Rochelle was completely

off the charts. Why were she and Lara

in such obvious touch? Rochelle knew

about me. Had welcomed me into her home,

let me stand next to her son as witness

to her vows with Dale. Did she prefer

Lara? Maybe even want Cole to break

up with me so he could get back with his

ex? I thought about the letter stash, especially

the most recent one, which had to have

been mailed in care of Rochelle, and

suddenly I felt like a fool, caught up in

some soap opera conspiracy. Since

Rochelle and Lara were on speaking

terms, had they spoken about me at all?

Left to fester. Truthfully, I might have

said something except just about

the time Cole touched down in Kaneohe

Bay, we got the news about Dale.

Those bouts of indigestion and heartburn?

Well, everybody got those, right? And

what was a little nausea but a bad case

of the flu? Okay, several bad cases.

Bloating. Middle-aged spread, and maybe

he should eat a little more fiber. But then

the blood in his stools became regular.

It was probably just an ulcer. His dad

got ulcers. Cured them with cream.

But even drinking all that cream

didn't help the burn or keep the weight

from dropping off. Finally, Rochelle insisted

he go see the doctor. And by then it

was much too late. When Cole took

his leave, we went back to Wyoming

together. The cheerful ranch house

was shrouded with sadness. Cancer.

It struck viciously. Without regard

for the life it had already made ragged

once. Rochelle had lost her daughter

to it, and now she would lose her husband.

Oh, they would try radical treatment,

but Dale should have gone in sooner.

He already looked wraithlike—ghostly

white and skeleton thin. I barely recognized

him. And I didn't know what to say.

To a man you've met only once—

one you like, but don't really know—

when it's obvious his time is short?

What do you say to his wife, your

boyfriend's mother, who might be

subtly interfering with the relationship

you're trying to build, when worrying

about that seems trite and petty, in

the shadow of her tomorrow? What

do you say to your boyfriend, who

is struggling to shore up his mother,

when it's clear she's crumbling, but

determined not to show it because

that would mean she's acquiesced

to the will of fate—not God's will, no,

because the God of love could not

be so capricious or cruel? There was

nothing to say. So I kept mostly quiet

for the best part of three days. I held

Cole when it seemed he wanted me

to. Gave him space when he required

that instead. It was boring, and the silence,

oppressing. Maybe that's why when

things finally blew, they blew wide.

Turned gangrenous with a chiming

of the telephone. Rochelle and Dale

had gone to church. Cole was outside,

tossing hay to the livestock, when the call

came. It wasn't my phone. Not sure why

I answered it. Maybe I was starving for

two sentences of conversation, but I did

pick up, and a woman on the other end

inquired,
Is Rochelle there?
When I told

her no, she said,
Will you please tell her

that Lara called? It's not important. Just

wanted to ask how Dale is doing.
She must

have thought about who had answered.

Uh . . . may I ask who this is?
A big part

of me wanted to tell her to mind her own

damn business, but then I realized it was

a golden moment. “This is Ashley. Cole's

girlfriend.” I waited for that to sink in,

wondering if she'd be gracious or bitchy.

Neither, actually.
Oh. Well, is Cole there?

It was a non-reaction, and I couldn't

gauge its meaning, but the wound

threatened to bleed. I started

to say no, but just then I heard

the front door close as Cole returned

from the barn. “Just a minute. Cole!”

I called, and when he came looking,

I mouthed, “Lara,” and handed him the phone.

His face flushed, and as he talked

into the mouthpiece, closing the distance

between Lara and him with words,

his eyes closed and his hand lifted against

his temple, as if his head had begun

to throb. He told her about Dale's condition,

and said his mom wasn't taking it well.

Please do,
he said at one point.
I know

she'd like that.
As Lara talked into his

ear, I felt like gum stuck on his shoe.

Finally, he finished the conversation

with a not unexpected,
You, too.
Which,

no, didn't have to mean, “I love you,

too.” But that's sure what it seemed

like to me. By the time he hung up,

my own head was pounding blood.

Inside me was intense, and even though

I knew it was the wrong time, wrong

place, I opened the release valve wide.

“How would you feel if I kept an old

boyfriend holding on? How can you tell me

you love me, then keep in touch with her?

Up until this minute, she still didn't know

about me, did she? What the fuck, Cole?

How can you do this to me? How can . . . ?”

Stop it!
His hands cinched my shoulders.

Squeezed.
I'm sick of you bitching

about Lara. Goddamn it, just shut the fuck

up about her, hear? I don't keep in touch . . .

“Liar!” I shouted. “You do. I've seen

her posts on your Facebook page.

What do you think I am, stupid?”

He squeezed even harder, started

to shake me. My head snapped back

and forth.
Don't you ever call me a liar.

Fury shaded his golden eyes red.

“Cole, stop. You're hurting me.”

Tears spilled down my face. “Please.”

Some piece of Cole snapped back

into the proper place. He let go.

Oh, Jesus, Ash, I'm so sorry. I . . .

He stepped back and I did, too.

The space between us was a billion

times wider than those inches.

On legs as unsteady as a newborn

foal's. I thought they might buckle,

so I sat in the rocking chair by

the window, staring at the Wyoming

terrain. Sparse. Ice choked. Alien.

That place didn't belong to me, nor

I to it. It could have easily been

another planet. As the froth of fear

and anger inside began to dissipate,

for some reason I thought about Cole,

forced into alien environments,

and charged with taming them, all

the while knowing that, despite

every effort, they would likely return

to wilderness once left to go fallow.

His call to duty was greater than mine

could ever be. I understood that

before, trusted his motives implicitly.

How could I let this phantom girl—

a whisper of his past—quake my faith?

Knelt in front of me, laid his head

in my lap, wrapped his arms

around my hips. I stroked his hair

and at practically the exact same

instant, we both said, “I'm sorry.”        
I'm sorry.

He looked up at me, and there

was nothing in his topaz eyes

but apology, and a question.

My favorite question. I didn't

have to speak my answer.

He stood, pulled me to my feet,

led me to his bed.
Wait. Let me

lock the door. They'll be home

soon.
When he turned back to

me, I had taken off my sweater,

thrown it to the rocking chair. He

whistled.
Jesus. What did I do?

He traced the bruises, patterned

exactly in the shape of his fingers,

and turning the gunmetal gray

of night, lifting over the ocean.

“It's okay,” I promised. And only

a tiny disbelieving sliver of me

kept whispering that it wasn't.

About the way he made love

to me then. It had nothing to do

with hurrying to finish before

his mom got home. It was more

like he thought I might change

my mind midstroke, decide to leave

forever. He pinned my wrists over

my head. His mouth roamed my body

freely, and every time his tongue

made me squirm, he gripped harder.

His kisses were laced with lust. Only

later did I question the stimulus of

his passion. I don't know if I'll ever

trust him completely, but I did in that

moment. I had to. He was taking me

places I'd rarely been before, even

with him. He plunged his face between

my legs, driving into me with tongue

and teeth and fingers until I begged

him to stop.
No.
It was a growl.

Give me your cream.
I had no choice,

he made me come, but then I pleaded

for, “More. Fuck me.” I'd never said

those words before. Not to Cole.

Not to anyone. He hesitated, and I

worried I'd made him angry or turned

him off. Not even close. He smiled.

Say it again. Louder.
I did, and when

I did, in a single strong move, he slid

one arm under me, flipped me over

onto my stomach, tugged me to

the foot of the bed. He stood there,

just looking at me, for what seemed

like a very long time. Suddenly,

he was inside of me, driving into me

with animal ferocity. Wilderness,

personified. There was lust there,

yes. And more—the fear of a soldier,

flushing an enemy he cannot see.

The anger of a man who has watched

his buddy blown to bits. The tension

of a sniper, waiting endlessly for

an uncertain outcome. The brittleness

of a boy, trapped in a man's uniform.

In one gigantic shudder, it was all

released, right there in me. We crept

up onto the pillows, covered our nakedness

with quilts. And, snug in each other,

we escaped into the haven of dreams.

So much I want to say,

wish I could confess,

but silence swells,

black

as midsummer

clouds, stacked upon hills

between us. Black as the

demons

shrieking inside my head.

My heart rumbles, heavy

with snippets of memory

that must not be

conjured.

Alone in this untamed

empty place, I free

a relentless volley

of words. They

rage

against the pages, a torrent

of what was, what is,

what yet may come.

And when at last the spirits

recede,

I find echoed

in their retreat, stories

I dare not give voice to—

nightmares set adrift

in my paper harbor.

Cole Gleason

Whether or not you want to. Especially

when a friend is involved. Case in point.

Darian promised to go to Lodi with me

over the holiday break. We're supposed