Collateral (4 page)

for a post–boot camp visit.
She drove

my pickup cross country, winter

weather and all,
he said.
She wanted

to surprise me. But the surprise was on

her. They don't let recruits have private

vehicles on base. Lucky thing, my

Uncle Jack lives close by. He said

I can keep the truck there and use

it when I'm able. Mom didn't want

to drive the interstate again. Said

God didn't give those Wright Brothers

brains for nothing. Goddamn, it was

good seeing her. Like she brought

a piece of home along with her

and left it here for me. California

is better with a little Wyoming in it.

Such love for home. The concept

was foreign to me. And I rather enjoyed

how this stranger opened himself up

so completely to someone he didn't

know. After that, we talked a little bit

about me. How growing up in Lodi

wasn't all that different from growing

up outside of Cheyenne, except for

the urban sprawl creeping ever closer

toward the oak-crusted California

foothills. We talked about
wanting

to leave home. About school, and how

my dreams didn't exactly jive with

my parents' goals for me. About caving

in. We talked about best friends since

fourth grade, meaning mine. About

new buddies and boot camp, the rewards

and pitfalls of service to one's country.

He said something about Don't Ask,

Don't Tell, and though I verge on

radical liberalism, and cringe at male

posturing, when he said he had

enough things to worry about without

having to wonder why some guy

was looking at him in the shower,

I thought about it for a few. Understood.

Some things that make perfect sense

philosophically might be confusing

in a real-world scenario. “What about

gay marriage?” I asked, expecting

a pat Bible Belt answer. Instead,

he said,
I'm all for it, as long as they

don't honeymoon in the barracks.

After a drink or two, we made each

other laugh. The walls, which had

already started to crumble, collapsed.

Cole isn't much of a dancer, but when

Spencer made it a challenge, he pulled

me onto the floor. I love to dance, and

totally got into it. He liked my moves.

Still, it could have ended there. Except,

our friends had fallen insanely in lust.

Watching Spencer try to keep up

with Darian. He was nineteen (no ID

check at all for the young Marine!).

She was only a year older, but way

more experienced when it came to

the opposite sex. Boy, was he willing

to tap her expertise, in any and all

of its manifestations. Her energy,

I have to admit, was infectious,

her libidinousness almost enviable.

Not that I'd ever try to imitate her.

But maybe a small part of me wished

a little would rub off, cling to me,

metal filings to magnet. One thing

that always impressed me was how,

though the attention she sought

was all about her, she managed

to make men feel like every move,

every laugh, every compliment

was instead all about them. And

they opened themselves wide for her.

Midst all the flirtation and sexual

energy, Darian coaxed Spence's

story from him. He had graduated

high school just six months before,

a year after his kindergarten classmates.

I wasn't dumb. Just under-qualified,

he joked before explaining,
My mom

and pop cared more about me

helping out on the farm than going

to school. I didn't get a lot of what

you might call encouragement to

succeed.
He did discover a talent for

“tinkering.”
I took my bike apart when

I was five. Put it back together not long

after. I was rebuilding motors by the time

I was twelve. Came in handy when

the John Deere took a dump. Auto

mechanics was my big claim to fame

in high school. A-plus there, let me

tell you. Did a cheerleader or two

out in the garage, too. The smell

of motor oil is one helluva turn-on!

Then he reached for Darian.
Want

to find out? I think Cole's truck needs

rings. We could take a little drive.

We all went for a drive to the beach.

Cole and I left Darian and Spence

inhaling motor oil fumes—and each

other—in the backseat while we took

a walk near the ocean's edge beneath

a silver spray of moonlight. I was wearing

jeans and an angora sweater, not quite

enough for a winter night, and when

I shivered, Cole lifted his jacket, inviting

me underneath and close against him.

Tequila is good for eroding inhibitions

and I didn't think twice about accepting

his offer. His body radiated heat, lifting

the scent of leather and Irish Spring soap.

Tequila also makes you say things you

wouldn't say sober. “You smell amazing.”

He laughed.
I do my best. Never know

when you might have to warm up a lady.

“Do you warm them up often?” It was

meant as a joke, but he took it seriously.

Not really. In fact, it's been a while.

Boot camp isn't conducive to romance.

I liked his answer, and his vocabulary.

“What about before? Any girls back home?”

He hesitated.
In college. There was

a girl. But when I left, she stayed.

And when she found out I joined up,

she totally freaked. Told me war and love

are antonyms. So, no. No girls. What

about you? Boyfriend? Husband?

I snorted. “No husband. Not even

close. And no serious relationships.”

He stopped walking then.
Good.

Because if there was, I sure wouldn't

do this.
He turned me toward him,

slipped his arms around my waist,

lifted me until I was just beyond tiptoes.

This time when he looked at me, his eyes

asked permission. I nodded. His mouth

covered mine. That kiss was our beginning.

Something new, some swell

of hope for what might be,

if luck can learn to rely

on patience.

With a

whisper of skin

against skin, a spark

of desire is fanned to flame

by an exhale of passion,

culminates within a

flash

of conflagration. Burns

itself out. Leaves behind

embers and the ash

of regret

at what is left waiting.

It is this image he carries

to warm frigid nights

in a foreign land where

a soldier

does not remember dreams,

except those of holding

her in the afterglow, hearts

slowing as the inferno

dies.

Cole Gleason

Is pitiful. I did tuck most of my preschool

paychecks away, but that didn't amount

to much. My parents pay my rent, give me

an allowance, and will until I finish school.

My only other income is goodwill checks

from my Alaska grandparents. Somehow,

I make do, and only need big chunks of cash

on weeks like this one, when the best price

I can find for roundtrip airfare to Honolulu

is just shy of seven hundred dollars. So much

for “discount tickets, best prices guaranteed.”

My choices: draw my savings down to zero

cushion; or ask my mom and dad to help out.

I hate to, because I know exactly how

the conversation will go. But I swallow

my pride and make the call. “Hey, Mom.

How's everything?” Simple enough

greeting, but obviously code, because

her response is,
Not bad. What's going on?

Which is also code for,
What do you want?

We don't exchange mundane pleasantries

often, and almost never by telephone.

Might as well get right to the point.

“I heard from Cole. He's deploying

in less than three weeks. I need to see

him before he leaves.” She remains

quiet. “Uh . . . the ticket is seven hundred,

which would just about wipe me out.

I was hoping . . .” It isn't the first time

I've asked for airfare. I'm sure I'll get

the usual lecture, and I do.
Ashley,

you know how I feel about supporting

the military. It makes my skin crawl.

“You're not supporting the military,

Mom, or even supporting Cole. I guess

I shouldn't have called. I'm sorry.”

Now, wait. I didn't say I wouldn't

help out. I just want you to value

my opinion. I know you love Cole

very much . . . .
There's a big “but”

coming.
But love isn't always pleasant.

I worry that you're going to get hurt.

On both sides. She can tell me one more

time why I made a mistake falling for

a Marine. And I will receive the needed funds.

“Thanks for worrying, Mom. If I get hurt,

it was my choice, right? Do you have to

ask Dad about the airfare?” She should.

But she won't.
You know better than that.

I'll take it out of my mad money, and we'll

keep it between you and me. You know

how Dad is when it comes to unexpected

expenses.
Dad is the master budgeter.

Except somehow he never found out

about Mom's confidential cash stash. Over

the lifetime of their marriage, she's managed

to squirrel away thousands. I've known about

it for as long as I can remember. When I was

younger, we used it for hardcover books, pricier

prom dresses, and Victoria's Secret underwear—

extravagances, Dad would have called them,

totally unnecessary. To him. But Mom

always understood my hunger for them,

the same way she gets my need to see

Cole, despite the price tag. Good thing

my brother doesn't have a taste for expensive

gadgets, or my mother's mad money hoard

likely would have vanished by now.

“Thanks, Mom. I'll probably leave

Thursday and come back on Monday.

I'll let you know for sure. Can you deposit

the money in my account ASAP? I need to

buy the tickets today to get the quote-unquote

discount.” She promises she will and when

I ask how Dad is doing, I can almost

hear her shrug.
Your father is fine.

He's always fine, isn't he? Too mean

for “sick” to stick to, and thank God

for that. Who knows what vile disease

he might have brought home otherwise.

Poor Mom. I'd hate to live every day

choking down a big spoonful of bitterness.

I send Cole an e-mail, let him know

next weekend is ours, and for some

complicated reason, it initiates an outbreak

of nerves. As much as I want to see him,

I don't want to say good-bye again.

As much as I want to be with him,

I don't want to think about no chance

at being with him again for seven months.

As much as I want to wrap myself up

in his arms, I don't want to consider

how lonely I'll be when I have to come

home to this love-empty apartment.

But I will suffer all those emotions,

and more. Because that's what you do

when you are crazy about a Marine.

I try to go about my day. It's funny,

but when Cole is overseas, I don't think

about him every minute. Maybe it's

a subconscious stab at self-defense.

Because if I let myself stress over where

he was and what he was doing, I'd

worry myself into a state of catatonia.

Instead, I save anxiety for the few days

before I know I'll spend time with him.

What would it be like to see him every day?

For Saturday night, when I know

I'll have the chance to ask women

who've been there. That is, if they

want to talk about their husbands

at all. So far, an hour into our girls'

night out, the conversation has been

about what to drink, which appetizers