Collateral (40 page)

I slept backed up into the curve

of his body, luxuriating in his warmth,

the tautness of his muscles.

He could, I thought, snap me in half.

Instead, his marble arms held

me carefully. Gently. Like you hold

a baby. He fell asleep first.

The rhythm of his breathing told

me his dreams were effortless,

devoid of memory. He wandered

fantasy. I hoped to find him

when I, too, slipped off the edge,

into the netherworld of sleep.

Eventually, I dozed. But somewhere

in the watery depths of night,

I was pulled from my own dreams

into Cole's arms. And when

he made love to me, I couldn't fight

passivity. His turn to take control.

But even in the power role, he confessed

his love for me, his soft repetition

a lullaby carrying me back into sleep.

We woke to this incredible news,

announced the night before, while

we tangled ourselves together.

OSAMA BIN LADEN, THE MOST HUNTED

MAN IN THE WORLD, HAS BEEN KILLED

IN A FIREFIGHT WITH UNITED STATES

FORCES IN PAKISTAN. BIN LADEN

RESISTED AND WAS SHOT IN THE HEAD
.

I thought Cole would celebrate,

stand up and salute the Commander

in Chief, or at least his special forces

brethren. Instead, he was almost gloomy.

Fuck, and I had to miss all the fun?

Goddamn Obama gives the mission

to the fucking SEALS, after we laid

all the groundwork? That's just not right.

I knew better than to argue.

And then came details, some

of them pretty damn dirty.

IN THIRTY-EIGHT MINUTES, FIVE PEOPLE

WERE KILLED—BIN LADEN AND SON
,

HIS COURIER, COURIER'S BROTHER

AND COURIER'S BROTHER'S WIFE
.

ONLY ONE WAS ARMED, BUT THE OTHERS

HAD GUNS NEARBY. ALSO IN THE HOUSE

WERE SEVERAL OF BIN LADEN'S WIVES

AND CHILDREN. HIS TWELVE-YEAR-OLD

DAUGHTER WAS HIT IN THE FOOT WITH

A PIECE OF FLYING DEBRIS. ALL CHILDREN

AND WOMEN WERE HANDCUFFED AND

REMOVED FORCIBLY FROM THE COMPOUND
.

To that was also unexpected.

They should have lined them all

right up against a wall and strafed

'em. Period. See y'all in hell.

“You can't mean that, Cole.”

Women, children, fucking Qaeda

dogs, even. All they're going to do

is breed more fucking terrorists.

“You're telling me you could kill

kids just because they were al Qaeda?”

In a heartbeat. Those kids are all

brainwashed. They'd kill you, too,

and you can take that to the bank.

I couldn't believe he felt that way.

A sudden chill ran through me.

I thought back to a day right after

we met. We were at the museum.

I remembered how Cole had watched

the children running in the hallways

with nothing but affection in his eyes.

His heart had been tender then.

I thought that would last forever.

But there was something new under

Cole's skin. Some dark vapor. War,

they say, leaves no soldier unchanged.

Could it shred every hint of compassion?

Some say passion

colors

up like autumn, maple

weaving dreams into crimson

veils, and shedding them one

by one in seductive

dance,

to stand naked and frail

in the court of the woodland king.

Others see passion as brittle

winter silver,

whispers

buried within a thick hush

of white, promises

held captive by bonds

of prismatic light,

awaiting the lash's redemption.

You find passion

in springtime

pastel,

a riotous fusion

of blossom and blade,

joining wet in placid rain, scenting

garden and glade with the

pale

perfume of goddesses.

I think of passion as brown

summer skin, mine wrapped

in yours, on a beige strand of beach,

temperate souls, grown feverish

beneath cool amber

pearls of moonlight.

 

Cole Gleason

Out of social work and into creative

writing is fairly straightforward. It's

too late to apply for the spring semester,

so I focus on next fall. I need to complete

the application, pull together transcripts,

writing samples, and three letters of

recommendation, all by February first.

Since I need good grades, I have

to either withdraw from my current classes

or work diligently enough to maintain

my GPA. I choose the latter course

of action. No use wasting the money

that's already been spent on my behalf.

And who knows? Maybe studying social

work will make my writing deeper.

Dad about blew a gasket when I told

him my plan.
Who needs an MFA

in creative writing, for God's sake?

Anyway, if you're getting married,

graduate school is a waste of time.

You don't even know where you'll

be living next year. Why don't you

just withdraw and think about

playing house for a while?

That pissed me off, but I managed

to stay calm. “Married or not, I want

to make my own way, Dad. Cole

will probably ask for assignment

at Pendleton, so SDSU will suit me

fine.” I don't know if that's true, but

I hope we can work it out. I do not

want to live in Wyoming. Not enough

ocean. I am sticking to my grand plan,

working on the application, when

the phone rings. It's Darian.
Hey,

Ash. I got some bad news today

and I thought you should know.

Remember Celine? Her husband,

Luke, was killed a couple of days

ago. He was training ANA soldiers on

the Pakistan border. Took a bullet.

They're shipping him home next week.

“No.” It's not enough. Denial

can't change it. But what else

is there to say? Jesus, it's so not fair.

I conjure a familiar image of a flag-

shrouded coffin, embracing some

anonymous soldier. Heartbreaking,

yes, but much, much more so when

the remains inside are recognized.

But I feel like I know him. Celine

was clear in her description of him.

I could have picked him out of a crowd.

And her love for him imbued her spirit.

It was like he was there with her.

Will that stay the same? Or has it died

with him? It's so close to home.

And yet, it could be closer. It could be

lounging on my doorstep, even now.

I wouldn't know until I tripped over

it. Would I break my neck? Could

I get over it? Will Celine? I realize

Darian is still on the line. “Sorry.

I'm just so damn sorry.” Wait.

“Hey. How's Spence doing?” It's been

over a week since his skin-graft surgery.

Better than expected. I mean,

he's still confined to bed and wrapped

up pretty tightly. But his doctors

are pleased with his progress. They gave

him good pills, so he's not in much pain.

“That's great to hear. Give him my love,

okay? Oh, and let me know when

you can get away for a few hours so

you can take me to that boutique.

I do want something unique. Maybe red.

That would go well with purple, right?”

Falls flat on a field of sadness,

sinks into the well-cultivated soil.

Dar and I return to the minutiae

that swallows up so many days.

I check them off the calendar, one

after another. Amazing how fast

weeks can disappear into months,

into years. School. Fieldwork.

Spare hours at the VA Hospital.

Each day can only hold so much.

My MFA application goes in on time,

bolstered by recommendations from

one third-year and one senior-year

teacher plus, of course, Jonah.

His class is the brightest slot on

my schedule. I love learning poetry.

Love writing poetry. Love watching

Jonah teach poetry. I asked him to

help me choose the necessary writing

samples. He picked some favorites,

and some I had forgotten about, including

a couple I wrote about the VA hospital.

by Ashley Patterson

Fog unfolds

across a sea cliff silhouette, thin

linen over a sandstone cadaver,

and I think of Harry.

I didn't know him, just a grizzled

face beneath a prim ball cap,

red, white and blue;

eyes like movie reels, rewinding

long term memory,

replaying jungle films,

one scene bleeding

into the next.

He was hardly noticeable,

in a far corner of the waiting

room, every chair filled.

On first glance, the men

were all the same.

Pepper-haired.

Ochre-fingered.

Ember-eyed.

But there were differences.

Cowboy boots. Nikes.

Bedroom slippers, one pair

complete with lions' heads.

Flashy team jackets.

Tattered flannel shirts.

Imperfect postures.

Limbs, lost to sacrifice.

It was an island of wait,

fogged by skin in want

of soap, breath forgetful

of mint, patchwork bodies

incapable of propriety.

Hours, plunged into magazines

with faded dates, TV sets

that talked in whispers.

Tests followed tests,

gastro-this, thyroid-that,

administered by personnel weary

of routine, impolite in response

to complaint, impatient

with pain not their own.

Brain scans.

Drug screens.

Pressure checks.

And in between nutrition

consultations and post-surgical

follow-ups, the intercom warned:

Code 99, waiting room.

The island emptied.

Fifteen minutes later,

the resuscitation team lifted

Harry onto a gurney, gentled

thin, white linen up over

the crumbled sandstone of his face.

Jonah claimed, was what a poem

should be. Emotion, wrapped in

imagery. A complete story, in eight

perfect stanzas. To me, it was one

small truth I observed while trying

to help wounded warriors. Some people

who worked at the hospital were healers

of physical wounds. Others mitigated

broken psyches. We did our level

damndest. But there were so many!

Daily, it seemed, their numbers

multiplied. Depression. Post-traumatic

stress disorder. Garden-variety anxiety.

Thoughts of suicide. Alcoholism

and drug abuse. Domestic violence.

Brains, in need of long vacations.

Most were salvageable. Some would

need services the rest of their days.

A few would shun them, and wind up

on the streets. But they were alive.

It's been a couple of weeks since Luke

came home, in a box beneath a flag.

Celine must be drowning in a riptide

of shock and pain. Possibility

is a placid sea, easy to navigate until

roiled up by a random wind of fate.

If it were me, how long would it take

to surface and suck in air again?

The wedding guest list from Cole's mom.

I can't move forward without it, so I

give her another call. She picks up this

time. “Hi, Rochelle. I was wondering

about your guest list. I need it to book

the caterer. Oh, I chose the venue.

It's this beautiful winery . . .” I go on

to describe the place and she doesn't

utter a word until I say, “By the way,

my mom wondered if you'd like to stay

in our guest room, so you could save

a little money on a hotel room.”

I'm confused. I thought you were

getting married out here. That's

what Cole told me. He said it would

only be a few people so not to worry

about a guest list, just go ahead and

invite who I want. June thirtieth, right?

“Wait. What? When did you talk to

Cole about it? Because, he and I never