Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  and currently training grunts east

  of here at Marine Corps Air Ground

  Combat Center Twenty-Nine Palms—

  a stretch of California desert that

  pretty much simulates Middle Eastern hell.

  Cole just spent a month there in intensive

  training. The idea that he might have met

  Celine’s husband is kind of intriguing.

  Ah, come on, whines Darian. All I want

  is a dance partner who isn’t wearing a

  skirt. But if that’s the best I can do,

  it’s all good by me. Shall we, girls?

  She tilts her head toward the dance

  floor. Meghan, who is a little older

  than me, shrugs and follows her.

  Carrie, who is probably younger,

  laughs and does the same. I’m staying

  put. Celine and I watch in silence for

  a few. Finally, a question bubbles up.

  “Why didn’t you go to Twenty-Nine Palms?”

  Celine smiles. Trade the ocean for desert?

  Not even. Anyway, it’s only a temporary

  assignment. I’m not going to pack up the kids

  and move for a couple of months. He’ll be back.

  Matter-of-fact. He’ll be back. Sooner

  or later, they all are. One way or another.

  “How long have you been married?”

  How many times has he come back?

  EVERY SOLDIER’S STORY

  Is different. Every soldier’s story

  is the same, or at least has some-

  thing in common with every other

  soldier’s story. Ditto the narratives

  of those left behind. Girlfriends.

  Wives. Husbands. Children. Parents.

  What ordinary people forget is us,

  left behind. How we cheer victories.

  Weep at photos of flag-draped coffins,

  even those enshrining the bodies

  of warriors we have never met. Another

  day, it might be our loved ones whose

  fate dictates arriving home in a box,

  shrouded by the red, white, and blue.

  I keep that fact folded up and stashed

  deep inside a small closet in my brain.

  The same hiding place, I suppose,

  a soldier buries the fear that feeds

  aggression, the drive to lift a weapon

  and determination to pull the trigger.

  CELINE’S STORY

  I fell in love with Luke in high school.

  He’s from a long line of Navy men, and

  wanted to enlist right after graduation.

  His mom was dead set against it.

  “Goddamn Navy took your father away

  from me. I won’t have it, hear?” See,

  Luke’s dad was a horrible husband.

  Drank most of his paycheck, whored

  around every time his ship anchored

  in some foreign port. “You go to college,

  son,” his mom told him. “Take care

  of your lady like a decent man should.”

  But Luke was determined to join up,

  despite a brilliant GPA and SAT scores.

  He talked to a recruiter who convinced

  him he was officer material. And so he

  compromised. We both attended UNLV

  during the school year. But while I spent

  summer vacations at home, Luke sweated

  out Platoon Leaders Class at Quantico.

  He graduated cum laude and accepted

  his commission, then spent the next year

  in Virginia, acing The Basic School and

  specialized infantry officer training. When

  they moved him to Camp Pendleton, we

  tied the knot. That was eleven years ago.

  SO HE’S A POG

  Person Other than Grunt. Not

  enlisted, and so, worthy of scorn,

  at least in some soldiers’ eyes.

  Still, some fast subtraction gives

  me important information about him.

  “So, he deployed for the Iraq invasion?”

  POG or grunt, those Marines are legend.

  Oh, yeah. Came home a hero, too.

  America was all about taking out

  Saddam Hussein. Too bad they forgot

  the real-time cost of war, you know?

  I do, all too well. “It must be hard,

  having kids, when he’s gone.”

  Celine smiles. In a way, it’s easier.

  We have a routine, and I’m in charge,

  so there’s no room for discussion.

  When he’s home, believe it or not,

  he’s a total pushover. Even at nine

  and seven, the girls have learned how

  to work their father. What’s hard . . .

  When she pauses, everything about

  her softens. What’s hard is having

  to tell them he won’t make a birthday

  or holiday. Again. The one thing

  we can count on is we can’t count on

  anything. Semper Gumby. After a while,

  like it or not, you just get used to it.

  Semper Gumby. Always flexible.

  A seven-month deployment could go

  eight or more. Whatever the situation

  demands. I’ve already gotten used to it.

  And I haven’t even put in half the years

  she has, interwoven with a Marine.

  “Does it ever get . . . I don’t know.

  Too much? Have you ever considered

  a life outside of the military?”

  You mean, desertion? Her smile grows

  wider. When Luke and I fight, of course

  I think about leaving. But I never will.

  I decided that when I agreed to marry him.

  It has nothing to do with vows, though.

  It’s about loving him, and I do, with every

  molecule of my being. If I didn’t, I most

  definitely wouldn’t be here right now.

  THE MUSIC STOPS

  One last question before the others

  return to the table. “What did you mean

  about Darian needing more men in her life?”

  Celine’s smile finally drops. Look.

  It’s really none of my business, and

  probably not yours, either. But . . .

  She glances toward the dance floor,

  and my eyes follow hers. Meghan

  trails Carrie down the hall toward

  the bathroom. Darian, however, is at

  the bar, leaning close to some generic

  guy and flashing cleavage. Celine tips

  her head, explains, Darian thrives on

  male attention, as you know. Marine

  wives talk. There are rumors. That’s all.

  I can’t believe I had to ask her that.

  I should have known the answer. Or maybe

  I did. Do. Whatever. Right now, all I see

  is Dar, flirting. That might bother me

  more, except I still enjoy flirting, too.

  Not quite as overtly as Darian, though.

  EASY FLIRTATION

  Is everywhere. Case in point, one

  extremely good-looking man is currently

  checking me out. Directly enough to make

  me blush. He must notice because now

  he offers me a beautiful let’s-do-it kind

  of smile that might just lead somewhere,

  if not for that little picture of Cole I carry

  around in my head. Still, I color even

  deeper. This time it’s Celine who sees.

  “Sorry.” I turn my full attention back to her.

  Don’t apologize. I’d turn straight

  out purple if he smiled at me like that.

  “Sometimes it’s just so hard, you know?

  D
on’t you ever get lonely? I mean, for . . .”

  Sex? A nice warm body beside me in

  bed? Of course. That’s pretty normal.

  “But you’ve never . . . well, I haven’t,

  either. But I almost did once. Cole

  had been gone, like forever. And this

  guy was just so gorgeous. Sweet. Smart.

  A gentleman, too. He never pushed

  for anything, but God, I came close

  one night. I even kissed him. And,

  boy, was it hard to stop. But I did.”

  Don’t beat yourself up about it.

  You did the right thing in the end.

  I finish my drink. “Yeah, but I was

  so tempted to do the wrong thing.”

  Look. You’re young. Healthy.

  Your body responded to pleasant

  external stimuli exactly the way

  it’s supposed to. No big deal.

  I have to smile. “You make lust

  sound so clinical.” Logical, even.

  It’s not exactly rocket science.

  Especially if the guy was all that.

  Look, being committed doesn’t

  make you dead, but all those months

  alone can make you feel that way

  sometimes. You never signed on

  for that. Embrace the moments

  that let you know you’re alive.

  Rewind

  MY BEGINNING

  With Cole was a long, slow kindle.

  The first night we met, we sparked.

  But, perhaps because we’re both

  cautious by nature, we guarded

  the flame, kept it smoldering low.

  Darian and Spencer blazed. In

  a way, I was surprised. Spence

  reminded me of Darian’s father,

  and the clichéd adage about a girl

  wanting to hook up with a guy like

  her dad didn’t seem like it should apply.

  Darian didn’t much like her father,

  a hard-nosed rodeo cowboy who traveled

  the circuit and came home only long

  enough to rest his horse, screw his wife,

  and try to corral his wild child. Darian

  was having none of it. Bastard never

  taught me to tie my shoes or ride my bike,

  and now he wants to tell me where

  I can’t go and who I can’t see? Hardly!

  Okay, Spence is a lot nicer than

  Darian’s dad, but he carries himself

  in a similar way—with an overabundance

  of self-confidence. Not conceited, but

  so sure of himself as to never admit

  being wrong. Regardless, his and Dar’s

  connection was immediate. Real. Primal.

  I have no idea where Cole and I would be

  today, if it wasn’t for our friends hooking

  up that night, and staying hooked up for

  the next four days, until the guys’ leave

  was over and the next phase of training

  began. Spence, who was out-of-his-head

  in love with Darian from the start, wanted

  to spend every minute with her, mostly

  in the apartment she and I shared.

  Cole had a choice—barracks, Uncle

  Jack’s, or said apartment. For whatever

  reason, he chose the last option. Spence

  slept with Darian. Cole crashed on the couch.

  AT LEAST

  That was the original plan. Because,

  as drawn to Cole as I was that first night,

  I’ve never been the type to jump straight

  into bed with a stranger. Not even a striking,

  soft-spoken stranger with eyes that hold

  on to you like they can’t get enough of you.

  So, while Darian and Spence disappeared

  inside her room, the door of which did

  little to muffle all the moaning and yessing

  behind it, Cole and I talked through the dark

  hours, toward daylight. I loved the way,

  when he spoke of his mom, his voice got

  all silky. She wanted me to go to college,

  even though money was tight. I was almost

  through my second year when my kid sister

  got sick. Fucking cancer takes the weak,

  like wolves culling antelope. Annie fought

  hard, but not good enough. Between doctors

  and hospitals and the funeral, the savings

  dried up. Two solid years of undergrad

  behind him, Cole was considering work

  in the natural gas fields when a savvy

  recruiter snagged him. Told him he could

  send part of his paychecks to his mother,

  and college could come, paid-for, after

  he fulfilled his commitment. He was still

  considering his options when word came

  that an Iraqi bullet had claimed his cousin

  Eugene, who signed up for the Army while

  he was still in high school. He was barely

  voting age when he deployed. As Cole

  told the story, his body tensed visibly,

  and he squinted around the anger

  that bloomed in his leonine eyes.

  Son of a whore hajji shot Gene square

  in the back, right through his heart.

  I don’t much take after my bastard

  father, except when it comes to revenge.

  Eighteen is too fucking young to die.

  I didn’t say I thought twenty-one was too

  young to die, and it seemed a distinct possibility

  for him, or any soldier, in search of revenge.

  NEITHER DID I ASK FOR SPECIFICS

  About his father. I didn’t know him well enough,

  nor had I consumed nearly enough alcohol. Later,

  I learned that Bart Gleason, who left Cole’s

  mom two days before Cole’s ninth birthday,

  was serving a life sentence for murder.

  Seems the girl he left Mrs. Gleason for

  wasn’t such a sweet, young thing after all.

  Bart heard rumors about her sleeping around.

  He followed her one night. Waited long

  enough for her to get naked and knotted

  up with another guy, then calmly blew

  out both their brains with his favorite

  .357 magnum. Probably a good thing

  I didn’t hear the story that night. My own

  parents are big subscribers to the old

  “apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” theory.

  I’d heard it all my life, and maybe believed

  it, at least a little. By the time I found out

  about Cole’s father, though, I loved my Marine

  way too much to even think twice about it.

  THAT KIND OF LOVE

  For me is a once-in-a-lifetime,

  planets-aligning-at-the-exact-

  right-coordinates kind of thing.

  I guess I always hoped it was

  possible, but never let myself

  believe it would happen any time.

  I definitely wasn’t looking and

  so I didn’t see it right away.

  The kiss at the beach was sweet.

  But it was only memorable in

  retrospect. The kissing on

  the couch quickly moved from

  tentative cool to electric hot.

  You can tell a lot by the way

  a guy kisses. Cole kissed like

  summer rain—barely wet,

  the temperature of August

  sky, thunder-punctuated. Delicious.

  BREATHLESS

  Heart thudding, I came very close

  to giving him a lot more. I wanted to,

  despite forever declarations to never,

  ever invite one-night stands, and surely
>
  that was all it would be. Cole is all-man,

  and I can’t say he didn’t try, but when I

  slowed him with a simple, “Can’t. Not yet,”

  he respected the request, though not without

  comment. You positive you’re a California

  girl? He wasn’t clear about whether he’d

  heard all California girls were loose or only

  if all the ones he’d met so far were. “Meaning . . . ?”

  He started to answer just about the time

  Darian came stumbling down the hall

  to the kitchen, hair like an eagle’s nest,

  and wearing nothing but a T-shirt that

  barely covered her crotch. Barely. Hey,

  she slurred, sort of giving us the twice

  over. Sorry. Thirsty. She grabbed a couple

  of beers from the fridge. Staggered back

  to her room. Cole and I looked at each

  other and laughed. “Point taken,” I said.

  “And if I don’t want to look like that”—

  nodding toward Dar, who just then faded

  into her room—“I probably better get

  to bed. That, or scare the bejeezus out

  of you in the morning.” Cole accepted

  that with a not-hot kiss, then asked,

  Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra

  blanket? It’s cooling off fast in here.

  I went down the hall, pulled the spread

  off my bed. By the time I got back, he was

  lying there, still as stone, eyes closed.

  I covered him, turned away, and heard him

  say, Thanks for the blanket. And for

  the great evening. See you in the morning.

  I liked how that sounded. And although I

  was critically tired, it took a while to fall asleep.

  WHEN I WOKE UP

  It was full-on morning, light crashing

  through the window in brilliant waves.

  It took a few minutes to figure out why

  I felt so anxious to get out of bed. Then

  I heard a muffled male voice, Darian’s

  high-pitched laugh, and the night before

  tumbled back. Marines. Right. I went

  straight for the bathroom to shower,

  brush my teeth, and put on makeup.

  Slid into silk panties, knee-length satin

  shirt, a sexy-casual compromise. When

  I slipped into the hall, the place was silent

  except for the creak of Darian’s bed

  behind her closed door. God. How

  many times could you do it in a twelve-