Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  And he responded, How could someone

  like you come from people like them?

  RARELY

  Do I jump squarely to my parents’

  defense. Neither am I likely to argue

  politics, especially with someone

  I know I can’t sway. But that night,

  Cole’s intransigence bordered on

  arrogant, and I pretty much blew.

  Our second argument was worse

  than the first, because we were both

  in the same room. Neither of us wanted

  my parents to hear, but angry words

  don’t want to be whispered. We did

  manage to avoid swearing at each

  other, unless you call words like

  “ignorant” and “intractable” cussing.

  But we were both tired, a little drunk,

  and neither wanted to back off.

  Finally, we straight out wore out

  and decided to go to bed. The house

  was dark by then. Silent. Anger

  still prickled my skin, but there was

  something else—a primal need

  threading my body. I could have

  crawled solo beneath my own

  blankets. Instead, I followed Cole

  through the door of the guest room.

  It wasn’t makeup sex. It was “fuck

  me so I can sleep tonight” sex. By

  morning, forgiveness came easily.

  ONE THING YOU LEARN

  When you love a soldier is to expect

  pre-deployment arguments. They are,

  as any military counselor will tell you,

  a way into the separation to come.

  As bad as those Christmas spats

  had been, the one we had just weeks

  before Cole’s second Iraq tour was

  a whole lot worse. Psychologically,

  it pushed us apart. Cole’s unit had

  been training at Twenty-Nine Palms,

  and we arranged to meet up for drinks

  one Saturday night at a little off-base dive.

  He’d had a rough day and showed up

  late, already pretty much pissed at

  the universe. I’d been waiting awhile,

  fending off advances by an obviously

  inebriated grunt who was loitering

  by my table when Cole stormed

  in. The guy had just made a totally

  inappropriate remark, or tried to.

  He was so drunk, he could barely

  spit the word “ejaculate.” I happened

  to be laughing at his poor attempt. Cole

  assessed the situation, took it all wrong.

  IT WAS THE FIRST TIME

  I ever saw those beautiful eyes

  go all crazy. Scary crazy. He came

  stomping toward the table. “Uh, I think

  you’d better go,” I told the stranger,

  right about the time Cole reached

  the table and spun him around.

  Get the fuck away from her, asshole.

  The guy had two choices: compliance

  or belligerence. He chose the latter.

  Who you calling asshole, asshole?

  The two squared off and things

  were headed straight toward ugly.

  But then the bartender, hyperaware

  of the situation, called them out.

  He told Cole to relax and the other guy

  to find a designated driver. The drunk

  slunk away, muttering obscenities.

  I swear, I never thought Cole would

  blame me, or I might have realized things

  were headed south when he didn’t kiss

  me hello. Instead, he went straight

  to the bar, called for whiskey, neat.

  The double was already half gone

  when he plopped into the chair next

  to me. I reached out one hand, touched

  his cheek with two fingers. “Hey, soldier.”

  I thought he relaxed a little. Silly me.

  “Do you know how much I’ve missed

  you?” Cole sipped his drink before

  answering, taking plenty of time

  to deliberate. That was sure a funny

  way of showing it, don’t you think?

  “I don’t . . . oh, you mean that guy?

  I didn’t do anything, Cole. He came

  on to me.” Prickles of anger started

  up my spine. Yeah, well, you didn’t

  exactly discourage him, did you?

  Fucking women are all alike.

  Okay, that pissed me off. “First off,

  women are not all alike! And believe

  it or not, I asked him to leave me alone

  three or four times. Jesus, Cole, I drove

  all the way here to be with you, not some

  drunk jerk who I don’t even know.”

  I finished my own drink in one long

  swallow. Softened my voice. “Guess

  maybe you’re the one I don’t even know.”

  I got up, started to leave. Cole caught

  my arm. I’m sorry. Goddamn sorry.

  Sit back down, Ashley. Please?

  MY FIRST INSTINCT

  Was to jerk my arm from his grasp,

  collect my stuff, drive back to San

  Diego and quit taking his calls.

  But then, I looked into his eyes,

  found every hint of crazy gone,

  and in its place, overriding love.

  I sat, disquiet building a wall

  between us. We’d been together

  for two years. Shared laughter

  and tears and beds and dreams.

  I’d never glimpsed that side of him.

  Had he really seen something

  different in me? Ashley, baby,

  I love you so much. I can’t stand

  the thought of losing you. Please . . .

  “The only way you’ll ever lose me

  is by accusing me of something awful

  I didn’t do, Cole. I can’t believe

  you have so little respect for me,

  after all we’ve been through. I-I-I wait

  for you for months at a time. Worry

  about you. Stress over you. I put my life

  on hold for you while you’re away,

  doing God knows what in some foreign

  hellhole . . .” I was crying by then, tears

  of frustration. “You’re the only man

  I’ve ever loved. I would never cheat on you.”

  I WAS GENUINELY HURT

  Leveled, in fact. What I failed to see

  was how hurt Cole was, too, even though

  he had zero reason to be. It’s rare

  for him to display emotion, but he did

  then. He reached for me, gathered me

  into his arms. Kissed me so, so sweetly.

  I don’t know what I’d do if you left

  me. Something brig-worthy, no doubt.

  You are the absolute best thing

  in my life. Without you, I’d be just

  another lonely grunt, searching

  for a good reason to come home.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Cole,”

  I whispered into his ear. “But I am

  moving over now. People are staring.”

  It was true. Not sure if they were

  hoping we’d get back into it, or

  totally make out right there. Either

  way, I wanted to take it private.

  We finished our drinks. Skipped

  dinner and went straight to the motel

  for a couple of rounds of makeup sex.

  PEOPLE STARE

  When you walk into a room.

  You don’t notice. But I do.

  It’s one of the things

  I love most about

  you,

  this lack of self-

>   awareness. You wear

  beauty like April

  wears blossoms,

  only

  spring shows off

  an impatient display,

  hurries away;

  you

  stay. Knowing

  you’re there, waiting

  for time to

  bring

  meaning to your pause,

  delaying your own dreams

  to soothe mine, this keeps

  me

  sane midst the chaos.

  Without you, I have no reason

  to find my way

  home.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  I LEAVE COLE DRIPPING

  Mai tai. Find my way back to the hotel,

  sober enough to walk a straight line,

  drunk enough not to worry about

  the creep who accosted me earlier.

  It’s a different desk clerk, and I’m glad.

  The last thing I want is to have to make

  small talk about my wonderful Marine.

  The same grunt who basically just called

  me a slut. Every time he’s about to deploy

  he questions my moral fiber. Fucker. Wow.

  And every time we have another pretour

  sendoff, my language devolves. At least

  I didn’t say it out loud. I must look as

  pissed as I feel, though, because people

  are moving out of my way as I cross

  the lobby, stomp into the elevator, head

  up to the room. Our nice, romantic

  suite, overlooking the Pacific. Damn.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. I throw my stuff

  on the big comfy-looking chair. Start to

  pace. Pacing lowers my blood pressure.

  Helps put things in order. I count steps.

  One-two-three-four. All the way to twelve.

  Turn. Count backward. Eleven-ten-nine.

  Good thing we’ve got a big room. Fewer

  than a dozen steps would make me crazier

  than I am. Yeah, I know I’m a little touched.

  Who wouldn’t be, all things considered?

  I WAS ALWAYS

  On the obsessive side—

  needing cleanliness.

  Wanting order. But

  the compulsive thing

  started after falling

  in love with Cole and

  so much of my life spun

  totally out of control.

  Can’t control:

  Where he is.

  Where he goes.

  When I’ll hear from him.

  When I’ll see him next.

  Let alone:

  If he’ll be safe.

  If he’ll stay sane.

  If he’ll come back whole.

  If he’ll come back at all.

  Or what he’ll be like

  post-deployment. Post-

  retirement. I’ve never

  known him as a civilian.

  Never known him as just

  a regular guy, something

  I’m not sure he—or any

  warrior—can ever be again.

  SO I CONTROL

  My own life, best as I can.

  My grades are back in order.

  It took a while, but I finally

  figured out how to concentrate

  on my classes, even with Cole gone.

  I like the fieldwork, like helping

  people, though I miss working

  with the preschool kids. Teaching

  still calls to me, despite the years

  I’ve put into my master’s.

  Okay, I don’t like to think about

  that. Pace-pace-pace-pace. Two

  times two is four. That is order.

  Three groups of four is perfect.

  Why twelve? Not sure. Eggs,

  maybe. Two straight lines of

  ovals, in their safe cardboard

  nests. Picturing that makes me

  calmer. Which is good, because

  I hear the whir of Cole’s key

  in the lock. I turn toward the door,

  brace myself for a wave of anger.

  He comes through and, without

  a word, comes straight to me,

  lifts me off the floor, sweeps me

  into the bedroom, throws me

  onto the bed. Anger may feed

  what follows. He rips himself

  out of his pants, lifts my shift,

  yanks off the bikini bottoms.

  His hands lace into my hair,

  hold my head against the pillow.

  He is inside me before he says,

  Don’t you ever leave me like that

  again. Do you understand?

  He punctuates each word with

  a thrust of his hips. I lift my own,

  wrap my legs around him, open

  myself to accept his metered

  plunging. “Yes,” is the most I can

  manage as he drives the air from

  my lungs. The smell of rum and

  whiskey clings to him, and his face

  is sticky. I lick away the dried

  mai tai, stoking his building frenzy.

  Too soon, we crest, hard, sticky wet.

  Together. Too soon, but there will

  be an encore. And tonight, I’ll sleep

  with him circled around me, one

  hand claiming my breast as his.

  THE SOUND OF SIRENS

  Is our alarm this morning. I left

  the slider cracked, and the loud shriek

  jumps us awake. Cole shoves me

  over the side of the bed, onto the floor.

  Get down! He covers me with

  his body until the wailing fades.

  It takes a few seconds for him to

  realize where he is and exactly what

  all the noise was. Goddamn it. You

  must think I’m a basket case, huh?

  “Not really,” I huff. “But could you

  please get off me? I can’t breathe.”

  I try to keep it light. Truth is, my

  heart is booming and the reason

  I’m having a hard time breathing

  is because he scared the crap out of me.

  He draws himself up to sit on the side

  of the bed. I get to my knees, crawl

  over to him, and when I look up

  into his eyes, I see fear. No, terror,

  only just now receding. “You okay?”

  He nods. On an FOB, a siren means

  incoming. Generally those fucking

  Hajji mortars hit pretty damn wide.

  But a couple of times, man. Way

  too close for comfort. I got lucky

  once or tw—He stops short. We

  never talk about close calls. Never

  discuss danger. Especially not now

  that he’s going back. Totally bad juju.

  Still, I climb into his lap, reveling

  in the feel of his nakedness beneath

  my own. I slide my arms around

  his neck. Kiss his forehead. Dare

  to ask, “Do you ever get scared?

  Over there, I mean.” I have not

  ever asked him this question,

  assuming he must but that he

  probably wouldn’t want to confess

  it. Fear is your friend over there,

  sweetheart. If you’re not at least

  a little scared, you’re stupid, and

  stupid guys die faster than the rest.

  I push him back on the bed.

  “I want you to be scared, then.”

  This time I make love to him.

  Long. Lazy. Unselfish. Giving.

  Ask me, that kind of sex is better

  than the kind you demand.

  After we both shudder release,

  we lie, semidozing. His gentle

  snoring tells me his
fear has passed,

  for the moment, at least. My own

  unease is growing. Can’t say why.

  I count by fours. Eight. Twelve.

  IT IS ALMOST NOON

  When we pry ourselves from bed.

  Shower. Dress for the day. I reach

  for my purple bikini bottom, lying

  on the floor next to the bed. Pull

  back, then ask myself why. Cole

  bends over. Picks it up. Hands

  it to me. I want to see how you

  look in it. Please wear it today.

  I think that’s an apology. I smile.

  “Even at the beach? Even at

  the pool? Even at all those places

  where the other guys drool?”

  Cole laughs. Yes, even there,

  Theodor. I’m not sure your

  poetry class is making you

  reach deep enough, though.

  “Maybe not. But my teacher

  has excellent taste. I showed

  him one of your poems. He said

  to tell you it’s really good, and

  you should do something with

  your writing one day. I happen

  to agree. And so, I bet, would

  Dr. Seuss.” Cole’s face is the color

  of an overripe tomato. What?

  Ashley, no one but you has ever

  seen my poetry. Why would

  you show it to your teacher?

  “To get a second opinion. Also,

  to gain a little sympathy. I missed

  his class yesterday, and I’ll miss

  it Monday, too. You’re not mad

  because I used you to buy some

  goodwill? Anyway, don’t let it

  go to your head. Chaucer, I’m sure,

  would not agree with the rest of us.”

  Cole still looks embarrassed,

  but at least he’s smiling. Then

  he asks, Which poem? When

  I tell him, he nods. Good one.

  “They all are, Cole. Take it from me,

  you’ve got talent. We’ve studied a lot

  of poets. Some great. Some not so. In

  my humble opinion, you could be great.”

  It’s close to one when we finally

  emerge from the hotel. Famished,

  but only for food. “I’m starving.

  Where should we go for lunch?”

  Leave it to me. I’ve got it all

  planned. Come on. I follow him

  a few blocks, to where he has parked

  a rusting Jeep borrowed from

  his buddy, Brian. He was going

  to use it today, but when I told him

  what I needed it for . . . He shrugs.

  We’ve got each other’s backs.