Man. As soon as they touched him,
Spence started swinging. Let’s just say
the U.S. Marine Corps trains its men
better than Disney Security does.
It took Darian screaming and Cole
interfering to make Spencer back off.
By then, blood was flowing. None
of it was Spence’s. We convinced
him to follow two bleeding guys to
the Security office. Cole had a long talk
with the man in charge, and managed
to persuade him to let Spencer go.
Darian worked her own magic,
and the injured security duo decided
not to press charges. We promised
to leave the park and not return
or ask for a refund. By that time,
Spence had chilled completely,
and really looked sort of remorseful.
At least, the guys who escorted us
to the gate didn’t seem too worried.
They probably should have been.
Even Corps mechanics train in
hand-to-hand combat and lethal
force. Those two Security dudes
got off lucky with black eyes and
bloody noses. Later, over drinks,
Cole and Spencer had a good laugh
about it. Darian actually joined them.
Personally, I was more than a little
worried that the three of them
thought kicking ass on a couple of
guys just trying to do their jobs
was funny. But I let it go. I let lots
of stuff go, and that worries me
some, too. The rest of the evening
went by without incident. We didn’t
return to the park, but we did take
a walk to where we could see fireworks
over Cinderella’s castle, all decked out
in holiday lights. It almost made up for the day.
IN THE MORNING
We caravanned back to San Diego.
The guys, of course, drove, and their
playful game of chicken was truly
terrifying. “Please don’t tailgate,
Cole,” I finally begged, one hand
against the dash, the other gripping
the side of the seat. This is how
infantrymen drive. Don’t worry.
I’ve never rear-ended anyone yet.
Worrying—or arguing—was pointless.
In front of us, Spencer cut to the right
in front of a semi. The truck driver
laid on his horn. Spence flipped him
off. “Think there’s any way we can
convince Spence to see a doctor?”
They already put him on antibiotics.
“Not that kind of a doctor.”
You mean a shrink? What for?
“Depression. Anger. Impulse
control. Posing a threat to society.”
He laughed. You’re describing every
soldier I know. There aren’t enough
shrinks in the world to fix all of us.
YOU CAN TAKE A SOLDIER OUT OF WAR
Confiscate his weapons.
Send him home, reunite
him with his family.
But you
don’t want to turn your back
on him. Better not hand
him a knife. And if you
can’t take
his nightmares, consider
the guest room. His dreams
won’t ever desert him.
The true cost of
war
can’t be measured
in dollars, infrastructure,
or body counts.
It is tomorrows, wrung
out of
hope by yesterdays
that refuse to retreat,
vanish into the smoke
of memory. Ask
a soldier
what he believes in.
He’ll tell you God. Country.
The patient hands of death—
the ones he’s wearing.
Cole Gleason
Present
IT’S A VERY LONG PLANE RIDE
As soon as we land, I call Dar,
but her phone goes to voice mail.
“Just got in. Where are you? Call me.”
Everything seems to move
in slow motion—disembarking,
making my way to Baggage. Waiting
for my suitcase. I don’t know why
I’m in such a hurry. I have no idea
how to get ahold of Dar . . . wait. Yes,
I do. When we were kids, I called
her house at least once a day, often
more. I remember the number.
Her dad answers, and I ask for her
mom, but he says, She’s on her way
down. Darian’s beside herself.
“What happened? Do you know?”
Copter crash. Three guys died.
Spencer’s hanging on, just barely.
He’s in intensive care at the base hospital.
“Okay. Thanks.” I start to hang up.
He stops me. Wait. Will you please
tell Darian I love her? I’d come, too,
but the livestock . . . I’m so damn sorry.
MEN ARE AWFUL COMMUNICATORS
What they leave, dangling
between the lines, is what
they need to learn to say.
What he told me was like a book
cover, hinting at all the words
locked up inside. I’m a good
reader. Then again, I’m privy
to the inspiration for the story.
What, I think, he wanted to
say, if he only knew how, is that
if he could do it over, he’d be
a better dad. More caring.
More involved. More here,
less there. That his daughter
means more to him than his
horse. More than a silver
buckle. Maybe even that we
should have pushed him to
take us out on the circuit, let
us show the world—his world,
especially—that we were special.
That his daughter was every bit
as brilliant a singer as Carrie
Underwood or LeAnn Rimes.
She could have been somebody.
Instead, she ran. From home.
From him. Straight into the arms
of a soldier. A brash, half-crazy
Marine, currently lying in a sterile
intensive care bed, thinking about dying.
AS THE BAGS
Plop from the belt onto the carousel,
my thoughts go to my own Marine,
off soon for another chance at accidental
crash, or completely planned bullet. Why
do we continue to do this? Why have I
volunteered for this kind of worry?
It occurs to me that he ought to know
about Spencer. I give him a call. Catch
him post-mess. “I’ve got bad news,”
is how our conversation begins. Not,
“I made it home safely.” When I tell
him the little I know, he is not totally
surprised. Ah, fuck. I heard about
the crash. News like that travels fast.
I didn’t know Spencer was one of them.
Sucks when they go down at home after
making it back safe from no-man’s-land.
Goddamn Sea Stallion. Freaking ironic.
His matter-of-factness bothers me. This
is his friend, not just some grunt. I promise
to call as soon as I know more, snag
my suitcase, walk to the car, lugging
much more weight than my bag.
I GO STRAIGHT TO THE BASE
&
nbsp; When I tell the MP at the gate why
I’m here, his tough stance softens.
He takes my ID, notes it in his log,
hands it back. Really sorry. Give
Darian my best, please. As he directs
me to the hospital, I study his face
better. Oh, yes. He’s the same guy
who was here the last time I came
through with Dar, no ID check necessary.
It could just be my imagination, but
his somber mood seems to be reflected
everywhere—the streets are a little quieter.
The people I do see aren’t smiling.
When something bad happens to Marines,
their extended military family shares
the experience. I still haven’t heard
from Darian, but I assume she’s here
at the hospital. I ask a receptionist,
who directs me to a small waiting room
outside the intensive care unit. Dar
is there, rocking gently forward and back,
staring at the floor. No television.
No magazine. No company at all.
Just Darian. Dwarfed by worry.
I KNOCK GENTLY
On the doorframe. “Hey,” I say
quietly. “How’re you doing? I tried
to call you when I landed, but . . .”
Her head jerks toward me. Jesus,
Ash, you scared the hell out of me.
You can’t just sneak up on a person.
Then she melts. This is . . . insane.
She gestures for me to sit next
to her. I do, searching for the right
thing to say. We have been friends
for fifteen years and never shared
anything quite as profound as this.
“I talked to your dad. He told me
a little about what happened. He also
said to tell you he loves you and that
he’s really sorry about Spence.”
She stiffens. Frosts. Really? Isn’t that nice?
It bugs me—all this outpouring of love
in times of trouble. People are hypocrites.
And that includes my goddamn dad.
Wow. Does she think that about me,
too? “Dar, I’m pretty sure he meant it.
Some people aren’t good at expressing
emotion. When they’re worried
about you it’s easier.” I change
the subject to something more
pressing. “Tell me about Spence.
What do the doctors have to say?”
She looks at me with bloodshot
eyes. Straightforward says,
He’s got second- and third-degree
burns over sixty percent of his body.
If he makes it—and that’s a big
if—his recovery will be prolonged
and excruciating. Multiple skin
grafts. Physical therapy. And even
with all that, he’ll never be the same.
“Jesus.” It’s impossible to picture
Spencer like that. He’s a fighter, not
a victim. But you can’t fight flames.
I invoke my not-quite-forgotten
religion, send a silent prayer to
the universe. Darian interrupts.
I don’t know how to feel. At all.
I’ve been thinking and thinking.
She lowers her voice. Please don’t
hate me for this, but know the first
thing I thought when I heard?
Problem solved. Yep, that’s right.
Sick, I know. But that was my gut
reaction. But then when I got here
and saw him, bandaged and burned . . .
Burned! All the love I ever felt for him
came crashing back. Oh, God.
He can’t die, Ashley. Not like this!
She leans into me, cries a long time,
soaking my shirt with her tears.
AN IMPORTANT QUESTION DANGLES
Just there. I’m afraid to reach out
for it, but when she finally pulls
away, some inappropriate need
to know makes me ask anyway.
“So . . . what about Kenny?”
Tears glaze her eyes. I don’t know.
I mean, I was ready to tell Spence
that it was over between us. I had
my speech all planned out. The truth
is, I’m still in love with Kenny.
Nothing can change that, not
even this. God. Why does life
have to be so goddamn cruel?
Don’t look at me like that, okay?
I get the whole karma thing, and
if you don’t believe I haven’t been
thinking about it, you’re wrong.
Maybe I’m a bad person. Maybe
I deserve to get my ass kicked.
But like this? As I understand it,
karma’s supposed to be about
squaring things up. Making them
fair. What’s so goddamn fair
about Spencer being the one lying
in there? Karma’s fucked up!
HER VOICE HAS RISEN
With each sentence. A nurse passing
by in the hallway ducks her head
through the door, asks if everything’s
okay. Darian deflates her with a sharp
scowl. Fine. Wonderful. Awesome,
in fact. Just having a little chitchat
about karma. Have an opinion
you’d care to share with us?
When the nurse smiles, her age
shows in the way her face creases.
My daughter has a hamster named
Karma. I put my faith in science.
Apparently satisfied we aren’t at
each other’s throats, the nurse—
Cheryl, her name tag said—goes
about her business. “Look, Dar,
I don’t think you deserve this.
Accidents happen, and they have
nothing to do with karma. This must
be incredibly confusing. I know you
love Kenny. And he’s definitely crazy
about you. I also know that a little part
of you still loves Spence, or you wouldn’t
be here, beating yourself up. Speaking
of that, how long have you been here?”
She looks like hell—rat’s-nest hair and
wrinkle-scarred clothes. “And when
was the last time you ate something?”
She shrugs. I don’t even know
what time it is. They called really
early this morning. Woke me up.
The accident happened yesterday
but it took a while to . . . She winces.
Figure out who everyone was. One
of the other guys came in alive,
but died before his wife could get
here. He and Spence were in back.
The two in front took the worst
of it. They could only ID them by
process of elimination. It was awful.
Knowing Darian like I do, sitting
around here, waiting for . . . whatever
is going to get her all wound up
again. “Hey. Have any food in your
fridge? Why don’t I cook you dinner,
and you can get cleaned up? Maybe
even catch a few z’s. Seems like
everything’s in a holding pattern.”
She starts to say no. Reconsiders.
I’ll go check with the nurse. Be right
back. While she does, I send Cole
a text message with the news I know.
WHEN WE GET TO HER TOWNHOUSE
I strongly suggest, “Go take a shower.
I’ll root through your fridge. See what
I can find
.” She goes off in search of hot
water. I go off in search of sustenance.
Not much in the refrigerator. I try
the freezer and score calzones. Preheat
the oven. Put them in to bake for twenty
minutes. About the time they start to smell
really good, Dar comes into the kitchen, trailing
the scent of Garnier Fructis shampoo. I know
because I use it, too. We discovered it together.
“Calzones, okay? You need to go to the store.”
I hate eating alone, so I don’t grocery shop
very often. Usually I just grab a bite after
the gym. If I see Kenny, we eat out or he cooks.
She sits on a stool at the granite-skinned
bar. Actually, I had planned on moving in
with Kenny after I told Spence. We picked
out this nice little house at Hermosa
Beach. Kenny says I don’t have to work.
I thought I could finish my degree and
after we got married, maybe have a baby . . . .
She had picked up speed with every word,
until the last. The sudden stop reminds me.
BUT I CAN’T ASK HER NOW
If ever. The buzzer rings. Calzones
are ready. I put them on the counter
to cool, reach up into the cupboard
for plates. When I put them down
on the bar in front of Dar, she puts
her hand on mine. Hey. What’s that?
The ring. I’d forgotten about it.
My cheeks sizzle. “Uh, that was
Cole’s surprise. We’re getting
married. He wants a June
wedding. That’s about as far
as our planning got, so I’m going
to need all kinds of help from
you. You’ll be my maid of honor,
right?” I didn’t realize it, but my own
vocal tempo had picked up, too.
It was almost as if I didn’t want
her to comment too quickly. Not
that I should have worried, I guess.
She is quiet as I slide a calzone
onto each plate, put forks beside them.
When I ask about napkins, she
points to paper towels and says,
Are you fucking out of your mind?
WORDS HAVE POWER
The power to soothe. The power
to skewer someone through
the heart. The power to render
someone speechless. I manage
to stutter, “Wha-what do you mean?”
The expression on her face is something
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