Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  I was hoping to hold onto it a little

  longer. Guess that means I might

  as well head home. So looking

  forward to mass this afternoon.”

  You used to be such a good, little

  Catholic. What happened?

  “My parental role models. All

  that confessing going on

  and not enough genuine apology.

  I still like the incense, though.”

  We arrange for me to pick her up

  in a couple of days. Say a Hail Mary

  for me. I could use some forgiveness.

  WHEN I WAS A KID

  Christmas Eve mass was critical.

  My obligation was fulfilled. I had

  been forgiven. Baby Jesus was almost

  born, and he was happy with me

  (okay, slight logic lapse, but whatever),

  and that meant Santa was definitely

  on his way. That last part I deciphered

  all by myself. We always had a nice

  dinner out, so Mom wouldn’t have

  to cook or wash dishes. Enough of

  that to come the next day. Then it

  was overdosing on sappy holiday

  flicks. My parents let Troy and me

  stay up really late, hoping we’d sleep

  in a little. As if. He and I were up

  before dawn broke. We’d sneak into

  the living room to count all the gifts

  Santa had delivered overnight.

  It was magical. Over the years, little

  by little, the magic has faded away.

  The only person up early today is me,

  and only because my phone rings

  a little after five a.m. It’s five thirty

  p.m. in Afghanistan. “Hey, baby.”

  Merry Christmas, lady. Sorry

  to get you up at the crack of dawn.

  Everyone wants the phone. I can’t

  talk more than a second. But I want

  you to know I love you. Miss you.

  I’m in need of some serious Ash time.

  JUST LIKE SANTA

  Up the chimney, he’s gone.

  I lie in bed, visions of Afghanistan

  dancing in my head. I expect to find

  an e-mail from Cole later, with a little

  more information. Probably what

  they’re having for dinner. Some

  prank some grunt pulled on another.

  Possibly a hint of what he’s been

  doing during those long stretches

  when I hear not a word from him.

  The usual minutiae on this less-

  than-ordinary day. That’s what

  it should be, anyway. I’ll settle for

  mellow. A little conversation would

  be nice. Something to melt the silent

  ice between Mom and Dad. Troy

  and Gretchen and I have done our

  best, but so far, no dice. I get out

  of bed, snuggle into a robe. Maybe

  Santa showed up last night after

  all, with a tree and trimmings and

  lots of presents. I extract the ones

  I brought from my suitcase, tiptoe

  down the hall to the living room.

  See no sign that Santa was there.

  I turn up the heat, root through

  the entertainment center shelves,

  locate a CD of Christmas music.

  Old rock ’n’ rollers, singing carols.

  If no one else wants Christmas, I do.

  It’s only a little after six, but I put

  on the music, turn it up loud enough

  so I can hear it in the kitchen. Go

  start coffee. Glance in the fridge.

  Looks like prime rib for dinner.

  Perfect. There are lots of apples

  in the drawer. I’m thinking pie.

  I start peeling and slicing and by

  the time the rich, bitter scent of

  Sumatran perfumes the air, Mom

  comes padding into the room.

  Merry Christmas, Ashley. She hands

  me a small box, wrapped in gold

  foil. Inside it are two filigreed rings.

  Mom and Dad’s wedding rings.

  I thought you’d appreciate them

  the most. Hope Cole likes them.

  Her long, deep hug makes me cry.

  Rewind

  AFTER DALE’S FUNERAL

  Cole flew back to San Diego with me.

  The whole way, I wondered if his mom

  had mentioned the thing with Lara,

  but if she had, he didn’t bring it up.

  I decided confession was every bit

  as useless as my confronting Lara

  had been. Rochelle was right. Love

  without trust is nothing more than

  infatuation. Pointless, considering

  the loosely woven fabric of my relationship

  with Cole. It’s impossible to weave

  the threads tighter when you spend

  so much time apart. We felt like gauze.

  I had to have faith that the filaments

  were strong. Easier, when you’re

  sitting close, holding hands, making

  plans for a future together. Easier,

  when you’re laughing over a couple

  of beers, fish and chips, and a shared

  piece of chocolate decadence cake.

  Much easier when, buzzed and needy,

  you tumble into a familiar bed together.

  WE SLEPT TOGETHER

  At Rochelle’s, but not comfortably.

  It felt strange, sharing a bed there,

  like maybe the walls possessed ears.

  The sex was muted. Low-volume

  fumbling. Satisfaction-free. At least,

  for me. By the time we got back to

  my apartment, I was starving for more.

  And, doubtless because of my recent

  run-in with Lara, I felt like I had something

  to prove. To Cole. And to myself. I was sick

  of playing passive. I wanted to try on

  the power role, and so I didn’t crawl

  to one side of the bed and wait for Cole

  to make love to me. I pushed him

  backward into the bedroom. Dropped

  to my knees in front of him, unbuckled

  his belt, unzipped his jeans, slid them

  off. Watched him stir, helped him grow

  completely hard with my hands. Mouth.

  I brought him right to the brink. Stopped.

  Stood. Took off my own clothes. “Lie

  down. And don’t move.” Oh yes, I liked

  taking control. I kissed my way up on

  top of him. Licked his face. His neck.

  His chest. I straddled him, pushed

  him in, rocking hard. Harder. Not enough,

  with him still inside me, I turned around,

  faced the other way, and that angle

  created exquisite pressure. I made it

  last as long as I could. We both howled.

  SATIATED

  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.

  THE NEXT DAY

  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.

  COLE’S REACTION

  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?

  THE COLOR OF PASSION

  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

  Present

  JUMPING SHIP

  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.

  I NEVER MET LUKE

  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?”

  THE JOKE

  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.

  ROUGH DAY AT THE VA

  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,