Collateral (11 page)

That smarted, but I didn't want to

argue, or even defend myself.

“Love is stupid sometimes, I guess.

Look, Mom, I didn't go looking to fall

for a soldier. Yes, I know there's a war.

Cole's heading that way very soon.”

Stating it so matter-of-factly sucked

all bravado out of me. My shoulders

slumped and my eyes stung. “And

I'd really a-a . . .” A huge wad of

emotion crept up my throat. I choked

it back. “Appreciate your support.”

Mom shook her head, dropped

her eyes toward her plate. It was

Dad who said,
Ashley, girl, I think

this is a huge lapse of judgment.

But I can see you're upset. We'll

talk about it after dinner, okay?

But our appetites were crushed

beneath a relentless blitz of silence.

The plain is still,

emptied

of even the thinnest

sounds—the murmur

of creeping sand;

pillowed spin of tumbleweed;

susurrus of feathers trapped

in thermal lift.

The well is dry,

drained

to weary echo

above desiccated silt.

Thirst swells, bloats

every cell until

the body arcs

beneath its weight.

The page is blank,

scrubbed of

metaphor, flawless

turn of phrase. Parched

within the silence, hungered

in a desert without

words,

I am stranded

in your absence.

Cole Gleason

For this trip couldn't be a whole

lot worse. The semester has barely

started, and I'm just settling into

my classes. I'll only miss a few days,

though. Hopefully my professors

will be understanding. I'm not so

sure about Mr. Clinger, who wears

austerity proudly. I wonder if he writes

poetry, too, or if he only analyzes it.

You can't teach poetry without truly

loving it, can you? Guess we'll see. Class

is over for the day, the room deserted

except for Mr. Clinger and me.

“Excuse me.” I muster my prettiest

smile, but when he looks up, he scowls,

and I almost change my mind.

Yes, Ms. Patterson? What can I do

for you?
His voice is flat, though

his blue glacier eyes seem curious

enough. I study his face, subtly creased

beneath a surfer's tan. He might

be handsome, if he could find a smile.

“I won't be in class on Friday or Monday.”

I see. And where, if I might ask,

will you be?
He taps his fingers

on the metal table top. Drumming

impatience. “I'm flying to Hawaii

on Thursday. Cole—uh, my boyfriend—

is deploying to Afghanistan. He'll be gone

seven months and . . .” Suddenly, it hits

me that Cole will spend the holidays

overseas. Again. Flimsy celebrations

this year. “It's his fourth deployment.

We'll have a few days to say good-bye.”

I see.
His tone is not especially

sympathetic.
You'll miss a test, but

I suppose I can let you make it up.

“Thank you, Mr. Clinger.” I saved

some ammunition, just in case.

Apparently, I don't need it, but I'll

use it anyway, if only for punctuation.

“By the way, Cole writes poetry.

I was wondering what you thought

about this.” I hold out the crinkled paper

like it's a special gift, which it is.

He reads Cole's poem, “The Weight

of Silence.” Reads it twice, I think.

Finally comments,
This is good.

“Really? I thought so, too.

I'll tell him you said—”

I wasn't finished. I'm almost sorry

it's this good. I hate to see talent

wasted, and, one way or another,

the military will squander it.

How to respond? I want to say

something, but can't find words.

“I . . . um . . . don't . . .” He stares

intently, dissecting me with

those translucent, cool eyes.

Behind the frost, there's a story.

“I'm sorry. I don't understand

what you mean. Waste it, how?”

Now he's searching for his own

words. That's gratifying. Finally,

This is a military city. Teaching here,

I've seen a lot of what the service

can do. Not much of it is good.

People lose autonomy. Lose dreams.

Worst of all, they lose other people.

People who are important to them.

I nod, because it's largely true. Still,

“I try not to think about losing him.

I know it could happen, sure. But if

I let myself worry, I'd be wrecked

all the time. Cole was a Marine

when I met him. That's who I fell in

love with. I have no way of divorcing

him from the Corps, so I cope.”

I understand. To a point, anyway.

I was an Army brat, so no divorce

was possible. My father dragged

us halfway around the world and

back. I never had real friends. Never

knew what it meant to set down

roots until after I came here. Once

I finally sprouted some, the taproot

grew deep. I doubt I'll ever leave.

That turned out to be a problem

for my wife. Or, should I say, my

ex-wife. She was hot to travel.

Ah, the story behind the frost.

Two stories, actually, or maybe

a pair of epic poems. “So far, Cole

has only been assigned to one PDS.”

Except for deployments, you

mean. Not like they'd send families

chasing their soldiers into Iraq

or Afghanistan. With the coming

draw-down, who knows where

he'll go? Are you ready to follow

him wherever? Especially if you have

kids one day? It's worth thinking about.

The military is a highly engineered

machine. It's only as good as the sum

of its parts, however, and its parts

are fragile. But easily replaced.

Cole, fragile? Not so much.

But I'm not about to argue

the point. “Thanks, Mr. Clinger.

Guess there's a lot to consider.”

Ms. Patterson? Er . . . Ashley?

You forgot this.
He offers me

Cole's poem.
I'm sorry if I seemed

unsympathetic. This really is good.

Tell your boyfriend when he's done

defending freedom, he really should

do something with his writing.

The tension between us dissolves.

“Thanks. I'll be sure to let him know.

He'll probably freak that I showed

it to you, but I really wanted to get

your opinion.” I reach for the paper

and our fingers brush, initiating

a totally unexpected electric jolt.

Holy crap! What was that? My hand

jerks back, zapped, and my cheeks react

with a furious blush—half shame,

half ridiculous lust for a man who is

my professor. A man who is several

years older than I. A man who most

definitely is not Cole. “S-s-sorry,”

I stutter. Stupid! What am I, twelve?

Is, why am I apologizing? And,

to whom? Mr. Clinger smiles

at my obvious consternation.

Oddly, I smile back, despite

my discomfort at what just

transpired between us. Or,

maybe nothing at all did. Maybe

I imagined the whole thing.

But I don't think so. There

is some weird chemistry here.

Travel safely, Ashley. Let's find

a good time next week for you

to make up that test. By the way,

we're moving to spoken word

poetry next week. Here . . .

He scribbles some names on

a personalized Post-it.
If you have

a few minutes before I see you

again, check them out on YouTube.

He offers the paper, and I take it

gingerly, hope he doesn't notice

the way my hand is shaking.

I glance at what he's written.

“Oh, I know Rachel McKibbens

and Taylor Mali. Alix Olson, too.”

His grin widens.
Of course

you do. Have a great trip.

To make it through the rest of the day

without getting turned on by another

professor. Or fellow student, campus

policeman, or janitor. To be fair to myself,

it has been a few months since I've seen

Cole, but I've successfully sequestered

the thought of sex with him, or anyone.

Until today. But to say what happened

earlier meant nothing at all would be

a lie. In that moment, I wanted to fuck

Mr. Clinger. Jonah. That's the name

on the Post-it, above the slam poets.

Some tiny, niggling splinter of me

was desperate to fuck Jonah Clinger

and all the rest of me believes that

shard is a no-good traitor. And tonight

that's what I'm obsessing about.

Not research. Not writing the paper due

Wednesday. Not packing bikinis

and sexy nighties to wear for Cole. Nope.

Instead, I'm trying to drown every

recurring image of Jonah in a huge glass

of Chardonnay. Doesn't seem to

be working. Maybe if it was tequila

I'd have half a chance. Instead, I keep

flashing back to ice blue (not golden) eyes.

I need someone to talk to. But who?

Darian, my forever friend, who's likely

dumping her Marine husband for

a guy who's definitely dumping his Air

Force–focused wife? Probably not

my best choice. My other local friends

are UCSD students with no military

ties. I already talked to Sophie today,

and got her to agree to watch

my apartment. After all the hype

I just fed her about
needing
to see

the love of my life before he leaves

for Afghanistan, how could I possibly

discuss the seedier side of my psyche?

Brittany, who's all sass and easy sex,

no desire for commitment,
ever
(at least

until she finds someone actually worth

committing to?). Another wrong call.

Putting out of place things back

into place. Tossing stuff that needs

tossed. Seeking order in disorder.

I dust. Vacuum. Clean counters,

sinks, and the toilet. At least when

I get back from Hawaii, everything

will be in its place and I can dive

straight back into my class work

without having to do this stuff first.

Finally, I refill my glass. Turn on

my computer. Cruise over to YouTube

and some of the best spoken word

poets in the world. I'm not familiar

with a couple on this list, but before

I'm through watching, I will be.

There is order in this, too. I can read

my poetry out loud, but this is pure

performance. Rhythmic. Bold. Passionate.

Sort of like great sex. The kind I'll

have in a couple of days. With Cole

Gleason. Not Jonah Clinger. Stop it,

already. I turn off my computer, reach

for my pen and the notebook I write

poetry in. Find order in formal verse.

by Ashley Patterson

What happens to kisses never kissed—

those we pretend not to have missed?

Do they fall from our lips and settle, silt,

compress into fossils, layered in guilt;

Do they crumble like wishes, their magic lost,

or wither and curl, seedlings chewed by frost;

or perhaps they take flight, buoyant as screams,

to tempt us again in the heat of our dreams.

What is the ultimate cost of kisses not kissed?

What becomes of passion we choose to resist?

Does it sink like hope on a cloudy morning,

mire us with doubt, muted forewarning;

Does it rise from the groin, seeking the brain,

creeping like quicksilver, vein into vein,

to bewilder, an answer we cannot discern,

or smolder, a candle condemned to slow burn?

What can we say about passion dismissed,

or the import of kisses consciously missed?

Scorned passion is truth we're doomed to forget,

kisses wasted, the weight of final regret.

Right before Cole shipped out

for his first Iraq tour, his enthusiasm

was almost contagious. Almost.

When he'd call, he'd talk about

a hundred klicks (military speak