Collateral (29 page)

I see,
he says, and leaves it there.

Maybe—or maybe not—because

apparently we have arrived.

Isn't overflowing, but we are here

ninety minutes early, and it is half

full already. “Wow. Who knew so

many people liked poetry? I'm

impressed.” We follow the human

stream into the gym, where we're

directed to the judges' green room.

Jonah greets a pretty brunette

with a kiss to one cheek. My face

heats, and when he turns to

introduce me, I hope neither

of them notice.
This is Heather

Marshall, who teaches English

here. She's wholly responsible

for this event. And this is Ashley

Patterson, one of my favorite

students, and a very good poet

herself.
The jealous wave passes

and Heather hands us a sheaf

of papers, pointing out the judging

rubric. Jonah adds a few words

about what he looks for and I absorb

all that, despite thinking about poetry

and changing lives and how teachers,

not just social workers, do that, and

about a major shift of direction.

My reasoning for choosing

my grad-school path, I'd probably

have to start with the way I felt

after finding Lara's letters. I came

home from Wyoming, already

reassessing my life. Changing

career paths seemed like a brave,

new start. Until then, social work

hadn't even been a consideration,

but when I went over the SDSU grad

school web page, that's where I

ended up. Psychology had always

fascinated me and the idea that you

could manipulate that for the better

was appealing. There were kids

at the preschool whose families needed

interventions. And it was becoming

clear that so many returning soldiers

would need services. The damage wasn't

always obvious. Sometimes it hid

for years before surfacing. I wanted

to help those already home. Those

coming home soon. One day, Cole

might even be among them. I wanted

to be able to recognize the signs, know

what to do if I saw them. Because,

as furious as I was with Cole, I really

needed to believe he loved only me.

For shaky faith. Cole would be

deploying to Afghanistan in just

a few months. Meanwhile, he would

spend some weeks at Pendleton's

sniper academy, if that's what you

could call the obnoxious tract of

swampy coastal land he crawled

through, across, and over. I did get

to see him on his off-hours, and that

was crucial to our survival as a couple.

I needed every fiber of me to believe

he would come home. Not to Lara, ever.

Always, to his Ashley. What bothered

me most was my eroded certainty in

his code of honor—that intrinsic

element that had first pulled me to

him. My inner cynic had long insisted

that no man truly respected such

a thing. Cole had changed that for me.

Or had he? I just wasn't sure anymore.

And in that fertile ground of doubt,

a garden of nightmares took root.

Sometimes pick up the phone, certain

their man will be on the other end,

speaking to them from wherever it is

his spirit now wanders. Sometimes,

I'm told, they even hear his voice.

My nightmares were kind of like

that. Cole would come to me in

the middle of the night, and even

though I knew he wasn't really there,

he was. We would talk about life—

his, mine. Ours, together. We would

plan. Remember. Commiserate.

When he touched me, my skin grew

warm. When he kissed me, he wetted

my lips. When he made love to me,

orgasm came easily. And it was real.

The nightmare was waking up, sure

he was there, and not finding him

beside me. When he finally went

off to Afghanistan, the dreams grew

scarier. Sometimes when he came

to me, he would describe a kill

in all its gore and glory. Sometimes,

he would show me the shrapnel-

strewn landscape. Once in a while,

when he talked, his voice sounded

foreign. And on more than one occasion,

he tried to kiss me without a mouth,

because he was missing half of his face.

Must have come from one of the many

video clips I watched about the war.

Okay, it wasn't a brilliant thing to do,

but I wanted to know what he would

be facing in Helmand Province.

It became something of an obsession.

Truthfully, as Cole's third deployment

approached, I was more afraid than

ever before. Afghanistan wasn't Iraq.

Fed by al Qaeda, the Taliban claimed

much of the country, teaming with

the drug trade in the poppy-rich land.

There was more money there, more

resources, and a deep-seated hatred

of the American infidels. Used to war-

fare and shifts of power, the Afghan

farmers simply went with the flow,

tending their crops and pretending

friendship to whomever wandered

their fields with weapons. Charged

with identifying insurgents, detaining

or removing them, American soldiers

might have been better equipped

than their enemies. But they were dying.

Of course, but 2010 would prove

to be the most deadly of the war

up until that point. All I knew in

the few months leading up to

Cole's deployment was the casualty

counts were high. Rising. President

Obama had ordered thousands more

troops into the region. Cole was one

of those troops. And he was raring

to go. I flew to Hawaii to say good-bye.

He could only give me a few hours.

And, though I understood, it made

me incredibly sad. Made me angry,

because his excitement eclipsed

my disappointment. He was leaving,

and I didn't want to let him go. I stood

glued to him, kissing him as if I had

some sort of insider knowledge

that he would not return all in one

piece. He dismissed my fear.

How many times must I promise

that I will always come home

to you? I love you. And that's

a magical force field, all around me.

But then he had to go. When he tore

himself out of my arms, I thought

I heard the
chink
of a new crack

in our plaster. Splintering hope.

With the dearth of communication.

The battalion was split by company,

and moved to different operating bases

within the Helmand Province.

Conditions, according to the battalion

newsletter, were “spartan,” computers

only available at a few locations. The men

would rotate between them, and a satellite

phone would get passed around, but

we were told to expect long periods

without hearing from our soldiers.

On top of that, “River City” often denied

communication. This happened when

a secret operation was in the works,

or if there was a casualty, to allow

time for the family to be notified

before the press could get wind of it.

And there were casualties, and the press

let us know, sometimes with photos

of flag-draped coffins. As I finished

my senior year, my BA mattered

a whole lot less to me than knowing

I wouldn't spend an afternoon

in Arlington National Cemetery,

mourning for my beloved Marine.

Combing the desert, as if navigating

California's heat-shimmering sand

could somehow bring me closer

to Cole. I even borrowed his truck

from Uncle Jack, who seemed to

understand my growing obsession.

I did not chase rabbits, though

they were plentiful enough. I did

pick late wildflowers, pre-annual

wilt. Determined to avoid any echo

of the summer before—no Jaden-

type temptation—I didn't go out

much. In fact, I became quite

the hermit. My only real human

contact was at my job, where

most of that was with young kids,

who I did not have to worry about

crushing on. I did take a special

interest in one little girl. Soleil

was extremely quiet, and had a hard

time making eye contact. It took a lot

of work, but when I won enough

trust to be able to push her on

the swings, it felt like a real victory.

With me at home, via sat phone.

It had been some seven weeks

since I'd heard a word, and when

the call finally came, the words

I heard were disturbing. Not:

The Afghani people are so happy

we're here. They say they'll feel

safer with us patrolling their fields.

More like:
Bastards can't even

thank us for keeping their women

and kids safe. Probably wish

they'd die so they don't have to

feed them. I'm not allowed to tell

you what all kind of patrols we're

doing. Suffice it to say we've wiped

our fair share of Taliban assholes

off the face of the earth. Praise Allah.

Lost a good buddy last week, though.

Motherfucking IED. I swear I'll get

the guy who did it and if not him,

his brother or father or fucking

grandfather. Sight. Lock in. BLAM!

Oops, there goes another hajji head.

Hey. I have to go. Keep the home

fires burning. I love you, Ash.

And he was gone. The voice

of a ghost. I didn't even get to tell

him I loved him, too. So I sent that

off in a letter. Hoped it reached him.

A noise brought me up out of sleep.

Was it a door? My bedroom door?

I couldn't quite tell. Wasn't exactly

awake. So I stayed very still. In

the silence came the whisper

of feet. “Who's there?” I asked,

but when I tried to see, the room

was empty except for the sound

of footsteps, soft and sinking into

the carpet. I wanted to move but

crushing fear kept me pressed

against the mattress. “Go away!”

It came out barely a whisper.

The foot of the bed compressed,

as if someone had dropped there

on their hands and knees. I saw

no one, and yet the presence—

ghost?—came crawling toward me.

I tried to scream, but the weight

of something invisible and needy

fell against my body, cutting off

all sound. “No!” I tried. “No.”

I choked on the “n.” Then a hand

covered my mouth and the thing

whispered,
I love you, Ash. I'll

always come back to you.
This

time noise escaped my mouth—

the high, anguished keen of a new

widow. I woke, certain Cole had

just returned for a final good-bye.

Lurks there, just this side

of the battlefield, at the fringe

of the poppy field. If I were

a romantic, I might call it

evil

but that would signal intent.

It's more like invitation,

a test of will. It is what

remains

when hyenas and buzzards

have finished their work,

picked the bones

clean, and it

calls

with the voice of the siren,

the song of wind-tossed

sand. It is a ripple

of enlightenment, teasing

the weak

into its embrace

and squeezing the air

from their lungs, pressing

them to their knees

to worship.

Cole Gleason

Is an amazing experience. First

of all, the gym fills up completely.

As Jonah and I take our seats

at the judges' table, I whisper,

“This is like the
American Idol

of poetry. Why are they all here?

Only twenty-six kids are performing.”

He smiles.
Some teachers give

extra credit. And some kids

strong-arm their friends. No

one wants to be the only one

who doesn't get cheered for.

That is not a problem. Everyone

cheers as each poet finishes

reciting a memorized piece.

Some are more theatrical, but

that doesn't necessarily make

for the best performance. In fact,

we're supposed to deduct points

if theatrics outweigh the correct