Collateral (43 page)

The Bible counsels an eye for an eye.

Wonder how many eyes Cole has plucked.

I'm sure his debt to his cousin has been paid.

Comes marching out of the cerebral

prison I've confined it to. I've invested

five years in our relationship, and Cole

has rewarded me with his amazing love.

If something were to happen to him

now, would that half-decade have been

worth it? And if we get married, ride

yet another wave of time together, only

for me to lose him to a bullet, would

I celebrate those years, or curse them?

I need to talk to Celine. Almost four

months since she buried Luke, the shine

must have worn off the pain by now.

I give her a call, ask if I can interrupt

her Sunday for a short visit. She gives

me directions to her house. On the way,

I stop off for flowers—a huge spring

bouquet, yellow roses and orange daffodils.

I sent an arrangement to the funeral,

but it likely got lost midst the dozens, most

of them red, white, and purple/blue.

Thus the yellow and orange. No reminders.

Of him everywhere. Small flags

decorate the white picket fence

protecting Celine's immaculate

front yard. They flap, red, white,

and blue, in the breeze. Inside,

framed photos of Luke hang

on the walls, and take up space

on end tables. Luke, in uniform.

Luke, holding his girls. Luke,

kissing Celine. Luke, Luke, Luke.

A shadow box holds the folded

flag that had draped his coffin.

That sits on the mantel of the little

stone fireplace that takes up most

of one wall of the living room.

I'm not sure I could look at Cole

like this. Not if he was never

coming back to me. I'm not sure

how to open the conversation.

Celine saves me the trouble.

Sit, please. Can I get you some

coffee?
When I decline, she says,

Okay, so tell me. What's up?

Still planning a June wedding?

“That's just about all I've been

doing . . .” I give her a quick rundown

so we can push small talk to one side.

I finish with, “Cole's being transferred

to Pendleton. He wants MARSOC.”

Ah. And that's counterintuitive

to planning for a future together.

I understand completely. Luke and I

had a similar discussion once.

“But you encouraged him to stay

in, right?” Of course she did. That's

what all military wives do—support

their soldiers, no matter what.

Celine shakes her head.
I told him if

he reenlisted, it would be the end

of us. Obviously, he convinced me

otherwise. Love can be stubborn.

“So . . . I don't know how else to ask

this, other than straight out. And I'm

sorry, but you're the only person I know

who can answer it. Was it worth it?

I mean, if you had it to do over, would you?”

I've thought about this a lot, Ashley.

Every day with Luke was a better

day than one without him. But there

were way too many of those days.

I'll always love Luke, and what

we were together. But I'm watching

my children suffer. And when I'm

alone at night, I get so mad at him!

How could he do this to us?
Her eyes

brim. Spill.
Was it worth it? Probably.

Would I do it again? No fucking way.

Tying up loose ends. Finishing

my time at the women's shelter.

Finding a replacement volunteer

for the VA hospital. After all, I'm

getting married. Probably.

I should be ecstatic. Barely able

to control my excitement. Counting

down the days. Somehow, I'm not.

But how could I call it off now?

All the plans are finalized. Except

for the honeymoon, which will

have to wait until after Cole's training,

assuming he'll be accepted, and no

one believes he won't be. People

are coming from all over to witness

our “I do's.” Even Dad's parents,

all the way from their retirement

heaven in Alaska. Weird to retire

in Ketchikan, yes. But they are

the tree my father fell from.

Mainstream is so not the family

thing. At least, not on my side.

Cole's side? Well, they'll just have

to get used to us, I guess. I hope.

I've spent a lot of time hoping lately.

Jonah calls.
A couple of things. One,

I would really like for you to help out

with the lit mag next year. We need

an assistant editor. Interested?

I'm flattered he thought of me.

“Absolutely, if you're sure

I'm capable.” I wait for the second

thing.
More than capable. You'll

be a great addition to our staff.

I also need some help screening

the poetry contest entries.

Most of them will go to the judge,

but we usually don't send the ones

with obvious problems. Like, not

actually qualifying as poetry.

I laugh. “People pay an entry fee

to send nonpoems to a big contest?”

You'd be surprised, my dear.

Can you invest a few hours this

afternoon? I'll buy you dinner.

“I'm a starving student, with time

to kill. When do you want me?”

He doesn't let that one go.
Only

every time I think about you. But

if you could be here by three,

that would be great. See you then.

He thinks about me? Joke or no,

that makes me warm. Makes me

blush, most of the way to his office.

Luckily, the walk from the parking

lot cools me off just enough. We spend

close to three hours screening contest

entries and tossing obvious rejections

into a pile after pulling their entry-

fee checks. Some have obvious

misspellings or grammar problems

(and since it's poetry, that means

lack of grammar of any kind). Others

are simply very weak. “I kind of like

this one. ‘You make me go weak in

the knees. Like the birds make the bees.' ”

Jonah looks at me with disbelieving

eyes.
You've got to be kidding, right?

“Yeah, actually, I am. I'm about

finished here, though. And hungry.”

I leave my car, ride with Jonah.

We settle on a brewpub. Order giant

burgers and dark beer. Not my usual

thing, but Jonah convinces me to try it.

You've got to live large once in

a while. Veer from the norm, away

from what is or isn't expected of you.

Yeah, like being here with him.

But it's been such a hard week,

tossing stuff back and forth in

my head. I really need to let it all

go. And I'm starting with dark beer.

We eat. Drink. Talk. Joke. Laugh.

Drink some more. And before I know

it, evening has slipped well into night.

“The wai'ress is givning us funny looks.”

Wow. I'm buzzed. Jonah smiles.

Probably time to get you home. Darn

dark beer. I think I should drive you.

I think he's right. I don't dare drive

like this. But, “Wha' 'bout my car?”

I can pick you up tomorrow and

bring you to get it. Not a problem.

He settles up, steers me to his car.

Drives me home without a single

swerve, missed stop sign, or other

indication he's feeling anywhere

near as messed up as I am. “Glad you

can hol' your beer better than I can.”

Just takes practice. And body mass.

I've got a few years on you. A few

pounds, too. Okay, a lot of pounds.

We're there in less than ten minutes.

Jonah walks me to the door, waits

while I fumble for my keys. I find

them and am just sliding the correct

one into the lock when a familiar

truck comes screeching to a halt

in the parking lot, right behind

Jonah's car. The driver's door jerks

open, and out jumps Cole. It isn't

the first time I've seen him crazy-eyed,

but never has he directed those eyes

toward me in such a menacing way.

He moves like a soldier. Confident.

Fast. And pissed off at the world, or

at least this particular island of it.

Jonah reacts quickly, moving in

front of me just as Cole reaches

the sidewalk, hands clenching.

Where the fuck have you been?

And who the fuck is this?
He reeks

of whiskey, tobacco, and anger

sweat. “Cole! What are you doing

here?” His eyes focus on me, and

just for a second, seem to soften.

But when he looks at Jonah, fury

glazes them over.
What are you

doing here?
He mimics, slurring.

Didn't expect me, did you? Didn't

think I'd be watching you, huh, bitch?

Watching me? A cold wave of fear

washes over me. Jonah feels it, too.

His body tenses. But somehow

he keeps his voice steady.
Wait

a minute. Don't talk to her like that.

Cole takes a step toward him.

He's wearing a tight khaki T-shirt,

and I can see his biceps twitching.

Or what? You gonna kick my ass,

queer?
He gives Jonah a hard push

with two hands, knocking him

backward, into me. “Cole, please.

Stop it. You need to quit now.”

Unlike Jonah's voice, mine is

quivery. Cole moves back as if

he might listen, but now Jonah

says,
I think you should go. Come

back tomorrow, when you're sober.

It's enough to set Cole off again.

I'm not taking orders from you,

motherfucker!
He's screaming

now.
You either, you goddamn whore.

I knew you were fucking around!

The neighbor flips on her porch

light and now everything is in motion.

Cole comes at Jonah, who does

his best to defend himself. But he

is no match for a Marine trained

in hand-to-hand combat. Jonah goes

down on one knee. Cole circles to do

more damage. I move between them.

“Please, Cole. You don't understand.

Nothing's . . .” My jaw explodes.

Pain shoots through me and now

I am falling. Someone catches me,

keeps my head from snapping back.

Jonah lays me down, covers me

with his body, expecting more blows.

But Cole freezes. I look up at him,

through a haze of red. Blood. From

me or Jonah, or both of us. I'm not

sure. I try to say something, but

my mouth won't work. And, oh God,

it hurts.
Don't move,
says Jonah,

and don't try to talk.
He reaches

for his cell phone, dials for help.

Still, Cole doesn't move. Just stares

at me, shaking his head, as if he can't

believe what he just did. That

makes two of us. “Go,” I manage

to tell him. “Get out of here.” I don't

know if he understands. But he runs.

The paramedics arrive, I am

sitting up, propped against

the wall. Jonah keeps asking

if I'm okay. I must not look it,

or he'd probably quit asking.

I reach up, touch my cheek,

which feels like someone shoved

a volleyball inside it. My jaw,

I'm sure, is broken. Along with

my heart. Once Jonah and I both

swear it was not Jonah who did

this, the EMTs want to know what

happened. “My ex,” I say, then

point to my jaw. “Hurts.” I don't

want to talk to them or anyone.

Don't want to say who's responsible.

Classic battered wife syndrome.

The EMT whose name badge reads

Alvarez
is unsympathetic.
I see this

shit all the time. You'd better file

a police report. Get a restraining

order. Especially
—he gives Jonah

a straight-out once-over—
if your, uh,

friend here is going to be around.

Meanwhile, your jaw is busted up

pretty good. We can take you into

the ER, or he can drive you. Cheaper