Collateral (5 page)

to order, and the relative merits

of the other women in the club.

It's still fairly early, but for a Saturday

night, this place seems pretty quiet.

As usual, Darian is the center of

attention, even among the ladies

at our table. There are three, plus

Darian and me.
Jeez, where are all

the guys tonight?
asks Darian.

I give her a look. She ignores it.

Like you need more men in your

life,
jokes Celine, who is maybe thirty-

five. Her husband is career military,

and currently training grunts east

of here at Marine Corps Air Ground

Combat Center Twenty-Nine Palms—

a stretch of California desert that

pretty much simulates Middle Eastern hell.

Cole just spent a month there in intensive

training. The idea that he might have met

Celine's husband is kind of intriguing.

Ah, come on,
whines Darian.
All I want

is a dance partner who isn't wearing a

skirt. But if that's the best I can do,

it's all good by me. Shall we, girls?

She tilts her head toward the dance

floor. Meghan, who is a little older

than me, shrugs and follows her.

Carrie, who is probably younger,

laughs and does the same. I'm staying

put. Celine and I watch in silence for

a few. Finally, a question bubbles up.

“Why didn't you go to Twenty-Nine Palms?”

Celine smiles.
Trade the ocean for desert?

Not even. Anyway, it's only a temporary

assignment. I'm not going to pack up the kids

and move for a couple of months. He'll be back.

Matter-of-fact. He'll be back. Sooner

or later, they all are. One way or another.

“How long have you been married?”

How many times has he come back?

Is different. Every soldier's story

is the same, or at least has some-

thing in common with every other

soldier's story. Ditto the narratives

of those left behind. Girlfriends.

Wives. Husbands. Children. Parents.

What ordinary people forget is us,

left behind. How we cheer victories.

Weep at photos of flag-draped coffins,

even those enshrining the bodies

of warriors we have never met. Another

day, it might be our loved ones whose

fate dictates arriving home in a box,

shrouded by the red, white, and blue.

I keep that fact folded up and stashed

deep inside a small closet in my brain.

The same hiding place, I suppose,

a soldier buries the fear that feeds

aggression, the drive to lift a weapon

and determination to pull the trigger.

I fell in love with Luke in high school.

He's from a long line of Navy men, and

wanted to enlist right after graduation.

His mom was dead set against it.

“Goddamn Navy took your father away

from me. I won't have it, hear?” See,

Luke's dad was a horrible husband.

Drank most of his paycheck, whored

around every time his ship anchored

in some foreign port. “You go to college,

son,” his mom told him. “Take care

of your lady like a decent man should.”

But Luke was determined to join up,

despite a brilliant GPA and SAT scores.

He talked to a recruiter who convinced

him he was officer material. And so he

compromised. We both attended UNLV

during the school year. But while I spent

summer vacations at home, Luke sweated

out Platoon Leaders Class at Quantico.

He graduated cum laude and accepted

his commission, then spent the next year

in Virginia, acing The Basic School and

specialized infantry officer training. When

they moved him to Camp Pendleton, we

tied the knot. That was eleven years ago.

Person Other than Grunt. Not

enlisted, and so, worthy of scorn,

at least in some soldiers' eyes.

Still, some fast subtraction gives

me important information about him.

“So, he deployed for the Iraq invasion?”

POG or grunt, those Marines are legend.

Oh, yeah. Came home a hero, too.

America was all about taking out

Saddam Hussein. Too bad they forgot

the real-time cost of war, you know?

I do, all too well. “It must be hard,

having kids, when he's gone.”

Celine smiles.
In a way, it's easier.

We have a routine, and I'm in charge,

so there's no room for discussion.

When he's home, believe it or not,

he's a total pushover. Even at nine

and seven, the girls have learned how

to work their father. What's hard . . .

When she pauses, everything about

her softens.
What's hard is having

to tell them he won't make a birthday

or holiday. Again. The one thing

we can count on is we can't count on

anything. Semper Gumby. After a while,

like it or not, you just get used to it.

Semper Gumby. Always flexible.

A seven-month deployment could go

eight or more. Whatever the situation

demands. I've already gotten used to it.

And I haven't even put in half the years

she has, interwoven with a Marine.

“Does it ever get . . . I don't know.

Too much? Have you ever considered

a life outside of the military?”

You mean, desertion?
Her smile grows

wider.
When Luke and I fight, of course

I think about leaving. But I never will.

I decided that when I agreed to marry him.

It has nothing to do with vows, though.

It's about loving him, and I do, with every

molecule of my being. If I didn't, I most

definitely wouldn't be here right now.

One last question before the others

return to the table. “What did you mean

about Darian needing more men in her life?”

Celine's smile finally drops.
Look.

It's really none of my business, and

probably not yours, either. But . . .

She glances toward the dance floor,

and my eyes follow hers. Meghan

trails Carrie down the hall toward

the bathroom. Darian, however, is at

the bar, leaning close to some generic

guy and flashing cleavage. Celine tips

her head, explains,
Darian thrives on

male attention, as you know. Marine

wives talk. There are rumors. That's all.

I can't believe I had to ask
her
that.

I should have known the answer. Or maybe

I did. Do. Whatever. Right now, all I see

is Dar, flirting. That might bother me

more, except I still enjoy flirting, too.

Not quite as overtly as Darian, though.

Is everywhere. Case in point, one

extremely good-looking man is currently

checking me out. Directly enough to make

me blush. He must notice because now

he offers me a beautiful let's-do-it kind

of smile that might just lead somewhere,

if not for that little picture of Cole I carry

around in my head. Still, I color even

deeper. This time it's Celine who sees.

“Sorry.” I turn my full attention back to her.

Don't apologize. I'd turn straight

out purple if he smiled at me like that.

“Sometimes it's just so hard, you know?

Don't you ever get lonely? I mean, for . . .”

Sex? A nice warm body beside me in

bed? Of course. That's pretty normal.

“But you've never . . . well, I haven't,

either. But I almost did once. Cole

had been gone, like forever. And this

guy was just so gorgeous. Sweet. Smart.

A gentleman, too. He never pushed

for anything, but God, I came close

one night. I even kissed him. And,

boy, was it hard to stop. But I did.”

Don't beat yourself up about it.

You did the right thing in the end.

I finish my drink. “Yeah, but I was

so tempted to do the wrong thing.”

Look. You're young. Healthy.

Your body responded to pleasant

external stimuli exactly the way

it's supposed to. No big deal.

I have to smile. “You make lust

sound so clinical.” Logical, even.

It's not exactly rocket science.

Especially if the guy was all that.

Look, being committed doesn't

make you dead, but all those months

alone can make you feel that way

sometimes. You never signed on

for that. Embrace the moments

that let you know you're alive.

With Cole was a long, slow kindle.

The first night we met, we sparked.

But, perhaps because we're both

cautious by nature, we guarded

the flame, kept it smoldering low.

Darian and Spencer blazed. In

a way, I was surprised. Spence

reminded me of Darian's father,

and the clichéd adage about a girl

wanting to hook up with a guy like

her dad didn't seem like it should apply.

Darian didn't much like her father,

a hard-nosed rodeo cowboy who traveled

the circuit and came home only long

enough to rest his horse, screw his wife,

and try to corral his wild child. Darian

was having none of it.
Bastard never

taught me to tie my shoes or ride my bike,

and now he wants to tell me where

I can't go and who I can't see? Hardly!

Okay, Spence is a lot nicer than

Darian's dad, but he carries himself

in a similar way—with an overabundance

of self-confidence. Not conceited, but

so sure of himself as to never admit

being wrong. Regardless, his and Dar's

connection was immediate. Real. Primal.

I have no idea where Cole and I would be

today, if it wasn't for our friends hooking

up that night, and staying hooked up for

the next four days, until the guys' leave

was over and the next phase of training

began. Spence, who was out-of-his-head

in love with Darian from the start, wanted

to spend every minute with her, mostly

in the apartment she and I shared.

Cole had a choice—barracks, Uncle

Jack's, or said apartment. For whatever

reason, he chose the last option. Spence

slept with Darian. Cole crashed on the couch.

That was the original plan. Because,

as drawn to Cole as I was that first night,

I've never been the type to jump straight

into bed with a stranger. Not even a striking,

soft-spoken stranger with eyes that hold

on to you like they can't get enough of you.

So, while Darian and Spence disappeared

inside her room, the door of which did

little to muffle all the moaning and
yessing

behind it, Cole and I talked through the dark

hours, toward daylight. I loved the way,

when he spoke of his mom, his voice got

all silky.
She wanted me to go to college,

even though money was tight. I was almost

through my second year when my kid sister

got sick. Fucking cancer takes the weak,

like wolves culling antelope. Annie fought

hard, but not good enough. Between doctors

and hospitals and the funeral, the savings

dried up.
Two solid years of undergrad

behind him, Cole was considering work

in the natural gas fields when a savvy

recruiter snagged him. Told him he could

send part of his paychecks to his mother,

and college could come, paid-for, after

he fulfilled his commitment. He was still

considering his options when word came

that an Iraqi bullet had claimed his cousin

Eugene, who signed up for the Army while

he was still in high school. He was barely

voting age when he deployed. As Cole

told the story, his body tensed visibly,

and he squinted around the anger

that bloomed in his leonine eyes.

Son of a whore hajji shot Gene square