Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  To work and save a little money.

  To wait to hear from my soldier.

  To spend time with Jaden.

  My dad didn’t seem to care one

  way or another. But when I told

  Mom I wasn’t going home,

  the first thing she said was

  What aren’t you telling me?

  For whatever reason, I broke

  down and confessed. I steeled

  myself, waiting for her to berate

  me. After all, she was the one

  who had been cheated on for years.

  Instead, she commiserated.

  You’re young. You should

  be having fun, not spending

  so much time alone. Tell me

  about Jaden. What’s he like?

  “He’s smart.”

  No smarter than Cole.

  “He’s ambitious.”

  Ditto Cole. Just with different goals.

  “He’s wealthy.”

  That one impressed her. Me, not

  so much. I planned to make my own

  way, regardless.

  “He’s gorgeous.”

  No more so than Cole. One dark,

  one blond. One blue-eyed, one

  amber-eyed. And I had no preference.

  “He’s athletic.”

  Tennis champ. Rowing champ.

  Decent surfer, too. Cole could

  no doubt run circles around him,

  even if he couldn’t ride a board.

  The comparisons were inevitable.

  Eventually, it came down to one

  very major difference.

  Jaden was a civilian.

  Cole was a Marine.

  IT WAS A BREEZE-SOFT KISS

  That made me decide not to see

  Jaden anymore. We’d had a lovely

  day at the beach. Dinner after. Drinks.

  We stood, arm to arm, leaning against

  the deck railing outside Jaden’s Spartan

  little house. A huge harvest moon smiled

  over the horizon and the sky was clear

  enough to reveal a feast of stars. We

  were talking about the future. His. Mine.

  Not ours. But that felt like a given. So

  when he leaned down, brushed my lips

  sweetly with his, it felt right. For a moment.

  Then the wrong of it came crashing

  down. It wasn’t a demanding kiss, not

  even suggestive. But it wasn’t Cole’s,

  and I knew before I could ever welcome

  another man’s kiss, I’d have to say good-bye

  to my soldier. “I love you,” I said, and I

  meant it. “Please take me home.” And

  he understood that I had made a decision.

  Jaden and I are long-distance friends now.

  We talk from time to time. He’s getting

  married soon. They sent an invitation,

  but I can’t be at the wedding.

  That night, I wasn’t near certain

  I’d made the right choice. I wasn’t even

  sure the day after, when I finally got

  word from my close-to-promotion soldier.

  HE DID NOT APOLOGIZE

  In his mind, I shouldn’t have worried.

  Besides, all those silent days were

  just a part of the job description.

  He didn’t see, would never know,

  how relief barrel rolled over me

  when his handwritten letter arrived.

  Hello, my beautiful lady. How I wish

  I were there with you, instead of killing

  time in this god-forsaken land. Seriously.

  God probably looks down on this place,

  wondering what the fuck he was thinking.

  As I write this, the thermometer outside claims

  it’s one hundred nine degrees. That’s well after

  the motherfucking sun has set. It is relentless,

  only rivaled by the wind, which I think is doing

  its level best to clear the desert of sand.

  I can’t share too many details about what I’ve

  been up to. Suffice it to say the great American

  masses only know as much as they’re allowed

  to by The Machine. It’s all good. No need to know.

  I volunteer for the ugliest stuff, not only to fight

  the oppressive boredom, but also to impress those

  who can give me a leg up. Rank means more

  than better pay. It means plum assignments.

  Once I get back to Al Asad, I’ll test for lance

  corporal, and will make it no problem. Then I

  plan to put in for sniper training. I’m the best

  shot in my unit. That includes moving targets . . .

  HIS CARE PACKAGE WISH LIST

  Did not include chocolate or soap.

  Or anything else that would melt

  easily, sitting in the back of a truck,

  stalled in the brutal heat. He did ask

  for cigarettes. He always did, though

  I never saw him smoke when we were

  together, never smelled tobacco on him.

  Every time he requested them, I had

  to wonder who he became “over there.”

  This letter told me not to ask the dirty

  details. How filthy were they, really?

  On some level, I understood he was

  trained to kill. His unspoken words

  shouted, I have killed! But just who

  did he kill? Combatants? Innocents?

  Scorpions, rats, snakes, and dogs?

  Did they all die the same way? Did he

  watch? Laugh? Desecrate death, sick

  celebration? Despite his assertion

  that the average Joe shouldn’t know,

  video footage was surfacing via

  the Internet. I never found Cole’s face

  among the most reviled. Had I, would

  I have forgiven him summarily, or might

  it have tarnished my belief in us?

  Because, despite Jaden, despite weeks

  of worry, despite the unsettling image

  of moving targets in Cole’s crosshairs,

  one fact remained. I loved him.

  MOVING TARGETS

  Are primo. If I were

  a girl, they’d make me wet.

  As it is, they make me

  hard.

  It’s about being the best.

  Truth be told, any

  half-ass grunt can manage

  to

  aim a SAW at a milling

  crowd, flatten it out.

  And most civilians can

  understand

  how to draw a straight

  bead on a paper bull’s-eye.

  What’s infinitely

  harder

  is assessing wind and

  distance to intelligent prey,

  aware of you trying

  to

  estimate their path and

  speed. Thwart evasive

  action, it’s impossible to

  deny

  unparalleled skill at the kill.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  EVASION

  Of a marriage proposal can only

  look like one thing: a solid no.

  “Let me think it over” means,

  “I’m really not sure.” But whether

  that’s not sure of “you” or “me”

  or “us” doesn’t much matter.

  Uncertainty is tantamount

  to “something here is wrong.”

  And yet, I say yes, and I say

  it with little hesitation. Maybe it’s

  the five-year-old-on-Christmas-

  morning expression on Cole’s face.

  Or maybe it’s the two bottles

  of champagne we’ve consumed.

  Possibly, it’s
the craving to bring

  a higher level of legitimacy

  to our relationship, in the eyes

  of the Corps, not to mention

  the rest of the world. Whatever

  it is, I push away every notion

  of “something here isn’t quite

  right,” and accept the gorgeous

  two-carat diamond in platinum.

  Cole slides it on my finger.

  “It’s a little big, but it’s beautiful.”

  We’ll get it sized. And it should be

  beautiful. It cost a good chunk

  of ten paychecks. I love you, Ashley.

  I’ll be back in May, so we can have

  a June wedding. If that suits you.

  I breathe a huge, silent sigh

  of relief. I half-thought he might

  suggest doing the deed right now.

  “I think I can pull it together by

  June. There’s a lot of planning

  to do.” Despite my reservations,

  excitement trills. Every girl dreams

  of her wedding. Including me.

  Cole rushes ahead. When I get

  back, I’ll go active reserves, and

  we can move to Wyoming. We can

  stay with Mom until I find work.

  Then we can start a family. Two

  kids. Maybe three, depending.

  “Whoa! Slow down. Wedding first.

  Family later. And don’t you think

  we should discuss little details like

  where we’ll live?” It vaguely creeps

  me out that he’s thought so much

  about this without consulting me.

  Well, sure. It’s just, I want us to

  start out ahead of the game. Mom

  could use some help, and Dale

  made sure the ranch was paid for.

  Cole’s stepfather passed away last

  April, leaving his mom alone again.

  No rent would be a good thing, right?

  I can’t exactly argue with that.

  “Well, sure. And, hey, we’ve got lots

  of time to work out all the details.”

  THAT THOUGHT

  Comforts me the rest of the day. Cole

  had that all worked out, too. After

  our bubbly-soaked afternoon, rather

  than risk driving back to Honolulu,

  he has us booked at a bed-and-breakfast–

  type room here on the North Shore. Nothing

  fancy, and we have to share a bathroom,

  but it’s just overnight. We make the best

  of it, and the celebration continues

  with local mahi burgers, the last bottle

  of champagne, and Cole’s crazy idea

  for dessert—banana cream pie, using

  our bodies as plates. I shudder to think

  what sort of magazine or movie might

  have made him come up with that.

  But I have to admit it’s kind of fun,

  especially since I don’t have to wash

  the sheets. The bed is a small double,

  and after we finish, we lie sticky (in more

  ways than one) in each other’s arms.

  It will be our last night together

  for several months. So we don’t waste

  a lot of time sleeping. Toward morning,

  totally spent, Cole dozes. I’m wasted tired

  but the tornado of thoughts twisting

  inside my head defeat sleep for me.

  By checkout time, shadows semicircle

  my eyes and I’m mostly incoherent.

  TWO HOURS OF SLEEP

  Have done wonders for Cole,

  and he chatters all the way back

  to the Waikiki hotel. We return

  via the East Shore route, which

  takes us past Kaneohe Bay.

  The base sits on a jut of land

  surrounded by ocean. “You know,

  some people would kill to work

  in a place like this,” I observe.

  Some people have. The offhand

  comment bears a lot of weight.

  It’s more like many men, and maybe

  even a few women stationed here

  have taken lives. Innocent people,

  no doubt, dropped right along with

  deserving insurgents. “Does it ever

  bother you? The death?” I’ve avoided

  prodding him for details. Once in a while,

  my curiosity won’t leave me alone.

  Not when I’m over there. Death

  is a part of the landscape. Dead dogs,

  dead donkeys. Dead camels. Dead

  people. The only thing you don’t get

  used to is the fucking bloat-rot smell.

  He steers around a pothole. When

  I get home, the memories get to me

  once in a while. You see things . . .

  the things humans do to each other

  sometimes are downright sickening.

  “I can only imagine.” Not that I

  want to. Except I have this morbid

  need to understand. “Even guys

  you know?” I expect him to deny

  it. Unfortunately, he doesn’t.

  Oh, yeah. Even guys I know. One

  time, I saw an MP let his dog go

  on a prisoner. A kid, really. Maybe

  sixteen. He acted all tough, but not

  for long. After the fourth or fifth

  chomp, his thigh looked like sausage.

  When the dog aimed for his personal

  sausage, the kid talked. Cole laughs,

  with neither malice nor genuine humor.

  Not sure his information was any good,

  though. If I were that boy, and someone

  sic’d his dog on my huevos, I would

  have come up with some information,

  accurate or not. It is a problem with

  that particular method of interrogation.

  Cole seems so comfortable talking,

  I decide to try a more direct approach.

  “So, you’re saying the boy was innocent?”

  This time derision laces his laughter.

  Nope. I’m not saying that at all. No one

  over there is innocent. Every single one

  of them is guilty of wanting us dead.

  HE’S SO SINCERE

  He almost sways me. I haven’t been

  “over there,” so it’s hard for me to

  dispute his obviously heartfelt opinion.

  However, his callousness remains, and

  maybe always will, a wedge between us.

  Because I simply can’t not believe that

  a common string of humanity ties me—

  us—to the Iraqi and Afghani people. Some

  of them are hell-bent to serve evil, yes. But

  so are plenty of Westerners. Hard to tell

  who is who sometimes. And when one

  of the ones you’re unsure about is someone

  you love—uh, someone you just agreed

  to marry—things get really watery.

  Arguing would serve no purpose, though.

  Maybe asking this question won’t, either.

  But I’m going to, anyway. “Have you done

  things over there that you’re not proud of?”

  Everyone has, Ashley. It goes with

  the territory. You get bored, you get

  scared, you go looking for an outlet.

  But the thing is, for the most part,

  I can sleep just fine at night. Not

  everyone I know can say that.

  HE DOESN’T ELABORATE

  And I’m not really sure I want him to,

  so I lean back in the seat, close my eyes.

  Next thing I hear is the sound of a city

  bus shifting gears. I jump awake right

  about the time Cole maneuvers the Jee
p

  into a tight parking space. “You’re good

  at that.” My voice is husky from sleep.

  I’m good at a lot of things, as I would

  hope you know by now. He glances

  at his watch. I have to be back on base

  by five. It’s a little after three now.

  Are you hungry, or . . . ? We agree

  to the “or.” It will be the last time for

  many months, so we take special care

  to make it memorable. I even wear

  my engagement ring, though I have

  to put it on my middle finger so it

  doesn’t fall off. By the time we finish,

  exhaustion has claimed me—muscles,

  bones, brain. I want food, but I need

  sleep more. I sit against the headboard,

  watching Cole get dressed. “Did anyone

  ever tell you how graceful you are?”

  Like a gazelle—built to escape death.

  Uh, no. And I hope that isn’t in

  any way questioning my manhood.

  Somehow, I doubt it. He comes over.

  Kisses a bittersweet good-bye. I’ll be back

  before you know it. I love you.

  THE DOOR CLOSES

  Behind him, leaves me here,

  counting tears. They brim, fall,

  splat in syncopated rhythm.

  The door is closed. Cole is gone.

  I will never get used to this.

  Hollowed. Emptied. Drained.

  I put the pillow over my head.

  Inhale the darkness, pungent

  with the smell of Cole’s sweat

  and our sex. How would it be

  to see him every day? Is it even

  possible that we can be a regular

  married couple, both of us off

  to work in the morning. Dinner

  at home together each night?

  And children. Babies? Am I

  the only girl my age who hasn’t

  thought about having a family?

  I’m still figuring out what I want

  to be when I grow up. Wife and

  mother is not at the top of my list.

  Then again, neither is childless

  spinster. It’s just too much to think

  about right now. Sleep deprived.

  That’s what I am. Once I’m rested,

  the answers will come easier. Right?

  IT’S INSANELY BRIGHT

  So many crystals of sand, reflecting

  the high, hot sun. No shade to speak of,

  no shelter from the inexorable heat

  lifting off the rutted street. Footsteps

  slap behind me. I turn, ready to fight.