Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  my skin like it wanted to burst.

  I restacked the letters exactly

  as I found them, bound them

  with the same rubber band.

  But I didn’t put them back in

  the drawer. Instead, I stretched

  the sheets over the bed, left

  the evidence there, on the foot

  of the homemade quilt. It did

  strike me then that Rochelle

  knew about the letters. She had to.

  She had moved Cole’s dresser,

  and his clothes. Folded them,

  put them inside the drawers.

  No way could she have missed

  the letters there. And she’d asked

  Lara to dinner the year before.

  What must she have thought

  of me? That I was a romance

  wrecker? Or maybe just stupid?

  I picked up Cole’s clothes, folded

  them, too. Put my suitcase right.

  Everything neat. Everything orderly.

  Everything except my life. No way

  could I reconcile my Cole with

  the person who had lied to me.

  How could he promise the things

  he did, all the while plotting such

  treachery? Under other circumstances,

  I probably would have packed

  up and left, but I was alone

  there, somewhere in the frozen

  wilds of Wyoming, with no available

  transportation. I was pretty sure

  I could not convince a cab to come

  all the way to the ranch, if Cheyenne

  even had such a thing as taxis.

  I thought about walking, but even

  if I could have found my way on foot

  to the airport, it would have been

  a very long, cold hike. I was trapped.

  I STARTED TO PACE

  Six steps one way, six steps back,

  all the while having a conversation—

  no, more like an argument—with myself.

  Logical me: The last letter

  was dated over a year ago.

  Emotional me: Doesn’t mean

  there haven’t been others since.

  Oh, yeah, and what about e-mail?

  Logical me: You don’t know when

  he e-mailed her last. Maybe it was

  just his first deployment.

  Emotional me: Right. And even if

  it was, computer time is limited.

  He could have e-mailed me instead.

  Logical me: Your relationship

  was fledgling. Theirs had ended.

  Sometimes it’s hard to let go.

  Emotional me: He told me it was

  over. He totally lied to me.

  Logical me: Most men are liars.

  I thought you understood that.

  Emotional me: I can’t believe

  that. All men are not my dad.

  Logical me: You sound like me.

  I WAS IN A SHADOWED SPACE

  When they got home from church.

  It’s a place inside my head I crawl

  into, when things get too overwhelming.

  Cole hasn’t found me there very often.

  But he did that day. He came in, all

  smiles. The look on my face told

  him a lot. But when I asked him to

  please come back in the bedroom,

  he definitely did not expect to see

  those letters soiling the quilt.

  All I could say was, “You lied to me.”

  He offered no excuse, only apology.

  I don’t know what to say, Ash. I . . .

  “You told me there was no girl back

  home. No other girl at all. Why did

  you tell me that if it wasn’t true?”

  There wasn’t. Not really. As far as

  I knew, she had vacated my life

  completely. I never thought she’d

  change her mind. Besides, by

  the time she did, I was in love

  with you. She means nothing to me.

  “Shut up, Cole. If she means nothing

  to you, why did you see her last

  Christmas? How dare you make me

  think I was being unfair, wanting to

  be with you, when you . . . God, what

  else have you lied to me about?”

  Nothing. Ashley, she and my mom set

  up the Christmas thing. That was before

  I let my mother know for sure that Lara

  and I will not be getting back together.

  I swear, I wasn’t plotting to see her.

  “Really? You mean, she doesn’t

  write you in Hawaii, or when you’re

  overseas? Looks like she e-mails

  you, and that you reply. If you love

  me so damn much, have you told her

  about me?” I was out of breath and

  my heart was beating furiously. He

  started toward me, but I backed away.

  Please, Ash, calm down. She e-mailed

  a couple of times to make sure I was

  okay. Not to set up a date. All I did

  was respond so she wouldn’t worry.

  He had left my last question

  unanswered. Suddenly, it took

  on tremendous importance.

  “Cole, have you told Lara about

  you and me? I really need to know,

  and please tell me the truth.”

  He couldn’t have lied if he tried.

  His eyes held nothing but guilt.

  No. It just never came up, and

  it didn’t seem that impor—

  I AM BY NATURE

  Silent in anger. When I blow off

  steam, it’s generally internal. If

  I hadn’t exploded outwardly

  right then, I probably would have

  imploded soon after. Instead,

  I picked up the letters, threw

  them in his face. “Fuck you!”

  I screamed, loud enough to

  pierce the bedroom walls.

  I hardly cared. “I tell everyone

  about you. Brag about you.

  The only possible reason

  for you not to tell her about me

  is because you want her, too.

  Well, sorry, but you can’t have

  us both.” I grabbed my jacket,

  stomped out of the room, down

  the hall, past Cole’s bewildered

  mom. If she hadn’t been standing

  there, I might have slammed

  the door. I was probably a half

  mile away from the house before

  Cole caught up with me. By then,

  the glittering rage had faded

  to a muted halo. So when Cole

  stopped me, pulled me into

  his arms, I didn’t resist. But when

  he apologized again, promised

  to make things right, I didn’t believe

  him. Didn’t forgive him. Not right away.

  TO RAGE

  Against an enemy

  is no more than what’s

  expected. And yet, such

  an outpour of energy

  might very well be

  better

  directed toward

  a silent stalk, circuitous

  and unexpected,

  far, far beyond the

  watch

  of sentry or spy.

  To rage against an act

  of nature may be instinct,

  but it is tantamount

  to full-bore drilling a hole in

  your

  skull to free frustration

  with what cannot be

  changed. To rage

  against the woman

  you love when your

  back

  is against the wall,

  and she holds you there

 
; with the truth in her eyes,

  well that is the time-proven

  folly of a man.

  Cole Gleason

  Present

  IT HAS BEEN A LONG WHILE

  Since I’ve felt Spence here, in

  his own home. But his spirit, so

  obviously missing in recent visits,

  is present this evening. So it is more

  than a little disquieting when

  the doorbell rings and on the far

  side of the threshold stands Kenny.

  Darian opens the door and he opens

  his arms, and she leans wordlessly

  into his embrace. They stay that way

  for what seems like a very long time.

  Finally, he steers her back to the bar,

  helps her up on the stool. I’m glad

  you’re here for her, he says to me.

  His smile is slight, but genuine.

  Then, back to Darian, How’s Spencer

  doing? Anything new to report?

  Darian shakes her head, looking

  vaguely uncomfortable that Kenny’s

  here. Her discomfort bothers me.

  “I should probably go. It’s been

  a really long day.” One that began

  in Hawaii and ended in a big pile

  of ugly. I gather the plates, put

  them in the dishwasher, and as I

  gather my things, the doorbell rings

  again. All three of us react with

  jerks of surprise. Dread starts a slow

  roll in the pit of my belly. It can’t be.

  CAN’T BE

  That visit every

  military spouse

  pretends can never

  ever happen. Yes,

  to their neighbor,

  maybe. But not to

  them. Not to them.

  Can’t be two

  uniformed goons

  on the front step

  wearing apology

  like cheap cologne,

  here to thank you

  for your ultimate

  sacrifice, and your

  deceased loved one

  for his patriotism.

  Darian’s face

  goes slack and her

  shoulders sag and

  she would likely fall

  from the stool, but

  for Kenny, catching

  her. Propping her up.

  She looks at me

  with fear-lit eyes. I

  nod, go to the door.

  A flood of relief slams

  into me when I look

  through the peephole,

  see no Casualty Officer.

  I HAVEN’T SEEN

  Mrs. Watson for almost three years.

  Time has not been gentle to her.

  She seems to have aged a decade.

  “It’s your mother,” I tell Dar

  before I open the door, giving

  her time to pull out of Kenny’s

  arms. I have no idea how much

  she knows about this complicated

  situation. But the way Darian

  puts space between Kenny and

  her makes me think she must

  be pretty much in the dark. I stand

  back to let Mrs. Watson by. “Long

  time, no see,” I say, too pleasantly.

  She stops long enough to give

  me a hug, then rushes over

  to Dar. Is he okay? How are you?

  And—she gives Kenny a long,

  almost rude once-over—who is this?

  Darian and Kenny both look

  at me, as if I should have an

  acceptable answer at the ready.

  “I’m sorry. This is my, uh . . . friend,

  Kenny.” Mrs. Watson’s eyes

  dart between Kenny and me.

  She’s probably thinking the same

  thing I did when I first met him—

  he’s old enough to be my father.

  NO MATTER

  Let her think what she will.

  This is no more than a small eddy

  of concern. Surely it will be consumed

  by this vortex of bigger worry.

  “I really do need to go now. Kenny?”

  I give him the out, and he takes it.

  Darian’s meager smile is grateful.

  She promises to keep us informed

  and we make a graceful exit. Kenny

  walks me to my car. Thanks for that.

  I shrug. “I’ve got her back. Always

  have.” At least when she lets me in

  on her secrets. “I’m really sorry.

  I hope everything turns out okay.”

  Yeah. Me, too. But we don’t always

  get what we want. He turns away,

  shuffles over to his Prius, eyes fixed

  on the townhouse as if he could see

  through the walls. Wonder if Mrs.

  Watson will notice two cars gone.

  BONE WEARY

  Soul heavy, I get home, carry

  my suitcase inside. Don’t bother

  with unpacking, except for

  my toothbrush. Wash my face, fall

  into bed, certain sleep will

  swallow me. But no. It nibbles.

  I have always had Darian’s

  back. A regular battle buddette.

  Once, that meant singing

  backup for her. Self-confidence

  was not her best thing. Despite

  having a brilliant voice, she never

  believed in herself. I need you

  behind me, she told me once. If

  I fall, you promise to catch me?

  She meant it figuratively, and I sang

  my truest alto so if her soprano

  faltered the tiniest bit, I was there

  to cover up for her. It strikes me

  that everyone tightens the slack

  for her. I think it’s about time

  Darian faces her audience solo.

  BEING AN ADULT

  Kinda pretty much sucks sometimes.

  When you’re in high school, you want

  to be eighteen so you can go where you

  want, do what you want. That’s the theory,

  anyway, though it’s not exactly accurate.

  After that, the goal is twenty-one, so you

  can go out and legally continue the bad

  behaviors you’ve already been practicing.

  That birthday comes, nothing changes

  except now you’re looking toward graduating

  college. With that goal in your sight,

  you realize you’re expected to embark

  on the career you envisioned. Except,

  at least in my case, someone changes

  your mind for you. So, it’s grad school,

  which is really a way to avoid adulthood

  a little longer. Pretty soon, everything

  is going to come crashing into me. Social

  work? I know there’s a need and all, but

  the truth is, I can’t see myself there.

  Problem is, when I try to find my future,

  I can’t quite make it materialize. I’m going

  to be twenty-five. I should have a clue, yeah?

  Marriage and kids? Housewifery on a Wyoming

  ranch? Teaching? Counseling? Interventions?

  Too much to think about. Too many

  questions. Sleep lies somewhere in the rubble

  of answers over there, far beyond my reach.

  DEEP IN THE DARK HEART

  Of morning, I find myself

  hovering in that strangest

  of places—not asleep,

  because I’m aware, and yet

  I must be dreaming because

  everything looks filmy. Misty.

  I come to this place, I believe,

  when my brain refuses to turn

  off. When whatever problem<
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  it’s working on keeps dancing.

  This is where I often discover

  solutions, and tonight is no

  exception. The reason I can’t

  find answers to my questions

  is clutter. I had left my suitcase

  open in the living room and

  rummaged through for my

  toothbrush. Such a simple fix!

  Now that I know what it is,

  I have to get up and put things

  right. I haul myself out of

  Dozeville, reach for the light.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m

  unpacked, everything in its

  place. I glance at the clock.

  Almost four. Might as well

  stay up. I can nap after class.

  I take a shower. Get dressed.

  Make my bed. Drink a Red Bull.

  Read. Try not to think about answers.

  I STUMBLE THROUGH THE DAY

  Focusing on the lectures is tough.

  The fieldwork would be killer,

  but I call in. Beg off one more day.

  I’m heading for my car, pretty much

  thinking it’s all in the bag, when I hear

  my name swim out of the murk.

  Excuse me! Ms. Patterson. One

  minute, if you will. Damn. Jonah.

  Or maybe I’d better think of him

  as Mr. Clinger. I turn, wait for him

  to catch up. Hope he doesn’t want

  me to make up the test I missed

  right now. As he approaches, I can’t

  help but watch the strength of his stride.

  Funny. The most athletic thing I’ve

  ever seen him do is stand for an hour,

  holding a heavy book. He’s no Marine,

  but he definitely works out. And outside,

  beyond the fearsome pallor of fluorescent

  lights, his polished good looks are obvious.

  I wanted to ask a favor of you.

  His syntax is irritating, but at least

  I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to ask

  me to make up that test. A smile slithers

  across my face. “Uh . . . really? What?”

  He draws even and when he looks at

  me, his eyes catch the slanted sunlight.

  Aquamarine, like the gemstone.

  Listen. A local high school has asked

  me to judge their spoken word poetry

  competition. They could use another

  judge and, naturally, I thought of you.

  Naturally? “Uh, well, I guess so.

  Sounds like fun. Um, if I’m open,

  of course.” Like why wouldn’t I be?

  Of course. I’ll e-mail the details.

  How was your trip? Suddenly,