game
of war, there are no rules,
no codes of honor.
Civility loses all meaning.
Cole Gleason
Present
THEY SAY TRUTH
Is a double-edged sword. I see
it more like a multibladed gyroscope,
spinning one direction, then the next,
with minimum external input.
I love Darian, with that deep kind
of best-friend love that forgives
almost anything. But this . . . goes
against more than my grain. This
is contrary to the core of who I am.
It’s hard to side with Spence’s parents.
But the purest elements of my belief
system insist they’re right in wanting
to take Spencer home to Kansas,
if and when he can be moved.
Darian isn’t equipped to nurse him.
Changing bandages, soaked through
with body fluids? Not even close
to her thing. So why does she feel
the need to push back? Even her mom
agreed, which is why Darian fumed
out of the hospital and, instead of
going home where she could be easily
located, wound up taking a taxi here.
His mom insisted I divorce him,
so she can collect his disability
money, Dar explains. Can you believe
she thinks she can dictate something
like that? I told her any decision
to divorce was totally up to Spence
and me, and that it seemed premature
to plan on collecting any disability.
“But, Dar, weren’t you going to
ask Spencer for a divorce anyway?
I mean, I know this isn’t exactly
the perfect time, but still . . .”
I don’t know what I’m going to do,
Ash! Why does everyone keep
pressuring me? Anyway, until
I decide, I need income. I’m entitled
to Spencer’s paychecks until those stop,
and his disability or death benefits,
depending. I’m not giving those away.
His mother’s just a greedy bitch.
Who is this person? What did
my best friend become when I
wasn’t looking? “Take it easy, Dar.
I’m just playing devil’s advocate, okay?”
No! That’s exactly what my mom said.
She’s supposed to be in my corner,
and so are you! God, the only one
I can trust anymore is Kenny.
“That’s not true. We’ve been
friends for a long time, Darian.
I only want what’s best for you.”
WRONG THING TO SAY
Her body language is a scream.
What comes out of her mouth
is closer to a petulant whine. Shut up!
You sound just like my mother.
How do you know what’s best
for me, if I don’t know it myself?
Can’t you all just give it some time?
Can’t you just let me breathe?
You can’t fight this kind of emotion
with logic. “I’m sorry, Dar. Of course,
you need time. Just, please, try to
understand where we’re coming
from. I know your mom wants
to support you, and I do, too.
Whatever you decide, I’m there
for you, okay?” I go over to her,
try to give her a hug. She balls up,
as if protecting her heart. “Listen.
I didn’t sleep much last night. I need
a nap, and I might just sleep through
until morning. You’re welcome
to stay as long as you want. And
just so you know, I love you, Dar.”
I GO INTO MY ROOM
Shut the door. Close the blinds.
Create a dark, safe lair. My bed
is soft. Warm. Inviting. All I want
to do is turn off. Slip away. Fade
into gentle dreams. Why won’t
my brain cooperate? Scattered
thoughts litter my pillow. Darian.
Spencer. The two of them, together.
Happy, once. Together. His mother,
demanding they not be together, before
even knowing for sure he will survive.
Kenny. Dar. Does that make two
or three? Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You are on the beach, your back
settling into autumn-warmed sand.
Surf breaks. Soft. Not so. Loud.
You should grab your board, accept
the challenge of big water. The boys
are out there. And Jonah, calling.
But it’s nice here, on the cushion
of sand. Close your eyes. Somewhere
a door closes. Door? Far, far away.
You’ll find it later. Pull your pillow
over your head. Swim. No, float
upon the midnight sea. Toward winter.
I DO SLEEP THROUGH
The night, wake right at dawn,
starving. I go to the kitchen,
where Darian has left a note.
Kenny picked me up. Thanks
for letting me vent. I know
you care. And I love you, too.
I microwave a breakfast sandwich,
check my phone for messages. Find
a couple. One from Mom, asking
if I’ll be home for Thanksgiving.
Another from Cole, saying his mom
is thrilled about the engagement.
A small attack of guilt threatens
my decent mood. I probably should
have called to tell my parents
about the upcoming wedding. In
a big way, however, I’d rather tell
them in person. I text Mom to confirm
my presence at her Thanksgiving
table. Text Cole, with a tiny white
lie: MY PARENTS ARE HAPPY, TOO.
Because, of course, they’ll have
to be. Not like they have any choice
in this decision. Or Darian, either.
THE REST OF THE WEEK
Is an emotional roller coaster.
Long, slow ups and belly-twisting
downs, with plenty of loops to
keep me guessing. I manage
to make up missed class work
and tests. The fieldwork—intake
at a woman’s shelter—is daunting.
Some of them run, urged
by the knowledge that death
cannot be far behind the regular
onslaught of callous fists.
This ain’t their first rodeo.
Others must be talked into flight.
They arrive in silent shame,
the terror, loud in their eyes,
the only testament to what
they have escaped. Maybe escaped.
The ones that rip my heart
from my chest are the little ones.
The children, with tangled hair
and dirty clothes, covering
their own ugly secrets.
And all they ask of me
is shelter, food to warm
their hollowness,
a bed free of nightmares.
They look at me, and through
me. And it’s hard to tell
who’s more haunted—
them or me.
I DON’T HEAR
From Dar, which must mean
good news, though it would
be nice to know that for sure.
I’m afraid to call her. Don’t want
her to think I’m her mother,
checking on her welfare. I wait
for her to ge
t in touch with me.
After three communication-free
days, I call the hospital directly.
All they can tell me is that Spencer
remains in ICU. He’s there, alive.
That must mean he’s improving.
At least, that’s what I must believe
until his wife, my friend, who knows
more than some receptionist,
says otherwise. I have faith. And that
in itself is strange, because I could
have sworn any personal relationship
with the Master of Faith had long
since passed away. Does every strayed
believer return to faith in times of
crisis? Does God use that to his advantage?
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Is the spoken word poetry competition.
I decided to ride over with Jonah, who
claims the parking lot is going to be full.
Somehow, I doubt that. How many high
school kids are likely to compete? How
many parents and friends will give up
a Saturday afternoon to support them?
The event kicks into gear at one p.m.
We’re supposed to get there at eleven
thirty, to go over the judging rules
and read through the poems ahead
of time. Jonah knocks on my door
at ten forty-five. I’m just about ready.
“Come in. Give me five minutes.” I go
back to finish brushing my damp hair,
slip into my well-loved Doc Martens.
When I exit my bedroom, I find Jonah
looking at the picture of Cole I keep
on the end table. It’s a favorite, with
him in cammie pants and a khaki T-shirt
which shows off his superbly defined
biceps and pecs. Jonah smiles. I could
never be a Marine. He imitates a body
builder’s pose. They’d laugh me out of there.
“No one starts out looking like that,
you know. It’s called conditioning.”
I go over to him, touch the small
bulge he has pumped up on one arm.
“Besides, I kind of like this. It’s cute.”
When we laugh, it cuts the sudden tension.
THE SUDDEN SEXUAL TENSION
Caused by my touching him in
such a semi-intimate way. Wow.
Did I really just do that? Again,
I’m struck by a charge of energy
that can only be described as desire.
Our eyes meet, and his inform me
he feels it, too. In the movies,
a kiss would come next. But this
is real life, my life, and I turn away
instead. “Okay, muscle man, let’s go.”
I follow him to his car, a newer BMW
two-seater, midnight blue out,
silver leather in. “Wow. They must
pay poetry professors really well.
I’ve been considering changing
my course of study, and this reinforces
that idea. I don’t think too many
social workers drive BMWs. But, hey.
Wait a minute. Where do you put
your surfboard?” I wait as he opens
the door for me, chuckling. I’ve
also got a restored ’39 Ford Woodie
wagon. Plenty of room for a board.
The Beamer gets better mileage, though.
A Woodie. Wow. I can definitely
picture him behind the wheel,
longish sun-streaked hair tossed
and crazy from the sea breeze blowing
in through the open windows.
Then again, he looks perfectly
fine behind the wheel of his BMW
Z4. I watch him shift, admire
his profile. When he punches the gas
to merge onto the freeway, my renegade
eyes are drawn to his slender
thighs. So, are you really thinking
about changing your field of study?
I mean, why social work, when you
seem so drawn to writing and lit?
“My BA is in English, and I always
meant to teach. But so many people
need help. Volunteering at the VA
Hospital has shown me that. Working
at the women’s shelter, too.”
But you’ve had second, or third
thoughts? Switching now wouldn’t
be impossible, but it would be
expensive, I’m afraid. Personally,
I think you’d make an amazing teacher.
“I think I would, too. I’m not
sure why I keep vacillating. My dad,
who is underwriting my education,
is becoming irritated. Of course, he’d rather
I just get an MBA and forget all this
‘service to others crap,’ as he calls
it. ‘Too little money and even less
respect,’ he says. Maybe he’s right.
But there’s more to life than money.”
HE’S NODDING
Like he agrees. God, he’s cute
in profile, and I really wish I’d quit
thinking about how cute he is.
Even if I were free, he’s my professor,
for Pete’s sake. It’s probably not illegal
to flirt with him. But there’s a high
probability that it would be frowned
upon in pretty much every circle.
What about your mother? Is she
against your teaching as well?
“My mom is a high school librarian.
She has nothing but respect for
teachers. And, anyway, she supports
most of my decisions.” It’s like
he knows exactly what my answer
will be when he asks, Most?
I have nothing to hide, nothing
to apologize for. “Neither of
my parents is very happy about
my relationship with Cole. I mean,
they like him. But they are not
pro-military at all. My dad actually
thinks following orders emasculates
him. My mom has personal reasons.”
I see, he says, and leaves it there.
Maybe—or maybe not—because
apparently we have arrived.
THE PARKING LOT
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.
Rewind
IF I REALLY WERE TO DISSECT
My reasoning for choosing
my grad-school path, I’d probably
have to start with the way I felt
after finding Lar
a’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.
IT WAS A BAD TIME
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.
WAR WIDOWS
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
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