Collateral (26 page)

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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,

I'm hyperaware of the scent lifting

off his skin—rich, spicy. Yum. He's

waiting for an answer, Ashley.

“Uh, it was great. I got to see north-

shore Oahu. It's beautiful. Have you

ever been there?” His smile tells me

I've struck a chord.
Actually, I lived there

for a while, back in my crazy surfer

days. I rode Waimea and the Banzai.

Couldn't wait for winter and the big

waves. When I start to feel too old and

staid, I go back, looking for that rush.

And I probably never will. I hear

Cole's voice,
I wouldn't let you out

there on a board.
And,
Once I leave

here, I'm never coming back.

Yet, I say, “I didn't get the chance

to ride. I hope to go back myself

and remedy that one day.” It's true,

I realize, for whatever that's worth.

His dimples deepen.
You're talking

about some sizeable water. Hope

you get the chance. It's life changing.

For a second I thought he was going

to try and talk me out of it. Instead,

he encouraged the idea. I like it.

Okay, then. Guess I'll see you in class

tomorrow. Will you carve out an hour

to make up the test you missed?

I promise I will and start again

toward my car. I can feel Jonah's

eyes on my back, watching me

walk away.
Hey,
he calls, making me

look over my shoulder.
Why haven't

I seen a surfing poem from you?

So damn attractive?

So damn interesting?

So damn supportive?

At first, when I never

noticed him smile or act

anything but scholarly,

I pretty much saw him

as just another professor,

and a rather uptight one

at that, despite his leather

jackets. But now I have

glimpsed the boy inside

the man. The one who

beach bummed in Hawaii,

anticipating giant surf.

Wonder how an army

brat ended up a surfer.

Wonder how an army

brat wound up teaching

creative writing courses

on the university level.

There's so much about

him I'd really like to know.

That must be wrong, but

I'm not sure why. It's all

just so confusing. A wide

stripe of gray sandwiched

between the unforgiving black

and white of my comfort zone.

To the sleep-deprived twilight

zone I'm currently wandering.

I manage the short drive home

without too much difficulty.

But when it comes to finding

my keys in my bag, I might as

well be legally blind. I'm still

fumbling when my apartment

door opens. “Darian! Good God!

Are you trying to give me a heart

attack?” She has the key, of course

she does. I never took it back.

S-s-sorry. I just . . . didn't know

where else to go. Come inside.

Uh, yeah. What else would I do?

Leave? “What's up? Is everything