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<
br />
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,