Present
AS WILDERNESS
Oahu must have been incredible.
So much raw beauty was bound
to draw humans, intent on messing
it up completely. First they came
from neighboring islands—who knows
how they managed to outrigger all
that way? Settle in, make the place
home, and the next thing you know,
a more advanced people come along,
conquer you, set up housekeeping
in the very huts you built! Turnabout
is fair play, however, because just
when Group Two thinks everything’s
coming up pineapples, Captain Cook
and crew sail into view, carrying
fabulous stuff like cholera, measles,
and Jesus. And once white people
discovered this little corner of heaven,
next thing you know, relatively speaking,
it’s high-rises on top of volcanoes,
strip clubs peddling a lot more
than leis, concrete, and asphalt
choking sand, and jet fuel blowing
in the breeze. Honolulu represents
the worst of all that. Yet every time
I fly in, anticipation begins to build
just about the time I think I’ll go crazy,
stuffed into a narrow airliner seat
between honeymooners and retired
couples looking for Shangri-La.
I’d like to tell them to hold on tight
to that person beside them, because
that’s where they’ll find paradise.
It is not a beach or a palm tree grove
or the brim of a smoking black crater.
It’s a plateau inside their hearts, one
that can only be reached in tandem.
And as the plane circles to land,
I draw closer to my Wyoming mesa,
not so very far from me now. Wonder
what he’s doing right this minute.
Cleaning his weapon? Scrubbing latrines?
Running laps or lifting weights?
In my mind, he is a snapshot, frozen
in time. I don’t picture him in motion.
Wonder if he’s imagining me—our last
time together, where I am at this moment.
How I’ll look when he sees me. What I’ll be
wearing. If I’ve cut my hair or lost a few
pounds. Do men even think that way?
The jet bumps down on the tarmac.
Some people sigh relief. Others laugh.
Not a few are already on their cell phones.
Conversation picks up, speeds up.
We are safe on the ground in Honolulu.
People collect their things, prepare
to join tours or embark on self-guided
adventures. Few except me arrive solo.
NO LEI AWAITS ME
No soldier, either. I won’t see Cole
till tonight, after his workday ends
and he can drive the fifteen or so miles
from the base to me. Meanwhile,
I’ll catch some sun. Cole doesn’t care
much for the beach here. Says the sand
is filthy. Dirtied by tourists and their trash.
Maybe. But it’s warm this time of year,
unlike San Diego sand. I plan on a nice,
long walk, a little warm ocean swimming
and time to sit, doing nothing but watch
the surf break. I grab a cab to the Waikiki
hotel Cole suggested we try, an affordable
high-rise two blocks from the ocean.
As affordable goes, it isn’t bad. At least,
the lobby is well kept and the desk
clerk—Sherry—seems friendly. When
I give her my credit card and ask to leave
a key for Cole, she smiles. Marine wife,
huh? We’ve had a few check in today.
I could correct her on my marriage
status. Instead I just smile back.
“They’re deploying soon. Again.”
The tone was sadder than I expected.
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
Sherry shakes her head. I’ve got one,
too. But mine’s coming home soon.
He’s transitioning into the Reserves
then. It will be weird, having him
around on a regular basis.
I nod. “You kind of get used to being
alone. The waiting is hard sometimes,
though. I wish Cole and I could have
a little more time together before
he has to go, but he used up most
of his leave last summer. His mom
was really sick, and . . .” I realize
I’m running my mouth. Shut it
before too much personal stuff spills
out all over this total stranger. “Sorry.”
Sherry smiles understanding. Hey,
no apologies. I’ve been there.
Tell you what . . . She consults her
computer. I’ll upgrade you to a room
on the water side. Very romantic.
I thank her, carry my small bag up
to the room, and before I change, text
Cole: IN THE HOTEL. OUR ROOM IS UP
HIGH, ON THE PACIFIC SIDE. I CAN SEE
THE WATER FROM HERE. LOVE YOU.
HE WON’T GET THE MESSAGE
Until he gets off duty. But I want him
to know he’s the first thing I thought
about when I arrived. I open the sliding
glass door. Step out on the balcony. Salt
wind blows warm through my hair, weaves
it with the potpourri of plumeria, jasmine,
diesel exhaust, and streets wet with recent
downpour. One day I’ll explore the other
islands, inhale the tropical air outside
of this city. Cole and I never seem to
have enough time to do that when I visit.
I add it to my bucket list, go back inside.
I slip into the purple bikini Darian
sent to Hawaii with me—her excuse
to put Kenny and me in the same place
at the same time. She got what she came
for. Manipulator. I do love the swimsuit,
though. The full-length mirror says
I’ve dropped some weight. Can’t imagine
why. But it does look good on me.
Regardless, I cover up my midsection
with a short pink shift. Tie back my hair.
Off I go. It’s really lovely outside. Not too
hot. The rain has raised a gentle steam.
It wraps around me as I walk along
the quiet sidewalk. Late October lies
between the heaviest tourist seasons.
The street vendors are voracious.
THEY TURN AGGRESSIVE
As I pass by, moving
toward me and shouting,
Discount tickets!
Sunset cruises!
Learn to surf!
Pearl Harbor bus tours!
Best luau on Oahu, guaranteed!
A massive Samoan guy
in a loud Hawaiian shirt
shoves a coupon into my hand.
That gets you in, no cover,
at the Pink Cherry Club. Single
women are always welcome.
I keep walking and a greasy-
haired haole drops in beside me,
meters his steps to match mine.
Hey there, pretty lady.
You here all by yourself?
Want some company?
I lower my head, shake
it. The negative answer
doesn’t discourage him.
How about some pakalolo?
Best green bud in Wa
ikiki.
Give you an awesome deal.
I DECLINE
With a quiet, “No, thank you.”
But when I speed up a little,
he does, too. So I brake to a halt.
He comes around in front of me,
looks into my eyes, and I can’t help
but notice his pupils are completely
dilated. When he opens his mouth,
the condition of his teeth confirms
my suspicion that he is into much
more than weed. Don’t want to go
down? I can take you up. Way up.
He reaches into his pocket, extracts
a small plastic bag. Asian ice. Pure
as it comes. One little hit keep you
going for days. His breath, when he
exhales, smells like rotten cabbage.
It makes me gag, and for the first time
a small rush of fear lifts the hair
on the back of my neck. I shove it
aside. We are on a public sidewalk,
within rock-tossing distance of one
of the most populous beaches in
the world. He’s not going to hurt
me here. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
What? You don’t like me? He grabs
my arm, jerks it, gives a strange,
little laugh and it strikes me that this
man is totally out of his head. I try to
remember the limited self-defense
moves I know, when he suddenly
releases my arm and without
a word, slinks off, a weasel into
the shadows. I turn to see what
spooked him—a hulking cop,
double-timing toward and now
past me. Looks like he’s after the ice
man, who’s obviously a known
quantity. All of a sudden, walking
the beach by myself—even with plenty
of other people around—has lost
its appeal. I look up at the hotel
in front of me. The flamingo pink
Royal Hawaiian. It’s a Waikiki
landmark. Old. Beautiful. Safer
than the sidewalk. I duck inside,
cut through the lobby, to the alfresco
Mai Tai Bar. Find a quiet table,
overlooking the ocean. As close
to the sand as I want to be until
I have Cole by my side. A nice-looking
waiter brings me a drink menu.
I open it with tremulous hands.
Pina Colada? Not strong enough.
Blue Hawaiian? Too sweet. Sex
on the Beach? Really don’t think
so. I order the bar’s namesake drink.
Rum, liqueur, fresh juice, and more rum.
That works for me. I sip mai tais
and watch the surf for almost two hours,
accomplishing one-third of my plan.
I CONSIDER LEAVING
A couple of times. But, oddly enough,
rather than fortify my courage,
the alcohol only bolsters my fear.
Afternoon segues to early evening, and
I might just keep on sitting here,
except I get a call. Hey, sweetheart.
Where are you? I’m at the hotel.
And what did you tell the lady
at the desk? She was damn nice.
“I told her you were a little off,
so she’d better tread carefully.
I’m at the Royal Hawaiian, and
starving. Come find me?” No
hesitation at all, he demands,
What’s wrong? Is he psychic?
Can he tell I’m buzzed? I don’t know,
but when I try to deny, he says,
I can hear it in your voice, Ashley.
“Everything’s fine. I promise.
What do you want to drink?
It’ll be here when you get here.
And I’m buying, soldier.”
It takes a half-hour for him
to shower, change into civvies,
and walk over. By the time
he gets here, a double scotch
on the rocks is waiting for him.
Much more patiently than I.
WAITING FOR A SOLDIER
Is never easy. Whether he’s gone
off to war, or on duty at home.
But there is nothing quite like
that much-anticipated moment
when you first set eyes on him again
after so much time apart. When love
connects you, it’s like your heart
draws you to him, though distance
eclipses the space between you.
And when he’s close, no way could
you miss him, not even when he’s clear
across a crowded bar. I spot him
the moment he steps through
the doorway, and before I have
the chance to wave, he has seen me,
too. That must be what they mean
by “heartstrings.” Only ours are more
like heart cables, near impossible
to sever. Despite all the activity,
he reaches me in four long strides
and lifts me into his arms; we kiss
with the knowledge of Eden.
I can feel people staring, but hardly
care. For these few perfect seconds,
every minute without him is ground
into dust, left for the sea breeze
to blow into memory. “I love you,”
I breathe into his mouth. “I love you.”
IT HAS BEEN ONLY
A couple of months since I last saw him.
But it feels borderline forever. We sit
very close and under the table my leg
is hooked around his. Touch is what
we need to catch up on, not gossip about
our family or friends. We discuss them
questions are expected—how’s his mom,
who’s slowly recovering from meningitis?
(Answer: Better, though she’s lost some
hearing.) Or, have I heard from my little
brother, who’s backpacking Europe?
(Answer: Yes, and he’s found a girlfriend
so he’s staying for a while.) It’s so lovely here,
we decide to hang out and order a seafood
pizza to go with our drinks, which keep
coming. I’ve lost count of how many,
but the fuzz which has sprouted inside
my skull is a decent clue. It actually
doesn’t feel so bad until, uncomfortably,
the conversation turns to Darian.
How’s she doing? I heard from Spence.
He’s a little freaked out. She doesn’t
return his calls. Do you know why?
I know it’s an innocent question.
But how am I supposed to answer
it honestly without betraying her
trust? An unpleasant high-tension
wire buzzing starts in the hollow
behind my lower jaw. “No clue.”
Cole takes a bite of pizza. Chews.
Doesn’t swallow before he says,
He thinks she’s messing around.
A few crumbs escape his mouth.
Disgusting. The buzz volume increases.
“Really? Why would he think that?”
He shrugs. Sips his drink, chasing
the food down his throat. I’m not
sure, hon. Maybe he’s just paranoid.
For some stupid reason, the “hon”
irritates me. For some stupider reason,
I actually say, “Maybe he deserves it.”
Cole’s mouth drops open. Glad
it’s empty. His cool yellow eyes
measure me. No man deserves that.
No man deserves that? I need to shut
up. Can’t. “Not even a man who hits
his wife?” The buzz swells, fills my head.
FIVE MINUTES AGO
Everything was perfect. How could
it turn so bad so fast? I suspect it has
something to do with the alcohol,
this avalanche toward all-out verbal
battle. Is that what she told you?
Did she happen to mention the rest?
“The rest! What rest? Wait. You knew?
And you never said anything?”
Would you have said something
if I hadn’t brought it up first?
I hate when he uses logic to turn
things on me. The couple at the next
table stands up abruptly. The lady
tosses a nervous glance in our direction,
right before they hustle toward the exit.
I lower my voice, fight to keep it steady,
attempting my own reverse logic.
“So, tell me, Cole. What is the rest?”
I’m surprised you don’t know. Darian
was pregnant with Spence’s baby.
She got rid of it while he was gone.
He only found out because they got
drunk and she confessed the whole
story, just to hurt him. It worked.
Oh, my God. Darian, how could
you? The far side of the tale comes
around to shade the beginning gray.
Why are things never black and
white? My stomach lurches. Still,
“But that’s no excuse for violence.”
Cole snorts. Violence doesn’t need
an excuse. And sometimes it’s called for.
I’m getting pissed all over again.
“Against women? As bad as that was,
Darian didn’t deserve to get hit. I suppose
you think rape is deserved sometimes, too?”
He is quiet much too long. Finally,
he says, I think maybe it can be.
The buzz becomes an explosion.
“Seriously? What if I told you today . . .”
I relate the cabbage-man story, doing
my level best not to slur words. Or cry.
Obviously the guy was disturbed.
And considering how you’re dressed . . .
I stand. Pick up my drink. Let it fly.
Rewind
COLE AND I DON’T ARGUE
Often. In fact, we’ve had only a few
disagreements, and even fewer that
led to serious exchanges of anger-
driven words. I’ll never forget any
of them, especially the first. It was
going into the Christmas holiday