Making Faces (14 page)

Fern blew on her icy fingers and her cheeks
were as red as her blazing hair. And then the soldiers came. They
were dressed in desert camo and lace-up boots with caps snug on
their shorn heads. Fern found herself jumping up and down, trying
to catch a glimpse of Ambrose. The unit was made up of recruits
from the entire southwestern portion on Pennsylvania. The soldiers
were making their way through several small towns on convoys made
up of a long string of military vehicles, Humvees, and an
occasional tank just for the theater of it. Every soldier blended
with the next, a swarm of the same, and Fern wondered if that was
somehow merciful–take away their individuality so saying goodbye
wasn't so personal.

And then Ambrose was there, marching right by
her, close enough to touch. His hair was gone. His beautiful hair.
But his face was unchanged--strong jaw, perfect lips, smooth skin,
dark eyes. After that last night at the lake, she had gone through
all the stages. Anger, humiliation, anger again. And then her anger
had faded as she'd remembered how it had felt to have her mouth
pressed to his.

Ambrose had kissed her. She didn't understand
why he had kissed her. She didn't let herself believe it was
because he had suddenly fallen in love with her. It hadn't felt
that way. It hadn't felt like love. It had felt like an apology.
And after weeks of yo-yoing between embarrassment and fury, she’d
decided that she could accept his apology. With acceptance came
forgiveness, and with forgiveness, all the old feelings she'd
harbored for so long crept right back into their familiar places in
her heart, and the anger dissipated like an unpleasant dream.

Fern tried to call out, tried to be brave
this once, but her voice merely squeaked in a timid cry, his name
whisked from her lips as soon as it was released. His eyes stayed
straight forward, unaware of her gaze on his face and her attempt
to draw his attention. He was taller than the men around him,
making him easy to track as he continued down the street.

She didn't see Paulie, Grant, Beans or Jesse,
though she saw Marley, Jesse's pregnant girlfriend later at the
Frosty Freeze, her face blotchy from tears, her belly protruding
from the puffy jacket that would no longer close over her
mid-section. Fern felt a brief flash of jealousy. The drama of
being left behind by a handsome soldier was almost delicious in its
tragedy, so much so that Fern went home and plotted out a whole new
story about two lovers separated by war.

And then they were gone, across the sea, in a
world of heat and sand, a world that didn't really exist, not for
Fern, at least. And maybe not for the people of Hannah Lake, simply
because it was so far away, so far removed from anything they knew.
And life went on as it had before. The town prayed and loved and
hurt and lived. The yellow ribbons Fern had helped tie around the
trees looked jaunty and crisp for about two weeks. But the spring
sleet continually raked the cheerful bows with sharp, icy claws,
and before long the ribbons surrendered, wind-torn and weary. And
the clock ticked quietly.

Six months went by. In that time, Rita
delivered a baby boy and Marley Davis had her baby too–a boy she
named Jesse after his daddy. Fern added a new chapter in her
romance about war-torn lovers and gave them a child, a girl named
Jessie. She couldn't help herself. Whenever Marley came into the
store, Fern would yearn to hold her baby and could only imagine how
Jesse must feel, thousands of miles away. She composed letters to
Ambrose, wrote about the goings-on in Hannah Lake, the humorous
things she saw, the stats of the high school sports teams, the
books she read, her promotion at the grocery store to night
manager, the funny things she wanted to say but was never brave
enough to utter. And she signed them: Yours, Fern.

Could you belong to someone who didn't want
you? Fern decided it was possible, because her heart was his, and
whether or not he wanted it didn't seem to make much difference.
When she was done writing she would tuck the letter away in a
drawer. Fern wondered what Ambrose would think if she suddenly sent
one. He would probably think she was a psycho and regret that
apology wrapped in a kiss. He would worry that Fern thought the
kiss meant more than it had. He would think she was delusional.

Fern wasn't delusional, she was simply
imaginative. But even with her gift for daydreaming and
storytelling, she couldn't make herself believe he would ever
return her feelings.

She had asked him if she could write–she'd
even said she would. But deep down, she didn't really think he
wanted her to, and her pride was too fragile to endure another hit.
The letters piled up, and she couldn't make herself send them.

Iraq

“Fern Taylor been writing you any more love
notes, Brosey?” Beans said in the darkness of the sleeping
tent.

“I think Fern's pretty,” Paulie said from his
cot. “She looked good at the Prom. Did you see her? She can write
me letters anytime she wants.”

“Fern's not pretty!” Beans said. “She looks
like Pippi Longstocking.”

“Who the hell is Pippi Longbottom?” Jesse
groaned, trying to sleep.

“My sister used to watch a show called Pippi
Longstocking. She borrowed it from the library and never took it
back. Pippi had buck teeth and red hair that stuck out from her
head in two braids. She was skinny and awkward and stupid. Just
like Fern.” Beans was over-exaggerating, poking at Ambrose.

“Fern isn't stupid,” Ambrose said. He was
surprised how much it bugged him, Beans making fun of Fern.

“Okaaaay,” Beans laughed. “Like that makes a
difference.”

“It does.” Grant had to get his two cents in.
“Who wants a girl you can't talk to?”

“I do!” Beans laughed. “Don't talk, just take
off your clothes.”

“You're kind of a pig, Beans.” Paulie sighed.
“It's a good thing we all like ham.”

“I hate ham,” Jesse growled. “And I hate it
when you guys get all chatty-Cathy when it's time to sleep. Shut
the hell up.”

“Jesse, you really are The Wicked Witch of
East.” Paulie laughed. “The Wicked Witch of the Middle East.”
Paulie had written a funny song about Iraq being like the Land of
Oz and before long everyone in their unit had a
Wizard of Oz
nickname.

“And you're The Scarecrow, dumbass. Wasn't he
the one who didn't have a brain?”

“Yep. Scarecrow sounds badass, don't you
think, Grant?”

“It's better than Dorothy,” Grant laughed.
He'd made the mistake of wearing his red wrestling shoes to the gym
one day and the rest was history. When they weren't on patrol or
sleeping, they were working out. There just wasn't much else to do
in their down time.

“Why don't you click your heels together,
Dorothy, and get us back home?” Paulie said. “Hey, and how come you
didn't get a nickname, Beans?”

“Um . . . my name is Connor. I think you just
contradicted yourself.” Beans was beginning to doze off.

“We should call him Munchkin . . . or maybe
Toto. After all he's just a little dog with a big bark,” Jesse
said.

Beans was alert immediately. “Try it, Jess,
and I'll tell Marley about the time you made out with Lori
Stringham in the wrestling room.” Beans had always been sensitive
about his stature. It made for a great 125 pound wrestler, but
wasn't especially helpful anywhere else.

“Brosey's The Tin Man because he doesn't have
a heart. Poor little Fern Taylor found that out the hard way.”
Beans tried to turn the attention back to Ambrose, ribbing him once
more.

“Brosey's The Tin Man because he's made of
metal. Damn, how much did you put up on your bench today, Brosey?”
another member of the unit butted into the conversation. “You are a
freaking monster! We should call you Iron Man.”

“Here we go again,” Jesse moaned. “Hercules
and now Iron Man.” He resented the attention Ambrose always
garnered and didn't pretend otherwise.

Ambrose laughed. “I'll let you beat me in an
arm wrestle tomorrow, Witchy Poo, okay?”

Jesse chuckled, his irritability more an act
than he cared to admit.

The tent quieted down until the occasional
snore and sigh was all that was heard in the darkness. But Ambrose
couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about what Beans had said. Rita
Marsden was beautiful. She'd taken his breath away. He’d thought he
was in love with her until he’d figured out he really didn't know
her at all. Rita wasn't smart. Not in the way he wanted her to be.
He hadn’t been able to figure out why she was so appealing in her
little notes and then when they were together she was so different.
She was beautiful, but after a while, she really wasn't very
attractive to him at all. Ambrose wanted the girl in the
letters.

His eyes shot open in the dark. The girl in
the letters was Fern Taylor. Did he really want Fern Taylor? He
laughed a little. Fern was a little bitty thing. They would look
ridiculous together. And she wasn't hot. Although she
had
looked pretty good at the prom. Seeing her there in her gold dress,
dancing with his stupid friends, had surprised him and ticked him
off. Guess he hadn't forgiven her completely for the stunt she and
Rita pulled.

He had tried not to think about Fern, about
that night at the lake, and he'd all but convinced himself it was
just temporary insanity, a last desperate act before leaving home.
And she hadn't written like she’d said she would. He couldn't blame
her after everything that had happened. But he would have liked to
get a letter. She wrote good letters.

Homesickness shot through him. They
definitely weren't in Kansas anymore. He wondered what he'd gotten
himself into. What he'd gotten them all into. And if he was being
honest with himself, he wasn't Hercules and he wasn't The Tin Man.
He was The Cowardly Lion. He'd run away from home and brought his
friends with him, his security blanket, his very own cheering
section. He wondered what the hell he was doing in Oz.