Making Faces (30 page)

“Ambrose?” Fern was smiling at him from the
doorway and he smiled back, liking the way she looked at him, as if
there was nothing wrong with his face, as if his very presence made
her happy. “You have to come out, just for a minute.”

“Yeah? I think I like it in here better,” he
said mildly.

“We're playing the Sheen/Taylor Greatest Hits
CD, all our favorite dance songs, and I want to dance with
you.”

Ambrose groaned and laughed simultaneously.
Leave it to Bailey and Fern. They would have a greatest hits CD.
And he would be happy to dance with Fern–he would be happy to do
almost anything with Fern–but he would rather stay in the kitchen
and dance where no one was watching.

Fern started pulling on his hand, wrapping
both of hers around his, smiling and cajoling as she drew him from
his cave. “The next song is my favorite song of all time.”

Ambrose sighed and let her have her way.
Plus, he wanted to hear what her favorite song of all time was. He
found he wanted to know everything about her.

“I've told Bailey if I indeed die before he
does . . . which was his greatest wish when we were ten, that he
better make sure they play it at my funeral. And I want everyone to
dance. Listen! Tell me you don't just immediately feel better when
you hear it.”

She waited in anticipation and Ambrose
listened intently. The first bars of the song rang through the
store and Bailey and Fern moaned in unison, right along with
Prince, and launched into frenzied dancing. Rita laughed and
whooped and joined them immediately, Tyler on her hip. Ambrose
didn't dance . . . but he enjoyed the show.

Fern had no rhythm. Bailey wasn't much
better. But his lack of skill wasn't exactly his fault. He moved
his chair forward and back in a parody of the simple step-touch
move everyone resorted to at a school dance. He bobbed his head in
time with the music and his face wore an expression that said
“Hell, yeah,” even though his body said “No way.” Rita danced
around Bailey's chair but her moves were too self-conscious, too
self-aware, to allow her to truly enjoy herself, or for anyone to
enjoy watching her. Fern shook her butt and did chicken arms and
clapped and snapped randomly, but there was such uninhibited joy,
such wild abandon, such pleasure in the act, that although he was
laughing at her–yes, laughing
at
her–she was laughing,
too.

She danced anyway, knowing she was horrible,
knowing there was nothing about her performance that would lure him
in or make him want her, and doing it anyway, just for the fun of
it. And somehow, suddenly, he did. He did want her. Desperately.
Her light, her loveliness, her enthusiasm for simple things. All of
her. Everything. He wanted to pick her up, right off of her dancing
feet, her legs dangling above the ground, and kiss her until they
were breathless with passion instead of laughter.

“And your kiss!” Fern sang out the final
words and struck an awkward pose, breathing hard and giggling.
“The. Most. Awesome. Song. Ever. “ She sighed, throwing her arms
wide, ignoring the next song on the Taylor/Sheen hits CD.

“You need to come with me for just a minute.
I need to show you something in the, um, kitchen,” Ambrose said
firmly, grabbing Fern by the hand and pulling her along behind him
like she'd just done to him minutes before. Bailey and Rita were
dancing again, David Bowie's
Pressure
picking up where
Prince had left off.

“Wh-what? But there's a slow song coming up
after this, and I really, really want to slow dance with you,” Fern
protested, resisting, pulling against his arm. So Ambrose swept her
up, right off her feet, just like he'd imagined and barreled
through the swinging kitchen doors without missing a step. He
flipped off the bakery lights so the room was swathed in darkness
and then he swallowed Fern's gasp, his mouth crashing down on hers,
one hand sliding under her butt to anchor her to him as his other
hand cradled the back of her head controlling the angle of the
kiss. And all resistance ceased.

Bailey was heavier than Ambrose had
anticipated, lankier, and harder to hold onto. But he swept him up
in his arms and walked steadily up the well-worn trail, placing his
feet carefully, not hurrying. He had run miles in full uniform with
150 pounds on his back many times, and he could carry Bailey up the
hill and back again.

They were on their way to visit the graves of
the four fallen soldiers, Ambrose for the second time, Bailey for
the first. The path was steep and narrow, and getting Bailey's
wheelchair to the top with him in it would be harder than carrying
him, but carrying him was too much for Mike Sheen or anyone else in
Bailey's inner circle, so Bailey had been unable to visit the
resting place of his friends. When Ambrose had discovered this, he
told Bailey he would carry him to the top, and had shown up
unannounced that afternoon, ready to fulfill his promise.

Angie Sheen volunteered to let him take the
van, but Ambrose had declined, scooping Bailey up in his arms and
depositing him on the passenger side of his old truck and buckling
him in snugly. Bailey started to list to the side, unable to keep
himself upright without the support of his chair, but Ambrose
wedged a pillow between the seat and the door so he could lean
against it.

He could tell Angie was a little worried
about letting them go without the wheelchair, but she waved them
off with a tight smile, and Ambrose took the corners carefully.
They didn't have far to go, but Bailey seemed to enjoy riding
shotgun and insisted Ambrose crank up the radio and roll down the
windows.

When they reached the top of the hill,
Ambrose sat Bailey carefully on the stone bench then sat close
beside him, propping him up against his side, making sure he
wouldn't tip over.

They sat in reverence for a while, Bailey
reading the words on each headstone, Ambrose looking beyond the
graves, his mind heavy with memories that he wished he could
extinguish.

“I wish I could be buried up here with them.
I know it's a war memorial. But they could bury me over here by the
bench. Put a little asterisk on my tombstone.”

Ambrose laughed, just like Bailey expected
him to, but Bailey's glib acceptance of his own demise bothered
him.

“But I'm going to be buried in the town
cemetery. My grandparents are there and a few other Sheens from
generations back. I've got my spot all picked out,” Bailey said
easily, comfortably even, and Ambrose could hold his tongue no
longer.

“How do you stand it, Bailey? Looking death
in the face for so long?”

Bailey shrugged and glanced at him curiously.
“You act like death is the worst thing.”

“Isn't it?” Ambrose could think of nothing
worse than losing his friends.

“I don't think so. Death is easy. Living is
the hard part. Remember that little girl over in Clairemont County
who was kidnapped about ten years ago when her family was camping?”
Bailey asked, his eyes narrowed on Ambrose's face. “Fern's parents
and my parents volunteered with the search. They thought she might
have fallen in the creek or just wandered off. But there were
enough other campers there that weekend that there was also the
possibility that someone had just taken her. By the fourth day, my
mom said the mother of the little girl was praying that they would
find the child's body. She wasn't praying they would discover her
alive. She was praying that her baby had died quickly and
accidentally, because the alternative was a lot more terrible. Can
you imagine knowing your child was somewhere suffering horribly and
you couldn't do anything about it?”

Ambrose stared at Bailey, turmoil in his
eyes.

“You feel guilty because you lived and they
died.” Bailey tipped his head toward the four headstones. “Maybe
Beans and Jesse and Grant and Paulie are looking down on you
shaking their heads, saying 'Poor Brosey. Why did he have to
stay?'“

“Mr. Hildy told me the lucky ones are the
ones who don't come back,” Ambrose remembered, his eyes on the
graves of his friends. “But I don't think the guys are looking down
on me from some heavenly paradise. They're dead. Gone. And I'm
here. Period.”

“I think deep down you don't really believe
that,” Bailey said quietly.

“Why me, Bailey?” Ambrose shot back, his
voice too loud for the sober setting.

“Why
not
you, Ambrose?” Bailey bit
back immediately, making Ambrose start as if Bailey had convicted
him of a crime. “Why me? Why am I in a flipping wheelchair?”

“And why Paulie and Grant? Why Jesse and
Beans? Why do terrible things happen to such good people?” Ambrose
asked.

“Because terrible things happen to everyone,
Brosey. We're all just so caught up in our own crap that we don't
see the shit everyone else is wading through.”

Ambrose had no answer for that and Bailey
seemed content to let him wrangle with his thoughts for a time. But
eventually, Bailey spoke again, unable to sit in silence for too
long.

“You like Fern, don't you, Brosey?” Bailey's
gaze was apprehensive, his voice grave.

“Yeah. I like Fern.” Ambrose nodded absently,
his thoughts still on his friends.

“Why?” Bailey demanded immediately.

“Why what?” Ambrose was confused by Bailey's
tone.

“Why do you like Fern?”

Ambrose sputtered a little, not sure what
Bailey was getting at, and a little pissed that Bailey thought he
was entitled to have it spelled out.

Bailey jumped in. “It's just that she isn't
really the kind of girl you used to go for. She and I were talking
the other day. She seems to think she's not good enough for you . .
. that you are tolerating her because, in her words, 'she's thrown
herself at you.' I can't quite imagine Fern throwing herself at
anyone. She's always been pretty shy when it comes to guys.”

Ambrose thought of the night of the fireworks
when she'd kissed his eyelids, his neck, his mouth and slid her
hands beneath his shirt. She hadn't been shy then, but he thought
he'd keep that to himself.

Bailey continued: “I think that's why Fern
has always liked to read so much. Books allow you to be whoever you
want to be, to escape yourself for a while. You know how Fern loves
to read those romance novels?”

Ambrose nodded and smiled, remembering how
embarrassed Fern had been when he’d read a passage from her book
out loud. He wondered briefly if the romance novels were what made
Fern so passionate and responsive. Just thinking about her made him
long for her, and he tamped down the desire immediately.

“Do you know she writes them too?”

Ambrose jerked his head around to meet
Bailey's smirk. “Really?”

“Yep. I think she must be on her sixth novel.
She's been sending her books out to publishers since she was
sixteen. So far, she hasn't gotten a deal, but she will eventually.
They're actually pretty good. A little sappy and sweet for my
taste, but that's Fern. She writes under a fake name. Her parents
don't even know.”

“A fake name? What is it?”

“Nah. You'll have to get that info from her.
She's going to kill me for telling you about the books.”

Ambrose nodded, his attention riveted on
exactly how he was going to coax little Fern to tell him all her
secrets. The desire for her rose again, and he almost groaned out
loud.

“I've always liked to read. But I prefer a
little different kind of book. Romance is just torture for me, you
know?” Bailey added.

Ambrose nodded, his mind on the fireworks,
the way it felt to lay next to Fern as light exploded above them,
her sweetness, the smell of her skin and the soft sweep of her
hair. He understood torture.

“So let's hear it, man. What's the deal? I
can't kick your ass, but I will definitely know if you're lying to
me. Is Fern right? Are you just taking what's available?”