Making Faces (32 page)

She moaned into his mouth, the sigh wrenched
from the hungry little beast inside her that longed to tear at his
clothing and sink her tiny claws into him just to make sure she
wouldn't be hungry for long, just to make sure he was absolutely
real and absolutely hers, even if it was just for this moment. She
pressed herself against him, breathing in the clean sweat that
tangled with the scent of the freshly laundered cotton of his clean
shirt. She licked and kissed at the salt on his skin, the ripples
of his scarred cheek a contrast to the sandpapery line of his jaw.
And then, just like that, a thought slid into her fevered brain, a
venomous sliver of self-doubt wrapped in a moment of truth.

“Why do you only kiss me in the dark?” she
whispered, her lips hovering above his.

Ambrose's hands moved restlessly, circling
her hips, sliding up the slim curve of her waist and brushing by
the places he most wanted to explore, and Fern trembled, straddling
the need to continue and the need to be reassured.

“Are you afraid someone will see us?” she
breathed, her head falling to his chest, her hair tickling his
mouth and neck and wrapping around his arms.

His silence felt like ice dribbled down her
back, and Fern pulled herself from him, moving away in the
darkness.

“Fern?” He sounded lost.

“Why do you only kiss me in the dark?” Fern
repeated, her voice small and tight, as if she were trying to
prevent her feelings from leaking out around the words. “Are you
ashamed to be seen with me?”

“I don't only kiss you in the dark . . . do
I?”

“Yes . . . you do.” Silence again. Fern could
hear Ambrose breathing, hear him thinking. “So does it? Embarrass
you . . . I mean.”

“No, Fern. I'm not ashamed to be seen with
you. I'm ashamed to be seen,” Ambrose choked, and his hands found
her in the dark once more.

“Why?” She knew why . . . but she didn't. Not
really. His hand found her jaw and his fingers traced her cheekbone
lightly, moving along her face, finding her features, stopping at
her mouth. She pulled away so she wouldn't pull him in.

“Not even me?” she repeated. “You don't even
want me to see you?

“I don't want you to think about how I look
when I kiss you.”

“Do you think about how I look when you kiss
me?”

“Yes.” His voice was raspy. “I think about
your long red hair and your sweet mouth, and the way your little
body feels when it’s pressed up against me, and I just want to put
my hands on you. Everywhere. And I forget that I am ugly and alone
and confused as hell.”

Flames licked the sides of Fern's belly and
she swallowed hard, trying to contain the steam that rose up and
burned her throat and drenched her face in shocked heat. She'd read
books about men that said things like that to the women they
desired, but she didn't know people really said such things in real
life. She never thought someone would say those things to her.

“You make me feel safe, Fern. You make me
forget. And when I kiss you I just want to keep kissing you.
Everything else falls away. It's the only peace I've found since .
. . since . . .”

“Since your face was scarred?” she finished
softly, still distracted by the things he’d said about her mouth
and her hair and her body. Still flushed yet afraid, eager yet
reluctant.

“Since my friends died, Fern!” He swore
violently, a vicious verbal slap, and Fern flinched. “Since my four
best friends died right in front of me! They died, I lived. They're
gone, I'm here! I deserve this face!” Ambrose wasn't shouting, but
his anguish was deafening, like riding a train through a tunnel,
the reverberations making Fern’s head hurt and her heart stutter in
her chest. His profanity was shocking, his utter, black despair
more shocking still. Fern wanted to run to the door and find the
light switch, ending this bizarre confrontation playing out in the
pitch black. But she was disoriented and didn't want to sprint into
a brick wall.

“In the dark, with you, I forget that Beans
isn't going to come walking in here and interrupt us. He was always
sneaking girls in here. I forget that Grant won't fly up that rope
like he's weightless and that Jesse won't try his hardest to kick
my ass every damn day because he secretly thinks he's better than I
am.

“When I came in today, I almost expected to
find Paulie asleep in here, curled up in the corner, having a nap
on the wrestling mats. Paulie never went anywhere else when he
sluffed. If he wasn't in class, he was here, sound asleep.” A sob,
deep and hard, rattled and broke from Ambrose's chest, like it had
grown rusty over time, waiting to be released. Fern wondered if
Ambrose had ever cried. The sound was heart wrenching, desperate,
desolate. And Fern wept with him.

She reached toward the sound of his pain and
her fingers brushed his lips. And then she was in his arms again,
her chest to his, their wet cheeks pressed together, their tears
merging and dripping down their necks. And there they sat,
comforting and being comforted, letting the thick darkness absorb
their sorrow and hide their grief, if not from each other, then
from sight.

“This was where I was the happiest. Here in
this smelly room with my friends. It was never about the matches.
It was never about the trophies. It was this room. It was the way I
felt when I was here.” Ambrose buried his face in her neck and
fought for speech. “I don't want Coach to bring in a bunch of guys
to replace them. I don't want anybody else in this room . . . not
yet . . . not when I'm here. I can feel them when I'm here, and it
hurts like hell, but it hurts so good . . . because they aren't
really gone when I can still hear their voices. When I can feel
what is left of us in this room.”

Fern stroked his back and his shoulders,
wanting to heal, like a mother's kiss to a skinned knee, a bandage
to a bruise. But that wasn't what he wanted, and he lifted his
head, his breath tickling her lips, his nose brushing hers. And
Fern felt desire drown the grief.

“Give me your mouth, Fern. Please. Make it
all go away.”

“You'll have to help me undress, you know,
and I don't think Ambrose can handle it. The sight of my glorious
naked body takes some getting used to.”

Ambrose, Bailey and Fern were at Hannah Lake.
It had been a spontaneous trip, prompted by the heat and the fact
that Fern and Ambrose both had the day (and night) off. They'd hit
a drive-thru for food and drinks, but they hadn’t gone back home to
get their suits.

“You won't be naked, Bailey. Stop. You're
scaring Ambrose.” Fern winked at Ambrose and said, “You
will
have to help me get him in the water, Ambrose. At that point I can
hold him under all by myself.”

“Hey!” Bailey interjected with mock outrage.
Fern's laughter peeled out and she patted Bailey's cheeks.

Ambrose got behind Bailey and hooked him
under the arms, lifting him so Fern could slide his pants around
his hips and down to his feet.

“Okay. Set him down for a minute.”

Bailey looked like a frail old man with a bit
of thickness around his mid-section. He patted his belly with good
humor. “This little baby helps me float. It also keeps me from
falling over in my wheelchair.

“It's true” Fern said, pulling Bailey's shoes
and socks from his feet. “He's lucky that he's chubby. It gives his
trunk some support. And he really does float. Just watch.”

Fern set Bailey's shoes neatly to the side
and removed her own sneakers. She wore shorts and a turquoise tank
top and made no move to remove those, unfortunately. Ambrose
unlaced his boots and unzipped his jeans. Fern looked away, a rosy
tinge climbing up her neck and onto her smooth cheeks.

When he was standing in his boxers, he picked
Bailey up in his arms without a word and started walking toward the
water.

Fern pranced along behind him, shooting
instructions about how to hold Bailey, how to release him so that
he wouldn't tip forward and not be able to turn onto his back.

“Fern. I got this, woman!” Bailey said as
Ambrose released him. Bailey bobbed, almost in a sitting position,
butt down feet floating up, head and shoulders well above the
surface.

“I'm free!” he yelled.

“He yells that every time he's in the water,”
Fern giggled. “It probably feels amazing. Floating without anyone
holding onto him.”

“
Kites or balloons
?” Ambrose said
softly, watching Bailey. Floating without anyone holding onto him.
Those were the very same words he'd used when Fern had asked him
the question long ago. How foolish he'd been. What good was flying
if there was no one on the other end of the string? Or floating
when there was no one to help you back to dry land? Ambrose tried
to float, but he couldn't seem to keep his legs from falling like
anchors. He resorted to treading water instead, and the symbolism
didn't escape him.

Bailey crowed, “Too much muscle? Poor Brosey.
Bailey Sheen wins this round, I'm afraid.”

Fern had found the sweet spot and was
concentrating on keeping herself afloat, her pink toenails peeking
above the surface of the water, her eyes fixed on the clouds.

“Do you see the Corvette?” Fern lifted her
arm out of the water and pointed at a fluffy conglomeration. She
immediately started to sink and Ambrose slid a hand under her back
before her face slipped beneath the water.

Bailey wrinkled his nose, trying to find a
car in the clouds. Ambrose found it, but by that time it had
shifted and looked a little more like a VW bug.

“I see a cloud that looks like Mr. Hildy!”
Bailey laughed. He couldn't point so Fern and Ambrose studied
frantically, trying to catch the face before it dissolved into
something else.

“Hmmm. I see Homer Simpson,” Fern
murmured.

“More like Bart . . . or maybe Marge,”
Ambrose said.

“It's funny how we all see something
different,” Fern said.

They all stared as the image because softer,
less defined, and floated away. Ambrose was reminded of another
time he’d floated on his back, staring at the sky.

“
Why do you think Saddam had his face
plastered all over the city? Everywhere you look you see his ugly
mug. Statues, posters, banners every-freakin'-where!” Paulie
said.

“
Cause he's 'Suh damn' good-looking,”
Ambrose said dryly.

“
It's intimidation and mind control.”
Grant, ever the scholar, filled in the answer. “He wanted to make
himself seem God-like so that he could more easily control the
population. You think these people fear God or Saddam
more?”

“
You mean Allah,” Paulie corrected
mildly.

“
Right. Allah. Saddam wanted the people to
think he and Allah were one in the same,” Grant said.

“
What do you think Saddam would think if
he saw us swimming in his pool right now? And I must say, it’s ‘Suh
damn’ fine pool,” Jesse stood in the chest deep water, arms spread
on the surface of the water, staring at the ornate fountain that
rimmed the far side of the pool.

“
He wouldn't mind. He's 'Suh damn'
generous he would invite us to come back whenever we want,” Ambrose
said. The “Suh damn” jokes had been going on for days.

Their whole unit was splashing around in the
huge outdoor pool located at the Republican Palace, now in U.S.
hands. It was a rare treat to be this wet and this comfortable, and
the boys from Pennsylvania couldn't have been happier if they were
actually back home in their very own Hannah Lake, lined with trees
and rocks instead of ornate fountains, palm trees and domed
buildings.

“
I think Saddam would demand we kiss his
rings and then he would cut off our tongues,” Beans joined
in.

“
I don't know, Beans, with you that might
be an improvement,” Jesse said. Beans launched himself at his
friend and a round of water wrestling ensued. Ambrose, Paulie, and
Grant laughed and egged them on, but they were all too grateful for
the wet reprieve to waste it by joining in on the horseplay.
Instead they floated, staring up at the sky that didn't look all
that different than the sky over Hannah Lake.