Making Faces (35 page)

Jesse swore and shoved Beans hard, knocking
the smaller soldier to the ground. Beans was up in a flash, his
temper hot, his string of obscenities hotter, and Grant, Ambrose
and Paulie rushed to get between the two. The heat was making them
all crazy. Add that to the tension that never eased, and it was
amazing they hadn't turned on each other before.

“
I have a kid! I have a little boy! A new
baby boy, who I've never seen, and Marley is his mother! So don't
you talk shit about my baby's mother, asshole, or I will beat the
livin' hell outta you and spit on your sorry ass when I'm
done.”

Beans immediately stopped trying to take a
swipe at Jesse, and the anger drained from his face as quickly as
it had come. Ambrose immediately let him go, recognizing the danger
had passed.

“
Jess, man. I'm sorry. I was just
messin'.” Beans rested his locked hands on his head and turned
away, cursing himself this time. He turned back, his expression
heavy with remorse. “It sucks, man. Being here when you got that
goin' on at home. I'm sorry. I just talk too damn much.”

Jesse shrugged, but his throat worked
rapidly like he was trying to swallow an especially bitter pill,
and if he hadn't been wearing eye protection, just like they all
were, he might not have been able to hide the moisture in his eyes
that threatened to spill out and make the situation even tougher
for all of them. Without a word, he began removing his body armor,
his fingers sure and swift. It was something they did several times
a day, something they wore every time they left base, and it was as
familiar to his fingers as tying his shoes.

He lifted his body armor from his chest and
tossed it to the ground. Then he loosened the Velcro flap on his
shirt and unzipped it, leaving it hanging open as he pulled his
undershirt out of his waistband and pushed it up, exposing his
chiseled, black, abdomen and well-developed chest. Jesse was every
bit as beautiful as Ambrose, which he pointed out continually.
There, on his left pec, written across his heart in careful black
stencil, were the words:

My Son

Jesse Davis Jordan

May 8, 2003

He held his khaki undershirt bunched in his
fist just below his chin for several seconds, letting his friends
stare at the new tattoo he'd been reluctant to share. Then, without
commenting, he pulled his undershirt down, closed his shirt, tucked
it in, and pulled his body armor back on.

“
That's cool, Jess,” Beans whispered, his
voice hollow and gutted like he'd taken a bullet in his chest.
Everyone else was nodding, but nobody could speak. They were all
fighting off the emotion of the moment, knowing nothing they could
say would make Jesse feel any better. Or Beans, for that matter.
They resumed their walk back to base in silence.

Paulie fell into step with Jesse and slung
his arm around his shoulders. Jesse didn't shrug him off like he'd
done a moment ago with Beans. Then, with the words swirling around
them in the shimmering desert heat, Paulie began to sing.

I wrote your name across my heart

So I would not forget.

The way I felt when you were born

Before we'd even met

I wrote your name across my heart

So your heart beats with mine

And when I miss you most I trace

Each loop and every line

I wrote your name across my heart,

So we could be together

So I could hold you close to me

And keep you there forever.

The words hung in the air when Paulie was
finished. If anyone else had tried to sing, it wouldn't have
worked. But Paulie had a gentle heart and a way of communicating
that they had all grown accustomed to. The fact that he'd broken
into song to comfort his friend didn't faze any of them.

“
You write that, Paulie?” Grant whispered,
and there was a tremor in his voice that everyone noted and
studiously ignored.

“
Nah. Just an old folk song my mom used to
sing. I don't even remember the group that sang it. They had hippie
hair and they wore socks with their sandals. But I've always liked
the song. I changed the first verse a little, for Jesse.”

They walked in silence a little longer until
Ambrose started to hum the tune and Jesse demanded, “Sing it again,
Paulie.”

“What kind of tattoo should I get? I mean,
really? The word
Mom
inside a heart? That's just pathetic. I
can't think of a damn thing that's cool without being ridiculous
for a guy in a wheelchair,” Bailey complained.

The three of them--Ambrose, Bailey and
Fern--were on their way to Seely, to a tattoo parlor called the Ink
Tank. Bailey had been begging Fern to take him to get a tattoo
since he was eighteen years old, and he'd brought up the subject
again a few days ago at the lake. When Ambrose said he would go,
Fern was officially outnumbered. Now she was at the wheel, the
accommodating chauffeur, as usual.

“Hey, you could get a club, Brosey, like
Hercules. That would be cool,” Bailey suggested.

Ambrose sighed. Hercules was dead, and Bailey
just kept trying to bring him back to life.

“Bailey, you could get an S, a Superman S
inside a shield. Remember how much you loved Superman?” Fern perked
up at the memory.

“I would have thought it was Spider-Man,”
Ambrose said, remembering the fuss Bailey had made over the dead
spider when they were ten.

“I gave up on spider venom pretty quickly,”
Bailey said. “I figured I'd probably been bit by a million
mosquitoes, so bugs probably weren't the answer. When spider venom
lost its appeal, I abandoned Spider-Man and latched onto
Superman.”

“He became convinced his muscular dystrophy
was a direct result of being exposed to Kryptonite. He had his mom
make him a long red cape with a big S on the back.” Fern laughed
and Bailey huffed.

“I'm going to be buried in that cape. I still
have it. That thing is awesome.”

“So what about you, Fern? Wonder Woman?”
Ambrose teased.

“Fern decided super heroes weren't for her,”
Bailey said from the back. “She decided she would just be a fairy
because she liked the option of flying without the responsibility
of saving the world. She made a pair of wings from cardboard,
covered them in glitter, and rigged up some duct tape straps so she
could wear the wings around on her back like a back pack.”

Fern shrugged. “Sadly, I don't still have the
wings. I wore those things to death.”

Ambrose was quiet, Bailey's words resonating
in his head.
She liked the option of flying without the
responsibility of saving the world.
Maybe he and Fern
were
soul mates. He understood that sentiment perfectly.

“Is Aunt Angie going to ground us from each
other, Bailey?” Fern worried her lower lip. “I can't imagine they
want you getting a big tattoo.”

“Nah. I'll just play the
give-the-dying-kid-his-last-wish card,” Bailey said
philosophically. “Works every time. Fern, you should get a little
fern on your shoulder. Not the word–an actual fern. You know, with
fronds and everything.”

“Hmm. I don't think I'm brave enough for a
tattoo. And if I was, it wouldn't be a fern.”

They pulled in front of the tattoo parlor. It
was quiet–noon wasn't a popular hour for tattoos apparently. Bailey
was suddenly quiet, and Ambrose wondered if he was having second
thoughts. But as Fern removed the restraints from his chair and he
maneuvered himself down the ramp, he didn't hesitate.

Fern and Bailey were all eyes inside the
little business, and Ambrose braced himself, just like he always
did, for the curious second glances and the blatant staring. But
the man who approached them had a face that was so inked in
intricate designs that Ambrose, with his marks and scars, looked
tame beside him. He looked at Ambrose's scars with a professional
eye and offered to add a few embellishments. Ambrose refused, but
instantly felt more at ease.

Bailey had chosen to get a tattoo high on his
right shoulder where it wouldn't rub against the back of his chair.
He chose the words “Victory is in the Battle,” the words from the
bench at the memorial, the words his dad had repeated hundreds of
time, the words that were a testament to Bailey's own life and a
tribute to the sport he loved.

And then Ambrose made his own request,
surprising Fern and Bailey, peeling off his shirt and telling the
tattooed man what he wanted done. It didn't take long. It wasn’t a
complicated design that required a great deal of skill or a mix of
colors. He wrote out what he wanted, neatly, checking that the
spelling was right and handed it to the artist. He chose a font,
the letters were stenciled on his skin, and then, without fanfare,
the artist began the process.

Fern watched in fascination as, one after
another, the names of Ambrose's fallen friends were inked across
the left side his chest. Paulie, Grant, Jesse, Beans, one beside
the other, neat block letters in a solemn row. When it was
finished, Fern traced the names with the tip of her finger, careful
not to touch the tender skin. Ambrose shuddered. Her hands felt
like balm on a wound, welcome and painful at the same time.

They paid, thanked the tattoo artist and were
heading for home when Bailey asked quietly, “Does it make you feel
closer to them?”

Ambrose looked out the window at the
landscape streaming by–trees and sky and homes as familiar to him
as his own face . . . or the face he used to see when he looked in
the mirror.

“My face is messed up.” His eyes met Bailey's
in the rearview mirror, and he reached up and traced the longest
scar, the one that ran from his hairline to his mouth. “I didn't
get to choose these scars. My face is a reminder every day of their
deaths. I guess I just wanted something that reminded me of their
lives. It was something Jesse did first. I've been wanting to do it
for a while.”

“That's nice, Brosey. That's really nice.”
Bailey smiled wistfully. “I think that's the worst part. The
thought that no one will remember me when I'm gone. Sure, my
parents will. Fern will. But how does someone like me live on? When
it's all said and done, did I matter?”

The silence in the old blue van was thick
with empty platitudes and meaningless reassurances that begged to
be uttered, but Fern loved Bailey too much to pat him on the head
when he needed something more.

“I'll add you to my list,” Ambrose promised
suddenly, his eyes holding Bailey's in the mirror. “When the time
comes, I'll write your name across my heart with the others.”

Bailey's eyes swam and he blinked rapidly and
for several minutes he didn't speak. Fern looked at Ambrose with
such love and devotion in her face that he would have offered to
write an entire epitaph across his back.

“Thank you, Brosey,” Bailey whispered. And
Ambrose started to hum.

“Sing it again, please?” Fern begged, tracing
the longest scar on his right cheek, and he let her, not even
minding the reminder that it was there. When she touched his face
he felt her affection and her fingertips soothed him.

“You like it when I sing?” he said sleepily,
knowing he didn't have much longer before he would have to drag
himself into work. Fern had the day off, but he didn't. The trip to
the tattoo parlor had taken all afternoon and when evening fell, he
and Fern had said goodbye to Bailey but had struggled to say
goodbye to each other. They’d ended up watching the summertime sun
set from the trampoline in Fern's back yard. Now it was dark and
quiet, and the heat had tiptoed away with the sun, making him
drowsy as he sang the lullaby Paulie had taught them in the first
months of their tour in Iraq. Jesse's son had just been born, and
the tour had stretched out in front of them, endless dust and
endless days before they could return home.