Making Faces (36 page)

“I love it when you sing,” Fern said, shaking
him from his reverie. She started to sing the song, pausing when
she forgot a word, letting him fill in the blanks until her voice
faded away and he finished the song on his own. “
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
.” He'd sung it three
times already.

When he sang the last note, Fern snuggled
into him, as if she too needed a nap, and the trampoline rocked
slightly beneath them, rolling her into the valley his big body
made, depositing her across his chest. He stroked her hair as her
breaths became deeper.

Ambrose wondered wistfully how it would feel
to sleep beside her all the time. Maybe then the nights wouldn’t be
so hard. Maybe then the darkness that tried to consume him when he
was alone would slink away for good, overpowered by her light. He’d
spent an hour in a session with his psychologist yesterday. She’d
been floored by the “improvements in his mental health.” And it was
all due to a little pill called Fern.

He had no doubt that she would agree if he
asked her to run away with him. Although they would have to take
Bailey. Still. She would marry him in a heartbeat . . . and his
heart beat enthusiastically at the idea. Fern had to feel the
increase in volume and tempo beneath her cheek.

“Have you heard the joke about the man who
had to choose a wife?” Ambrose asked quietly.

Fern shook her head where it lay against him.
“No,” she yawned delicately.

“This guy has a chance to marry a girl who is
gorgeous or a girl who has a wonderful voice, but isn't much to
look at. He thinks about it and decides that he will marry the girl
who can sing. After all, her beautiful voice should last a lot
longer than a beautiful face, right?”

“Right.” Fern's voice sounded more awake, as
if she found the subject matter highly interesting.

“So the guy marries the ugly girl. They have
a wedding, a feast, and all the wedding night fun stuff.”

“This is a joke?”

Ambrose continued as if she hadn't
interrupted him. “The next morning the guy rolls over and sees his
new bride and he screams. His wife wakes up and asks him what's
wrong. He covers his eyes and yells, 'Sing! For the love of God,
Sing!'“

Fern groaned, indicating that the joke was
lame. But then she started to laugh, and Ambrose laughed with her,
bouncing beside her on the trampoline in Pastor Taylor's backyard
like a couple of little kids. But in the back of his mind he
wondered uneasily if there wouldn't come a point when Fern would
look at him and beg him to sing.

Bailey had very little independence. But in
his chair with his hand resting on the controls, he could motor
down to Bob's gas station on the corner, to Jolley's to see Fern
after work, or to the church in case he wanted to torment his Uncle
Joshua with theological hypotheticals. Pastor Joshua was usually
very patient and willing to talk, but Bailey was sure he groaned
when he saw Bailey coming.

He knew he shouldn't be out as late as he
was. But that was part of the thrill too. Twenty-one-year old men
should not have curfews. The only thing he felt guilty about was
that when he got home he would have to wake his mom or dad to help
him to bed, which took some of the fun out of his late night
excursions. Plus, he wanted to head to the store and see Fern and
Ambrose. Those two needed a chaperone. It had started to steam
whenever they were together, and Bailey was pretty sure it wouldn't
be long before he was the third wheel on wheels. He laughed to
himself. He loved puns. And he loved that Fern and Ambrose had
found each other. He wouldn't be around forever. Now that Fern had
Ambrose, he wouldn't worry about her so much.

He wasn't living dangerously tonight. He'd
tried to sneak out without the headlamp, but his mom came running
out behind him. Maybe he would just conveniently leave it at the
store when he left. He hated the damn thing. He smirked, feeling
like a rebel. He stayed on the sidewalk and streetlights guided his
way; he really didn’t think he needed a spotlight shining from his
forehead. Bob's Speedy Mart was on his way and Bailey decided to
stop in, just because he could. He waited patiently until Bob
himself came out from behind the register and opened the door for
him.

“Hey, Bailey.” Bob blinked and tried not to
look directly at the light blazing from Bailey's headlamp.

“You can turn that off, Bob. Just click the
button on the top,” Bailey instructed. Bob tried, but when he
clicked the button the light still blazed, as if there was
something that had come loose on the inside. He pulled the elastic
band around so the light shone from the back of Bailey's head and
he could look at him without going blind.

“That'll have to do, Bailey. What can I help
you with?” Bob made himself available as he always did, knowing
Bailey's limitations.

“I need a twelve pack and some chew,” Bailey
said seriously. Bob's mouth dropped open slightly, and he shifted
his weight uncertainly.

“Um. Okay. Do you have your ID on ya?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Well . . . what kind would you
like?”

“Starbursts come in packs of twelve don't
they? And I prefer to chew Wrigley's. Mint, please.”

Bob chortled, his big belly shaking above his
giant belt buckle. He shook his head. “You had me going for a
minute, Sheen. I had this picture of you heading down the road with
your lip full of tobacco and a case of Bud on your lap.”

Bob followed Bailey down the aisles, picking
up his purchases. Bailey stopped in front of the condoms.

“I'll need some of those too, Bob. The
biggest box you have.”

Bob raised one eyebrow, but this time he
wasn't falling for it. Bailey snickered and rolled on.

Ten minutes later, Bailey was back on the
road, his purchases tucked by his side, Bob laughing as he waved
him off, having been thoroughly entertained. He realized belatedly
that he hadn't righted Bailey's headlamp.

Bailey chose to head down Center and hit Main
instead of cutting down 2nd East. It was a longer route to the
store but the night was balmy and the air felt good on his face.
And he had time. He would give the lovebirds an extra ten or
fifteen minutes together before the fun arrived. The silence was
welcome, the solitude more welcome. He wished he'd thought to have
his dad stick his ear buds in his ears so he could blast some Simon
and Garfunkel. But he had been unsuccessfully trying to escape
without the headlamp.

The businesses along Main were empty and
dark, the black windows reflecting his image back at him as he
motored past the hardware store, the karate dojo, and the
real-estate office. Mi Cocina, Luisa O'Toole's Mexican Restaurant,
was closed too, the twinkle lights and strung habanera peppers
swaying in the light wind, clacking against the mustard yellow
siding. But the building next to Luisa's wasn't closed. Like Bob's
Speedy Mart, Jerry's Joint–the local bar–was never closed. A neon
orange light advertised that status, and a few old trucks were
pulled right up to the door.

Bailey could hear faint music leaking out
from the establishment. He listened, trying to place the song and
heard something else. Crying. A baby? Bailey looked around,
puzzled. There wasn't a single soul in sight.

He moved forward, crossing the paved entrance
to the bar, passing the first few vehicles parked in the long row.
Crying again. Parked slightly behind the bar in the gravel that
wrapped around the establishment was Becker Garth's black 4X4
complete with jacked up wheels and a skull and crossbones in his
back window. How original. Bailey rolled his eyes. What a
douche.

Crying again. Definitely a baby. Bailey
veered off the sidewalk and bumped over the gravel toward the 4X4.
He could hear his heart beating in his temples, and he felt
nauseated. The crying was coming from Becker's truck.

The passenger door was slightly ajar, and as
Bailey got closer he could see blonde hair streaming over the edge
of the seat.

“Oh no. Oh no. Rita!” Bailey moaned as he
maneuvered his chair alongside the opened door. He was afraid he
would bump it closed. If he did that, he wouldn't be able to open
it again. He lined his chair up so his hand, lying against his
armrest was only inches from the edge of the door. He raised his
hand as high as he could and wedged it into the opening. He pushed
as hard as he could and the door wobbled and then swung slowly
open. Bailey's hand fell back to his armrest and his heart fell to
his feet. Rita lay unconscious on the seat of the truck, her blonde
head hanging off the seat, her hand resting against the door. She'd
clearly opened the door but hadn't made it any further.
Two-year-old Tyler Garth stood in the foot well, one hand in his
mouth, one hand on his mother's face.

“Rita!” Bailey cried. “Rita!” She didn't
stir.

Ty whimpered and Bailey felt like whimpering
too. Instead, he lowered his voice and tried again, talking to
Rita, urging her to respond. There was no blood that he could see,
but Bailey had no doubt that Becker Garth had done something to his
wife. He couldn't help Rita, but he could take care of Ty. That's
what Rita would want him to do.

“Ty Guy. Hey, buddy,” Bailey coaxed, trying
not to let his terror show. “It's me, Bailey. You want a ride in my
chair? You like riding in Bailey's chair, huh?”

“Mama,” the child whimpered around his
fingers.

“We'll go fast. Let's show Mommy how we go
fast.” Bailey couldn't lift Ty onto his lap. So he beckoned to him
with curled fingers. “Hold my hand and climb into Bailey's chair.
You remember how, right?”

Ty had stopped crying, and he looked at
Bailey's chair with big blue eyes. Bailey wheeled into the opening,
pushing the door wider with his chair. He was so close Ty could
literally crawl into his lap. If he would.

“Come on, Ty. I have a treat for you. You can
have some candy, and Bailey will take you for a ride in his chair.
Let Mommy have a nap.” Bailey's voice broke on the words, but the
mention of candy was all it took. Ty knelt down in the foot well
and climbed over Bailey's armrest and into Bailey's lap. He dug his
tiny hand into the little white grocery sack and pulled out the
Starbursts triumphantly. Bailey backed away from the door, away
from Rita. He had to get help. And he was very afraid that at any
minute Becker Garth would come running out of the bar and see him.
Or worse, drive away with Rita dying in the front seat of his
truck.

“Hold on to Bailey, Ty.”

“Go fast?”

“Yeah. We're going to go fast.”

Ty had no concept of holding on. Bailey
needed his right hand to drive the wheelchair and his left to punch
in 911 on the cell phone that was strapped to his other armrest. He
dialed and hit speaker and then put his left arm around Ty, trying
to secure him as he crossed the gravel and eased up onto the
sidewalk. The 911 operator answered and Bailey started spilling out
the details, shouting at his armrest and trying to steer. Ty
started to cry.