Making Faces (9 page)

The whistle started the second round and it
was more of the same, except maybe worse. Ambrose kept trying to
stir something up, but his attempts were half-hearted, and when his
opponent chose down and was able to get an escape, it was Ambrose
0, the Altoona Lion 1. Bailey roared and moaned from the sidelines,
and at the end of the second period with the score still 0-1,
Bailey started to make efforts to get Ambrose's attention.

He started chanting “Hercules! Hercules!
Hercules!”

“Help me, Fern!” he urged. Fern wasn't much
of a chanter or a yeller, but she was starting to feel sick, like
something was way off with Ambrose. She didn't want him to lose
this way. So she joined Bailey in the chant. A few of the fans were
sitting close to the corner and without much urging, they chimed in
too.

“Hercules, Hercules, Hercules,” they roared,
understanding that the demi-god of Hannah Lake was about to be
dethroned. Ambrose Young was losing.

With twenty seconds left in the match, the
referee stopped the match for the second time because the 197 pound
lion from Altoona needed to adjust the tape on his fingers. Because
it was the second time the action had been stopped, Ambrose would
be able to choose his position–up, down, or neutral–to end the
match.

Bailey had maneuvered himself to the edge of
the mat next to the two chairs designated for Hannah Lake coaches.
No one challenged him. Perks of being in a wheel chair. You got
away with a lot more than you otherwise would.

“Hercules!” he shouted at Ambrose, and
Ambrose shook his head in disbelief. He was listening to his
coaches, but not listening. When Bailey interrupted, the frenzied
instructions ceased and three sets of frustrated eyes turned on
him.

“What are you yelling about, Sheen?” Ambrose
was numb. In twenty seconds his shot at a four-peat would go up in
smoke. And he couldn't seem to shake off the lethargy, the sense
that none of this was real.

“Remember Hercules?” Bailey demanded. It
really wasn't a question, the way he shoved the statement at
Ambrose.

Ambrose looked incredulous and more than a
little confused.

“Remember the story about the lion?” Bailey
insisted impatiently.

“No . . .” Ambrose adjusted his headgear and
looked over at his opponent who was still getting his fingers
wrapped while his coaches threw instructions at him and tried not
to look euphoric over the turn of events.

“This guy's a lion too. An Altoona Mountain
Lion, right? Hercules's arrows weren't working on the lion. Your
shots aren't working either.”

“Thanks, man,” Ambrose muttered dryly, and
turned to walk back to the center of the mat.

“You know how Hercules beat the lion?” Bailey
raised his voice to be heard.

“No, I don't,” Ambrose said over his
shoulder

“He was stronger than the lion. He got on the
lion's back, and he squeezed the shit out of him!” Bailey yelled
after him.

Ambrose looked back at Bailey and something
flickered across his face. When the referee asked Ambrose what
position he would take, he chose top. His fans gasped, the entire
township of Hannah Lake gasped, Elliott Young cursed, and Ambrose
Young's coaches' mouths dropped along with their stomachs and their
hopes for another team title. It was as if Ambrose wanted to lose.
You didn't choose top when you were down by one with twenty seconds
left in the match. All Altoona had to do was not get turned–or even
worse, escape and get another point–and he would win the match.

When the whistle blew it was as if someone
hit slow motion. Even Ambrose's movements seemed slow and precise.
His opponent scrambled, trying to push up and out, but instead
found himself in a vise so tight he forgot for a moment about the
twenty seconds on the clock, about the match that was his to win,
and about the glory that would come with it. He sucked in a breath
as he was shoved face first into the mat and his left arm was
yanked out from under him. The vise grew even tighter and he
thought about slapping the mat with his right hand, the way the UFC
guys did when they were tapping out. His legs shot out, splaying
for leverage as his left arm was threaded past his right armpit. He
knew what was happening. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do
about it.

Slowly, precisely, Ambrose wrapped himself
around his opponent, tying up his legs as he tipped the lion onto
his back, never releasing the pressure. In fact, Ambrose's arms
trembled with the amount of power he was exerting. And then the
count began, one, two, three, four, five. Three back points.
Ambrose thought about Hercules and the lion with the golden fleece
and stretched and tipped the lion from Altoona just a little more.
With two seconds left on the clock, the referee slapped the
mat.

Pinned.

The spectators went wild, and the whole town
of Hannah Lake claimed they had believed in him all along. Coach
Sheen looked at his son and grinned, Elliott Young fought back
tears, Fern discovered her nails were shredded, and Ambrose helped
his opponent stand. He didn't roar or leap into his coach's arms,
but when he looked at Bailey there was relief in his face, and a
small smile played around his lips.

The tale of his first match spread like
wildfire, and the chant of Hercules accompanied Ambrose in ever
increasing volume from one match to the next, providing fodder for
his longtime fans and flaming a whole new following. Ambrose didn't
falter for the rest of the tournament. It was as if he'd flirted
with the edge and decided it wasn't for him. By the time he took
the mat in the finals, his last match in his unprecedented high
school wrestling career, the whole arena roared the name
Hercules.

But after he dominated his last match and the
referee raised his right arm in victory, after the announcers went
wild with speculation as to what came next for the incredible
Ambrose Young, the four-time state champion found a quiet corner
and without fanfare, slid his singlet around his waist, pulled on
his royal blue Hannah Lake Wrestling T-shirt, and covered his head
with his towel. His friends found him there when it was all over
and the medals were being awarded.

It was in the middle of nowhere, just a big
crater in the ground. But the wreckage had all been cleared away.
People said charred paper, debris, bits of clothing and luggage,
frames of some of the seats, and twisted metal had been scattered
and spread around the crash in an eight-mile radius and into the
wooded area south of the crater. Some people said there were pieces
of wreckage in the treetops and in the bottom of a nearby lake. A
farmer even found a piece of the fuselage in his field.

But there was no debris there now. It had all
been cleared away. The cameras, the forensic teams, the yellow
tape, all gone. The five boys thought they might have trouble
getting close, but nobody was there to stop them from taking
Grant’s old car off the road and winding it down to where they knew
they'd find the place Flight 93 collided with the Pennsylvania
earth.

There was a fence surrounding the area–a
forty-foot chain-link fence that had withered flowers stuck through
the links and signs and stuffed animals wedged here and there. It
had been seven months since 9/11, and most of the signs and the
candles, the gifts and the notes had been cleared away by
volunteers, but there was something about the place that was so
somber as to make even five eighteen-year-old boys sober up and
listen to the wind that whispered through nearby trees.

It was March, and though the sun had peeked
out briefly earlier in the day, spring hadn't found southern
Pennsylvania, and the brittle fingers of winter found their way
through their clothing to the young skin already prickling with the
memory of death that hung in the air.

They stood next to the fence, linking their
fingers through the holes and peering through the chinks to see if
they could make out the crater in the earth, marking the resting
place of forty people none of them had ever met. But they knew some
of their names, some of their stories, and they were awed and
silent, each one wrapped in his own thoughts.

“I can't see a damn thing,” Jesse finally
admitted after a long silence. He'd had plans with his girlfriend,
Marley, and though he was always game for a night with the boys, he
was suddenly wishing he'd stayed home this time. He was cold and
making out was a whole hell of a lot more fun than staring out into
a dark field where a bunch of people had died.

“Shhh!” Grant hissed, nervous about the
prospect of capture and interrogation. He'd been certain driving
down to Shanksville on a whim was a stupid idea. So he'd lectured
and warned but had come along anyway, just like he always did.

“You might not be able to see anything . . .
but . . . do you feel that?” Paulie had his eyes closed, his face
lifted to the air, as if he was truly hearing something the rest of
them couldn't. Paulie was the dreamer, the sensitive one, but
nobody argued with him this time. There was something there,
something almost sacred shimmered in the quiet–but it wasn't
frightening. It was strangely peaceful, even in the cold
darkness.

“Anyone need a drink? I need a drink,” Beans
whispered after another long stretch of silence. He fished in his
jacket and pulled out a flask, jubilantly raising it in memorial.
“Don't mind if I do.”

“I thought you weren't drinking anymore!”
Grant frowned.

“Season's over, man, and I am officially
drinking again,” Beans declared cheerfully, taking a long pull and
wiping his grin with the back of his hand. He offered it to Jesse,
and Jesse gladly took a swig, shuddering as the fiery liquid burned
a path to his stomach.

The only one who didn't seem to have anything
to say was Ambrose. But that wasn't abnormal. Ambrose spoke up
rarely, and when he did, most people listened. In fact, he was the
reason they were there, in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday
night. Since the army recruiter had come to the school, Ambrose
hadn’t been able to think of anything else. The five of them had
sat on the back row of the auditorium, snickering, making jokes
about boot camp being a walk in the park compared to Coach Sheen's
wrestling practices. Except Ambrose. He hadn’t snickered or made
jokes. He had listened quietly, his dark eyes fixed on the
recruiter, his posture tense, his hands clasped in his lap.

They were all seniors, and they would all be
graduating in a couple of months. Wrestling season had ended two
weeks ago, and they were already restless--maybe more than they had
ever been--because there would be no more seasons, nothing to train
for, no more matches to dream about, no victories to enjoy. They
were done. Done . . . except Ambrose who had been highly recruited
by several schools and who had the academics and the athletic
record to go to Penn State on a full-ride. He was the only one who
had a way out.

They stood on the precipice of enormous
change, and none of them, not even Ambrose–especially not
Ambrose–were excited about the prospect. But whether or not they
chose to take a step into the unknown, the unknown would still
come, the yawning precipice would still swallow them whole, and
life as they knew it would be over. And they had all become highly
aware of the end.

“What are we doing here, Brosey?” Jesse
finally said what they'd all been thinking. As a result, four pairs
of eyes narrowed in on Ambrose’s face. It was a strong face, a face
more prone to introspection than jest. It was a face the girls were
drawn to and the guys secretly coveted. Ambrose Young was a guy’s
guy, though, and his friends had always felt safest in his
presence, as if just by being near him, some of his luster would
rub off on them. And it wasn't just his size or good looks or the
Samson-like hair that he wore to his shoulders in defiance of the
style or the fact that it bothered Coach Sheen. It was the fact
that life had fallen into place for Ambrose Young, right from the
start, and watching him, you believed it always would. There was
something comforting in that.