Making Faces (17 page)

“I'd be happy to never see another burka
again.” Grant wiped the sweat and dust from his nose and flinched
up at the sun, wishing it would take a break.

“I heard that some guys, especially in places
like Afghanistan, don't see their wives at all until after they are
married. Can you imagine? Surprise, sweetie!” Jesse batted his
eyelashes as he made a hideous face. “What's wrong? Don't you think
I'm pretty?” he said in a high falsetto and contorted his face even
more.

“So how do they even know who it is they're
marrying?” Paulie asked, flummoxed.

“Handwriting,” Beans said seriously. But his
nostrils flared slightly, and Ambrose rolled his eyes, knowing that
Beans was telling a tale.

“Really?” Paulie gasped, falling like a
brick. It wasn't his fault he was so gullible. It came with the
sweet temperament.

“Yeah. They write letters back and forth for
a year or more. Then at the ceremony, she signs her name along with
a promise that she'll always wear her burka in front of other men.
He recognizes her handwriting and that’s how he knows it’s her
beneath her veil.”

Grant was scowling. “I've never heard
anything like that. Handwriting?”

Jesse had caught on and was trying not to
laugh. “Yeah. Just think, if Ambrose and Fern had lived in Iraq, he
never woulda figured out that it was Fern writing him those letters
instead of Rita. Fern could have roped him into marriage. Ambrose
would have seen her handwriting at the wedding and said, 'yep, it's
Rita, all right!'“

Ambrose's friends howled with laughter, even
Paulie, who had finally figured out that it was just a set-up to
rib Ambrose about Fern. Again.

Ambrose sighed, his lips twitching. It was
pretty funny. Beans was laughing so hard he was wheezing, and he
and Jesse were making each other laugh even harder as they
reenacted the moment the burka was removed and Fern stood beneath
it instead of the buxom blonde, Rita.

Ambrose wondered what his friends would think
if they knew he'd kissed Fern. Really kissed her. Knowing full well
who he was kissing. No need of subterfuge. Or burkas. He wondered
absentmindedly if the burka was such a bad idea. Maybe more guys
would make better decisions if they weren't distracted by the
packaging. For that matter, maybe guys should wear them too.
'Course, his packaging had always worked in his favor.

He pondered whether Fern would have even
wanted him if he was packaged differently. He knew Rita wouldn't
have. Not because she wasn't a nice enough girl, but because they
had nothing in common. Take away the mutual physical attraction,
and they had nothing.

With Fern, there was a possibility of a lot
more. At least, the letters made him think there could be more. The
tour was up in two months. He decided when he got home he would
find out. And his friends would never let him hear the end of it.
They would torment him for the rest of his life. He sighed and
checked his weapon for the umpteenth time, wishing the day would
end.

It was just a routine patrol--five army
vehicles taking a turn around the southern part of the city.
Ambrose was at the wheel of the last Humvee, Paulie in the
passenger seat beside him. Grant was driving the vehicle in front
of Ambrose, Jesse riding shotgun, Beans in the turret--the last two
vehicles in the small convoy of five.

Just out for a routine patrol. Out for an
hour, back to base. Up and down the crumbling, embattled streets of
Baghdad along the assigned route. Paulie was singing the song he'd
made up about Oz. “Iraq may not have munchkins, but it sure as hell
has sand. I haven't got my girlfriend, but I've still got my hand .
. .”

Suddenly, a group of kids were running along
the side of the road, shrieking and running their fingers across
their throats. Little boys and girls of various ages, shoeless,
limbs slim and brown, clothing leached of color in the simmering
heat. Running, yelling. At least six of them.

“What are they doing?” Ambrose grunted,
confused. “Are they doing what I think they're doing? Do you think
they hate us that much? They want our throats slashed? They're just
kids!”

“I don't think that's what they're doing.”
Paulie turned, watching the kids fall back as the convoy passed. “I
think they were warning us.” He had stopped singing, and his face
was still, contemplative.

Ambrose checked his rearview mirror. The kids
had stopped running and stood in the road unmoving. They grew
smaller as the convoy continued down the road, but they remained in
the street, watching. Ambrose turned his attention back to the road
in front of them. Except for the convoy, it was completely empty,
abandoned. Not a single soul in sight. They would turn the corner
on the next street, circle around the block, and head back to
base.

“Brosey . . . do you feel that?”

Paul's face was tipped as if he was hearing
something in the distance, something Ambrose couldn't hear,
something he definitely couldn't feel. It reminded Ambrose of the
way Paulie had looked when they made their clandestine visit to the
memorial of Flight 93, when he'd asked the very same question. It
had been almost too still that night at the memorial, as if the
world had bowed its head for a moment of silence and never lifted
it up again. It was too still now. The hair rose on Ambrose's
neck.

And then Hell shoved a gnarled hand up
through the hard packed road and unleashed fire and flying shards
of metal beneath the wheels of the Humvee in front of Ambrose and
Paulie, the Humvee that carried Grant, Jesse and Beans--three boys,
three friends, three soldiers from Hannah Lake, Pennsylvania. And
that was the last thing Ambrose Young remembered, the very last
piece of Before.

When the phone rang early Monday morning, the
Taylor family looked at each other with bleary eyes. Fern had
stayed up all night writing and was looking forward to crawling
back into bed after she ate her Cheerios. Joshua and Rachel had
plans to head to Loch Haven College for a symposium for the next
couple of days and wanted to get an early start. Fern couldn't wait
to have the house to herself for a few days.

“It's only six-thirty! I wonder who that is?”
Rachel said, puzzled.

As the local pastor, calls at odd hours
weren't unusual–but the odd hours tended to be from midnight to
three am. People were usually too tired at six-thirty in the
morning to get in trouble or bother their pastor.

Fern jumped up and grabbed the receiver and
chirped a cheerful hello, her curiosity getting the best of
her.

An official-sounding voice asked for Pastor
Taylor and Fern handed her father the phone with a shrug. “They
want Pastor Taylor,” she said.

“This is Joshua Taylor. How can I help you?”
Fern's father said briskly, standing up and moving to the side so
that he didn't have to stretch the curly cord across the table. The
Taylor's hadn't invested in anything as sophisticated as a cordless
phone.

He listened for all of ten seconds before he
sat down again.

“Oh. Oh, dear God.” He groaned and closed his
eyes like a child trying to hide.

Rachel and Fern looked at each other in
alarm, breakfast forgotten.

“All of them? How?”

Another silence.

“I see. Yes. Yes. I'll be ready.”

Joshua Taylor stood once more and walked to
the wall unit, hanging up the ancient phone with a finality that
made Fern's heart quake in her chest. When he turned toward the
table, Joshua Taylor's face was sickly grey and his eyes bleak.

“That was a man named Peter Gary. He's an
army chaplain assigned to casualty assistance. Connor O'Toole, Paul
Kimball, Grant Nielson and Jesse Jordan were killed by a roadside
bomb in Iraq yesterday.”

“Oh, no! Oh Joshua,” Rachel's voice was
shrill and she covered her mouth, as if to push the words back in,
but they reverberated throughout the kitchen.

“They're dead?” Fern cried in disbelief.

“Yes, Fern. They are.” Joshua looked at his
only daughter and his hand shook as he reached for her, wanting to
touch her, wanting to console her, wanting to fall to his knees and
pray for the parents who had lost their sons. Parents he was going
to have to notify in less than an hour’s time.

“They contacted me because I am the local
clergy. They want me to go with the officers assigned to the team
to tell the families. They will have a vehicle here in half an hour
to pick me up. I have to change,” he said helplessly, looking down
at his jeans and favorite T-shirt that asked “What Would Jesus
Do?”

“But they were scheduled to come home next
month! I just saw Jamie Kimball in the store yesterday. She's been
counting down the days!” Fern said, as if the news couldn't
possibly be true for that reason. “And Marley! Marley's been
planning her wedding. She and Jesse are getting married!”

“They're gone, Fernie.”

The tears had started to fall, the initial
shock turning into teary devastation. Pastor Taylor's eyes swam
with grief, Rachel was weeping quietly, but Fern sat in stunned
silence, unable to feel anything but sheer disbelief. She looked up
suddenly, horrified as a new question exploded into her mind.

“Dad? What about Ambrose Young?”

“I didn't ask, Fern. I didn't think. They
didn't mention Ambrose. He must be okay.”

Fern shuddered with relief and immediately
felt remorse that his life was more important to her than the
others. But at least Ambrose was alive. At least Ambrose was
okay.

Half an hour later, a black Ford Taurus
pulled up to the Taylor residence. Three officers in full uniform
stepped from the inauspicious vehicle and walked up the walk.
Joshua Taylor was in a suit and tie, freshly showered and pressed
into his most respectful attire, and he opened the door to the
three men. Rachel and Fern hovered in the kitchen, listening to the
surreal conversation in the next room.