Making Faces (22 page)

Rita's left eye was swollen shut and her lip
was puffy and split down the middle. Fern sat by her side and held
the ice to her face, wondering how many other times Rita had looked
this way and hid it from her friends.

“I called the cops. Becker's Uncle Barry
showed up and took Becker in, but I don't think they're going to
charge him,” Rita said dully. At that moment she looked like she
was forty years old. Her long, blonde hair lay limp on her
shoulders and the fatigue in her face created shadows and valleys
that wouldn't otherwise be there.

“Do you want to come to my house? Mom and Dad
would let you and Ty stay as long as you wanted.” Sadly, Rita had
come and stayed before, but always went back to Becker.

“I'm not leaving this time. Becker can leave.
I didn't do anything wrong.” Rita stuck out her bottom lip in
defiance, but her eyes filled with tears, contradicting her brave
words.

“But . . . but, he's dangerous,” Fern argued
gently.

“He'll be nice for a while. He'll be super
sorry and be on his best behavior. And I'll start making plans.
I've been saving up. Mom and I are going to take little Ty guy and
run away. Soon. And Becker can go to hell.”

Ty whimpered in his sleep and snuggled his
face into his mother's breast. He was small for a two-year-old. It
was a good thing, because Rita packed him everywhere, as if she was
afraid to set him down.

“I'm only twenty-one years old, Fern! How did
I get myself in this situation? How did I make such a terrible
choice?” Not for the first time, Fern was grateful she had been a
late bloomer–small, plain, ignored. In some ways, her ugly duckling
status had been like a force field, keeping the world at bay so she
could grow, come into her own, and figure out that there was more
to her than the way she looked. Rita continued on, not really
expecting Fern to answer.

“Do you know that I used to dream about
Bailey? About them finding a cure so he could walk? Then he and I
would get married and live happily ever after. My mom worked her
fingers to the bone taking care of my dad after his accident. And
he was so miserable. He hurt all the time, and the pain made him
mean. I knew I wasn't that strong. So even though I loved Bailey, I
knew I wasn't strong enough to love him if he couldn't walk. So I
prayed that he would just magically be healed. I kissed him once,
you know.”

Fern felt her jaw drop. “You did?”

“Yep. I had to see if there was any
heat.”

“And was there?”

“Well . . . yeah. There was. I mean, he had
no clue what he was doing. And I took him by surprise, I think. But
yeah. There was heat. Enough heat that I considered maybe just
being able to kiss him was enough. Maybe being with someone I loved
who would love me back was enough. But I got scared. I wasn't
strong enough, Fern.”

“When? When did this happen?” Fern
gasped.

“Junior year. Christmas break. We were
watching movies at Bailey's, remember? You felt sick and walked
home before the movie was over. Bailey's dad had helped Bailey out
of his wheelchair so he was sitting on the couch. We were talking
and laughing and . . . then I held his hand. And before the night
was over . . . I kissed him too.”

Fern was stunned. Bailey had never told her.
Never said a word. Her thoughts spun round and round like a mouse
in a wheel, running in circles and never getting anywhere.

“Was that the only time?” Fern asked.

“Yes. I went home that night and when I saw
Bailey after Christmas break, he acted like it never happened. I
thought I'd ruined everything. I thought he would expect me to be
his girlfriend, even though I kind of wanted to be. But I was
afraid too.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid that I would hurt him, or that I
would make promises that I couldn't keep.”

Fern nodded. She understood, but her heart
ached for Bailey. If she knew Bailey, which she did, the kiss had
been a defining moment. Maybe to protect Rita, maybe to protect
himself, he had kept it to himself.

“Then Becker came along. He was so
persistent. And he was older and I just kind of . . . got swept
away, I guess.”

“So you and Bailey never even talked about it
again?

“The night before I married Becker, Bailey
called me. He told me not to do it.”

“He did?” Fern asked. This night was just
full of surprises.

“Yeah. But I told him it was too late.
Bailey's too good for me anyway.”

“That's crap, Rita,” Fern blurted out.

Rita jerked like Fern had slapped her
face.

“I'm sorry. But that's just an excuse not to
do the hard thing,” Fern said bluntly.

“Oh really?” Rita snapped. “Look who's
talking. You've been in love with Ambrose Young your whole life.
Now he's home with a messed up face and a messed up life and I
don't see you doing the hard thing!”

Fern didn't know what to say. Rita was wrong.
Ambrose's face wasn't keeping her away. But did it matter what the
reason was?

“I'm sorry, Fern.” Rita sighed tearfully.
“You're right. It's crap. My whole life is crap. But I'm going to
try to change it. I'm going to be better. You'll see. No more bad
choices. Ty deserves better. I just wish Bailey . . . I wish things
were different, you know?”

Fern began to nod, but then thought better of
it, and shook her head in disagreement.

“If Bailey had been born without MD, he
wouldn't be Bailey. The Bailey who is smart and sensitive, and
seems to understand so many things we don't. You might have looked
right past Bailey if he'd grown up healthy, wrestling on his dad's
team, acting like every other guy you've ever known. A big part of
the reason Bailey is so special is because life has sculpted him
into something amazing . . . maybe not on the outside, but on the
inside. On the inside, Bailey looks like Michelangelo's
David
. And when I look at him, and when you look at him,
that's what we see.”

Two days later, Becker Garth came strolling
into Jolley's like his wife wasn't still bruised and his shirt
didn't still smell like the slammer. Apparently, his connections on
the Hannah Lake police force were coming in handy. He smiled
cheekily at Fern as he strutted by her register.

“You're looking pretty today, Fern.” His eyes
slid to her chest and back up again. He winked and popped his gum.
Fern had always thought Becker was a handsome guy. But the handsome
didn't quite cover the scum beneath, and sometimes the scum seeped
through and oozed out around the edges. Like it was doing now.

He obviously didn't expect her to respond
because he walked on, calling over his shoulder “Rita says you came
by. Thanks for the money. I needed some beer.” He held up the
twenty-dollar bill Fern had left on the counter for Rita and waved
it in the air. Becker sauntered toward the aisle where the alcohol
was shelved and disappeared from sight. And Fern saw red. She
wasn't a girl prone to anger or rash acts. Until now. She was
amazed at the steadiness of her voice as she spoke into the
intercom.

“Attention Jolley's shoppers, today at
Jolley's Supermarket we have some wonderful specials going on.
Bananas are on sale for 39 cents a pound. Juice boxes are ten for a
dollar, and our bakery has a dozen sugar cookies for $3.99,” Fern
paused and gritted her teeth, finding she was unable to stay quiet.
“I would also like to draw your attention to the giant asshole in
aisle ten. I promise you have never seen a bigger asshole than this
one, shoppers. He regularly hits his wife and tells her she's ugly
and fat even though she's the most beautiful girl in town. He also
likes to make his baby cry and can't hold down a steady job. Why?
You guessed it! Because Becker Garth is a big, ugly, giant butt . .
.”

“You bitch!” Becker came roaring down aisle
ten, screaming, a twelve pack of beer under his arm and rage in his
eyes.

Fern held the phone in front of her, as if
the intercom would provide a buffer between her and the man she'd
publicly insulted. Patrons were gaping, some laughing at Fern's
audacious display, others frowning in confusion. Becker threw down
the twelve pack and several punctured cans shot out of the broken
box, spraying beer in a wide swath. He ran toward Fern and snatched
the phone from her hands, pulling on its curly cord until it sprang
free, whipping past Fern's face. She ducked reflexively, certain
that Becker was going to swing the phone like a nunchuck, striking
everything in its path.

Suddenly, Ambrose was there, grabbing Becker
by the arm and the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric in his
hands until he lifted Becker completely off his feet, his legs
flailing helplessly, his tongue hanging out, strangled by his own
T-shirt. Then Ambrose threw him. Just tossed him away, like Becker
weighed little more than a child. Becker landed on his hands and
feet, twisting like a cat as he fell, and he stood up as if he'd
meant to be flung ten feet, pushing his chest out like a rooster
among his hens.

“Ambrose Young! You look like shit, man!
Better run before the townsfolk mistake you for an ogre and come
after you with pitchforks!” Becker spat, smoothing down his T-shirt
and prancing like a boxer ready to enter the ring.

Ambrose's head was covered with a red
bandana, making him look like a huge pirate, the way he always wore
it when he was working in the bakery, away from curious eyes. His
apron was still wrapped tightly around his lean torso and his hands
were fisted at his sides, his eyes on Becker. Fern wanted to hurl
herself over the counter and tackle Becker to the ground, but her
brief impetuosity had created this situation, and she didn't want
to make it worse–for Ambrose especially.

Fern noticed how the patrons of the store
were frozen in place, their eyes glued on Ambrose's face. Fern
realized that none of them had probably seen him, not since he'd
left for Iraq two and a half years before. There had been rumors,
as there always were in small towns with big tragedies. And the
rumors had been exaggerated, making Ambrose out to be horrifically
wounded, grotesque even, but many of the faces registered surprise
and sadness, but not revulsion.

Jamie Kimball, Paul Kimball's mother, stood
in line at another register, her face pale and grief-stricken as
her eyes clung to Ambrose's scarred cheek. Hadn't she seen Ambrose
since he returned? Had none of the parents of the fallen boys gone
to visit him? Or maybe he hadn't allowed them entrance. Maybe it
was more than any of them could bear.

“You need to leave, Becker,” Ambrose said,
his voice a soft rumble in the shocked silence of the grocery
store. An instrumental version of “What a Wonderful World”
serenaded Jolley's shoppers as if all was well in Hannah Lake when
it decidedly was not. Ambrose continued, “If you decide to stay,
I'll pound you like I did in ninth grade, and this time I'll
blacken both your eyes and you'll lose more than just one tooth.
Don't let my ugly mug fool you; there isn't anything wrong with my
fists.”

Becker sputtered and turned away, glaring at
Fern and pointing at her face, issuing his own warning. “You're a
bitch, Fern. Stay away from Rita. You come around my house, and
I'll call the cops.” Becker turned his venom back on Fern, ignoring
Ambrose, saving face by turning on a weaker opponent, the way he
always did.

Ambrose shot forward, grabbing Becker by the
shirt once more and propelling him toward the sliding doors at the
front of the store. The doors slid open in accommodation, and
Ambrose hissed a warning into Becker's ear.

“You call Fern Taylor a bitch again or
threaten her in any way, and I will rip your tongue out of your
mouth and feed it to that ugly dog you keep chained and hungry in
your backyard. The one that barks at me whenever I run by. And if
you so much as harm a hair on Fern's head or lift your hand to your
wife or child, I will find you and I will hurt you.” Ambrose gave a
shove and sent Becker sprawling out onto the crumbling blacktop in
front of the store.