Making Faces (25 page)

“I can do it, Ambrose. Get back in! You're
getting soaked!” She squealed, dodging puddles as she made her way
back to him.

He saw the credit appear on the gas tank
display and immediately removed the gas cap and shoved the nozzle
home. Fern huddled nearby, water streaming down her face, obviously
not wanting to let him get wet alone. Unfortunately, with Bailey's
condition, she was obviously used to being the one who did the
grunt work. But he wasn't Bailey.

“Get in the van, Fern. I know how to pump
gas,” he growled. Her shirt was sticking to her, and Ambrose was
getting a delightful eyeful. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the
nozzle tighter. It felt like whenever he was close to her he spent
all his time trying not to look at her.

An old truck slid up to the other side of the
pump, and Ambrose ducked his head instinctively. A door slammed and
a familiar voice spoke up behind him.

“Ambrose Young. That you?”

Ambrose turned reluctantly.

“It is you! Well, I'll be damned. How ya
doin' lad?” It was Seamus O'Toole, Beans's dad.

“Mr. O'Toole.” Ambrose nodded stiffly,
extending the hand that wasn't pumping gas.

Seamus O'Toole clasped his hand and his eyes
roamed over Ambrose's face, wincing slightly at what he saw. After
all, Ambrose's face was also a casualty of the bomb that took his
son. His lips trembled and he released Ambrose's hand. Turning, he
leaned into his vehicle and spoke to the woman sitting in the
passenger seat. The nozzle snapped, indicating the tank was full,
and Ambrose wished he could turn and make a break for it while
Seamus's back was turned.

Luisa O'Toole stepped out into the rain and
walked over to Ambrose, who had replaced the nozzle and was waiting
with his hands shoved in his pockets. She was a tiny woman, smaller
than Fern by a couple of inches, maybe five feet at the most. Beans
got his height, or lack of it, from her. He was there in her fine
features, as well, and Ambrose felt nausea roil in his belly. He
should have just stayed home. Luisa O'Toole was as fiery as her
husband was meek. Beans said his mom was the reason his dad drank
himself into a better mood every night. It was the only way to deal
with her.

Luisa walked past the pump and stopped in
front of Ambrose, lifting her face to the rain so she could gaze up
at him. She didn't speak and neither did Ambrose. Fern and Seamus
looked on, not knowing what to say or do.

“I blame you,” Luisa said finally, her
accented English broken and bleak. “I blame you for this. I tell
him no go. He go. For you. Now he dead.”

Seamus sputtered and apologized, taking his
wife by the arm. But she shook him off and turned toward the truck,
not looking back at Ambrose as she climbed in and shut the door
firmly behind her.

“She's just sad, lad. She just misses him.
She doesn't mean it,” Seamus offered gently. But they both knew he
lied. He patted Ambrose's hand and tipped his head to Fern. Then he
returned to his truck and drove away without filling his tank.

Ambrose stood frozen in place, his T-shirt
soaked through, his black knit cap plastered against his head. He
pulled it off and threw it, sending it flying across the parking
lot, a soggy, pathetic substitute for the things he wanted to do,
for the rage he needed to expend. He turned and started walking,
away from Fern, away from the terrible scene that had just
transpired.

Fern ran after him, slipping and sliding,
calling for him to wait. But he walked, ignoring her, needing to
escape. He knew she wouldn't follow. Bailey was sitting in the van
at the pumps, unable to get home on his own.

Ambrose had been walking for about half an
hour, walking toward home with his back to the rain letting it
trickle down the back of his shirt and soak his jeans. His feet
squished in his boots with each step. He wished he hadn't chucked
his hat. The occasional streetlight shone down on his smooth head,
and he felt exposed and vulnerable, unable to cover himself. His
bald head bothered him almost more than his face, made him feel
more like a freak than the ridges and scars, so when car lights
drew up behind him and slowed to a crawl, he ignored them, hoping
his appearance would scare them off and make them think twice about
messing with him, or worse, offering him a ride.

“Ambrose!” It was Fern, and she sounded
scared and upset. “Ambrose? I took Bailey home. Please get in. I'll
take you wherever you want to go . . . okay?”

She'd obviously switched cars after she took
Bailey home. She was driving an old sedan that belonged to her
father. Ambrose had seen that car parked at the church for as long
as he could remember.

“Ambrose? I'm not leaving you. I will follow
you all night if I have to!”

Ambrose sighed and looked at her. She was
leaning across the seat so she could peer out the passenger side
window as she inched along beside him. Her face was pale and she
had mascara under her eyes. Her hair was plastered against her head
and her shirt still stuck to her pretty breasts. She hadn't even
taken a second to change her wet clothes before she'd come after
him.

Something in his face must have told her
she'd won, because she slowed to a stop and hit the door locks as
he reached for the handle. The warmth that blasted from the heaters
felt like an electric blanket against his skin and he shivered
involuntarily. Fern reached over and rubbed his arms briskly as if
he was Bailey and she had rescued him from a blizzard and wasn't
soaking wet herself. She shoved the car into park and leaned over
the seat, reaching for something in the back.

“Here. Wrap this around yourself!” she said,
dropping a towel in his lap. “I grabbed it when I switched
cars.”

“Fern. Stop. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine! She should never have said
those things to you! I hate her! I am going to throw rocks at her
house and break all her windows!” Fern's voice broke, and he could
see she was close to tears.

“She lost her son, Fern,” Ambrose said
softly. His own anger dissipated as he spoke the simple truth. He
took the towel from Fern's hands and used it on her hair, wrapping
and squeezing, absorbing the moisture, the way he used to do on his
own. She stilled, obviously not used to a man’s hands in her hair.
He continued his ministrations, and she sat quietly, her head
lolling to the side, letting him.

“I haven't seen any of them. Not Grant's
family. Not Jesse's. I haven't seen Marley or Jesse’s little boy.
Paulie's mom sent me a basket of stuff when I was in the hospital.
But my jaw was wired shut and I gave most of it away. She sent a
card too. Told me to get well. She's like Paulie, I think. Sweet.
Forgiving. But I haven't seen her since I've been back either, even
though she works the front counter at the bakery. Tonight was the
first time I've had any contact with any of the families. It went
about like I expected. And frankly, it was what I deserved.”

Fern didn't argue with him. He got the
feeling she wanted to, but then she sighed and wrapped her hands
around his wrists, pulling his hands from her hair. “Why did you
go, Ambrose? Didn't you have a big scholarship? I mean . . . I
understand patriotism and wanting to serve your country, but . . .
didn't you want to wrestle?”

He had never spoken about this to anyone,
never verbalized the feelings he'd had back then. He decided to
start at the beginning.

“We sat at the back of the auditorium–Beans,
Grant, Jesse, Paulie and me. They laughed and made jokes during the
army recruiter's whole presentation. It wasn't out of disrespect .
. . not at all. Mostly it was because they knew that nothing the
army could throw at us could possibly be any worse than Coach
Sheen's wrestling practices. Any wrestler knows that there is
nothing worse than being hungry, tired, sore, and being told at the
end of a brutal practice that it's time to run halls. And knowing
if you don't bust your ass, you'll be letting your teammates down,
'cause Coach will make everyone run 'em again if you aren't pushing
the whole time. Joining the army couldn't be harder than wrestling
season. No way.

“It didn't scare us, signing up. Not the way
I imagine it scares most guys. For me it felt like a chance to get
away, to be with the guys just a little longer. I didn't really
want to go to college. Not yet. I felt like the whole town was
depending on me, and if I screwed up or didn't perform well at Penn
State, I was going to let everyone down. I liked the idea of being
a different kind of hero. I always wanted to be a soldier, I just
never told anyone. And after 9/11, it just felt like the right
thing to do. So I convinced the guys to sign up.

“Beans was actually the easiest to persuade.
Then he just kept working on everyone. Paulie was the last one to
sign on. He'd spent four years wrestling, doing what we wanted.
See, wrestling was never really his passion. He was just damn good
at it, and he didn't have a dad around; Coach Sheen kind of filled
that role for him.

“He wanted to be a musician and tour the
world with his guitar. But he was a good friend. He loved us. So in
the end he came along, just like he always did.” Ambrose's voice
shook and he rubbed at his cheek viciously, as if trying to erase
the end of his tale, to change what happened next.

“So we all went. My dad cried, and I was
embarrassed. Jesse got wasted the night before we left for basic
training and got Marley pregnant. Jesse never met his baby boy. I
really should go see Marley, but I can't. Grant was the only one
who seemed to take it all seriously. He told me he never prayed so
hard as he prayed the night before we left for Iraq. And that kid
was always praying. Which is why I don't ever pray anymore. 'Cause
if Grant prayed that hard and still died, then I'm not wasting my
time.”

“God spared your life,” Fern said, a pastor's
daughter through and through.

“You think God saved my life?” Ambrose struck
back, his face incredulous. “How in the hell do you think that
makes Paul Kimball's mother feel? Or Grant's parents? Or Jesse's
girl, or his baby boy when he's old enough to realize he had a
daddy who he'll never meet? We know how Luisa O'Toole feels about
it. If God saved my life, why didn't he save their lives? Is my
life so much more valuable? So I'm special . . . and they're
not?”

“Of course not,” Fern protested, her voice
rising slightly in response to his vehemence.

“Don't you get it, Fern? It's so much easier
to take if God had nothing to do with it. If God has nothing to do
with it, then I can accept that it's just life. Nobody is special,
but nobody
isn't special,
either. You know what I mean? I
can come to terms with that. But I can't accept that your prayers
are answered and theirs aren't. That makes me angry and
hopeless–desperate even! And I can't live that way.”

Fern nodded and let his words settle around
them in the steamy interior of the car. She didn’t argue with him,
but after a moment she spoke up.

“My dad always quotes this scripture. It's
always his answer when he doesn't understand something. I've heard
it so often in my life it's become kind of like a mantra,” Fern
said. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways
my ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the
earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than
your thoughts.”

“What does that even mean, Fern?” Ambrose
sighed, but his fervor had dimmed.

“I guess it means we don't understand
everything, and we're not going to. Maybe the whys aren't answered
here. Not because there aren't answers, but because we wouldn't
understand the answers if we had them.”

Ambrose raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Maybe there is a bigger purpose, a bigger
picture that we only contribute a very small piece to. You know,
like one of those thousand piece puzzles? There's no way you can
tell by looking at one piece of the puzzle what the puzzle is going
to look like in the end. And we don't have the picture on the
outside of the puzzle box to guide us.” Fern smiled tentatively,
hesitating, wondering if she was making any sense. When Ambrose
just waited she continued.