Making Faces (28 page)

Bailey said he'd never been to the memorial
for Paulie, Jesse, Beans and Grant. Ambrose could see why. It
involved a bit of a climb up a little dirt road that was far too
steep going both up and down for a wheelchair to traverse. Elliott
told Ambrose the city was working on having the road paved, but it
hadn't happened yet.

When Bailey told him about the spot, Ambrose
could see how much Bailey wanted to go, and Ambrose told himself he
would take him. But not yet. This time, this first time, Ambrose
needed to go by himself. He had avoided it since coming home to
Hannah Lake almost six months before. But talk of cupcakes and
humility and Bailey's lack of pride had convinced Ambrose that
maybe it was time for small steps. And so he put one foot in front
of the other and climbed the hill that led to the pretty overlook
where his four friends were buried.

They stood in a straight line, four white
headstones looking out over the high school where they had all
wrestled and played football, where they had grown to maturity.
There was a little stone bench situated near the graves where
family or friends could sit for a while and the trees were thick
beyond the clearing. It was a good spot, quiet and peaceful. There
were flowers and a few notes and stuffed animals placed around the
graves, and Ambrose was happy to see that others had frequently
visited, though he hoped no one would visit today. He needed some
time alone with his friends.

Paulie and Grant were in the middle, Beans
and Jesse on each side. Funny. That was kind of how it had been in
life. Paulie and Grant were the glue, the steady ones, Beans and
Jesse the protectors, the wild men. The two that would bitch and
moan about you to your face but who, in the end, always had your
back. Ambrose crouched next to each grave and read the words carved
into the stones.

Connor Lorenzo “Beans” O'Toole

May 8, 1984 – July 2, 2004

Mi hijo, Mi corazon

Paul Austin Kimball

June 29, 1984 – July 2, 2004.

Beloved friend, brother, and son.

Grant Craig Nielson

November 1, 1983 – July 2, 2004

Forever in our Hearts

Jesse Brooks Jordan

October 24, 1983 – July 2, 2004.

Father, Son, Soldier, Friend

Victory is in the Battle
was written
on the stone bench. Ambrose traced the words. It was something
Coach Sheen always said. Something Coach Sheen always yelled from
the side of the mat. It was never about the end result with Coach.
It was always about fighting to the whistle.

Ambrose sat down on the bench and looked out
over the valley below, at the town where he'd lived every day of
his life, every day except the years where everything had changed.
And he talked to his friends. Not because he believed they could
hear him, but because there were things he knew he needed to
say.

He told them about what Bailey had said.
About taking his life back. He wasn't sure what that meant.
Sometimes you can't take your life back. Sometimes it's dead and
buried and you can only make a new life. Ambrose didn't know what
that new life would look like.

Fern's face floated in his mind. Maybe Fern
would be part of a new life, but strangely enough, Ambrose didn't
want to talk to the guys about Fern. It felt too soon. And he
discovered he wanted to protect her, even from the ghosts of his
closest friends. They'd all laughed too often at the little
redhead, told too many jokes at her expense, poked too many holes
and taunted one too many times. So Ambrose kept Fern to himself,
safe inside a rapidly expanding corner of his heart, where only he
knew she belonged.

When the sun started to wane and dip below
the trees, Ambrose rose and found his way back down the hill,
relieved that he'd finally found the strength to climb it.

The wrestling room smelled like sweat and
bleach and memories. Good memories. Two long ropes hung in the
corners, ropes he'd climbed and swung from a thousand times. The
mats were unrolled, thick red slabs of rubber with the circle that
marked inbounds and the lines in the center where the action began.
Coach Sheen was mopping down the mats, something he'd probably done
more than a thousand times. In a thirty-year coaching career, it
had to be more.

“Hey Coach,” Ambrose said softly, his mind on
all the times he'd turned Coach away when he first returned
home.

Coach Sheen looked up in surprise, startled
from his own thoughts, not expecting company.

“Ambrose!” His face wore such an expression
of sheer joy that Ambrose gulped, wondering why he’d kept his old
coach at arm’s length for so long.

Coach Sheen stopped mopping and folded his
hands on the handle. “How are ya, soldier?”

Ambrose winced at the address. Guilt and
grief hung like heavy chains around the word. His pride in being a
soldier had been decimated by the loss of his friends and the
responsibility he felt for their deaths. Let heroes wear the word.
He felt unworthy of the title.

Mike Sheen's eyes narrowed on Ambrose's face,
not missing the way Ambrose flinched at his greeting or the way his
mouth tightened like he had something to say, but wouldn't say it.
Coach Sheen felt his heart quake in his chest. Ambrose Young had
been a phenom, an absolute monster in the sport. He was the kind of
kid every coach dreamed of coaching, not because of the glory it
would bring to him, but because of the thrill of being part of
something truly inspiring and watching history unfold before your
eyes. Ambrose Young was that kind of an athlete. Still could be,
maybe. But as he hovered by the door, his face a web of scars, his
youth gone, his hair gone too, Mike Sheen had his doubts.

The irony that his hair was gone did not
escape Coach Sheen. Ambrose Young had been absolutely teachable and
obedient in the wrestling room, except for when it came to his
hair. He had flatly refused to cut it. Coach liked his boys clean
cut and military short. It showed respect and a willingness to
sacrifice. But Ambrose had calmly, in private, told Coach he would
wear it in a tight ponytail off his face when he was in practice
and when he wrestled, but he wouldn't cut it.

Coach Sheen had told Ambrose that he would
allow it if Ambrose would lead in every other way. Meaning, if the
team all started growing their hair out, taking practice lightly or
disrespecting the team or the coaching staff in any way, he would
hold Ambrose personally responsible, and Ambrose would cut his
hair. Ambrose had held to his end of the deal. He led the team. On
match days, he wore slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie to school, and
made sure all the other boys did too. He was the first to practice,
the last to leave, the hardest worker, the consistent leader. Coach
Sheen had considered it the best deal he'd ever made.

Now Ambrose's hair was gone. So was his sense
of direction, his confidence, the light in his eyes. One eye was
permanently dimmed, and the other roved the room nervously. Coach
Sheen wondered if there really were such things as second chances.
It wasn't the physical stuff that worried him. It was the emotional
toll.

Ambrose walked toward his old coach,
clutching his gear, feeling like an intruder in a place he used to
love more than any place on earth. “I talked to Bailey. He said you
would be here.”

“Yeah? I'm here. You wanna work out? Shake
the rust off?” Mike Sheen held his breath.

Ambrose nodded, just once, and Coach Sheen
released the air in his lungs.

“All right. Let's drill a little.”

“You could sign up for some ballet or some
gymnastics,” Coach Sheen suggested after Ambrose lost his balance
and fell to the mat for the tenth time. “That's what we used to
have some of the football players do when they needed to work on
balance, but I'm guessing you'd look hideous in a tutu and the
little girls would think it was a reenactment of
Beauty and the
Beast
.”

Ambrose was a little stunned by the blunt
assessment of his lack of beauty. Leave it to Coach Sheen not to
pull any punches. Bailey was just like him.

Coach Sheen continued, “The only way your
balance is going to come back is if you just keep drilling. It's
muscle memory. Your body knows what to do. You're just
second-guessing yourself. Hell, stick an ear-plug in the other ear
and see if it helps to be deaf in both.”

The next night, Ambrose tried it. Not being
able to hear at all actually evened things out a bit. The eyesight
wasn't as big an impediment. Ambrose had always been a hands-on
wrestler–constant contact, hands on your opponent at all times.
There were blind wrestlers in the world. Deaf ones, too. There were
wrestlers without legs, for that matter. There were no allowances
made, but no one was excluded either. If you could compete, you
were allowed on the mat–may the best wrestler win. It was the kind
of sport that celebrated the individual. Come as you are, turn your
weaknesses into advantages, dominate your opponent. Period.

But Ambrose hadn't ever had weaknesses on the
mat. Not like this. This was all new. Coach Sheen had him shooting
single legs, double legs, high-C's, ankle picks, and duck-unders
until his legs shook, and then he had him do it from the other
side. Then he was pulling his big body up the rope. It was one
thing to climb a rope if you were a wiry 5'5, 125 pounder. It was a
completely different matter when you were 6'3, and over two hundred
pounds. He hated the rope climb. But he made it to the top. And
then he made it again the next night. And the next.