Making Faces

  “I have to go, Fern. I don't want your dad to catch me in his daughter's room, in his daughter's bed, with my shirt on the floor. He will kill me. And your uncle and my former coach would help him. I am still afraid of Coach Sheen, even though I'm twice his size.”

  Fern mewled in protest and reached for him, snagging him by the belt loops to pull him back. He laughed and stumbled, reaching out to steady himself on her bedroom wall, and his hand brushed a thumbtack, the kind that has a peg, knocking it loose. The pushpin fell somewhere behind Fern's bed and Ambrose grabbed at the paper so it wouldn’t fall too. He glanced at the sheet and his mind gobbled up the words before he had a chance to wonder if it was something he shouldn't see.

  If God makes all our faces, did he laugh when he made me?

  Does he make the legs that cannot walk and eyes that cannot see?

  Does he curl the hair upon my head 'til it rebels in wild defiance?

  Does he close the ears of the deaf man to make him more reliant?

  Is the way I look coincidence or just a twist of fate?

  If he made me this way, is it okay, to blame him for the things I hate?

  For the flaws that seem to worsen every time I see a mirror,

  For the ugliness I see in me, for the loathing and the fear.

  Does he sculpt us for his pleasure, for a reason I can't see?

  If God makes all our faces, did he laugh when he made me?

  Ambrose read the words again silently, and he felt a wave rise in him. It was a wave of understanding and of being understood. These words were his feelings. He’d never known they were hers too. And his heart ached for her.

  “Ambrose?”

  “What is this, Fern?” he whispered, holding the poem out to her.

  She eyed it nervously, uncomfortably, her expression troubled.

  “I wrote it. A long time ago.”

  “When?”

  “After the Prom. Do you remember that night? I was there with Bailey. He asked all of you to dance with me. One of the more embarrassing moments of my life, but his heart was in the right place.” A wan smile lifted the corners of Fern's mouth.

  Ambrose remembered. Fern had looked pretty–on the verge of beautiful–and it had confused him. He hadn't asked her to dance. He'd refused to ask her to dance. He’d even walked away from Bailey when Bailey had made the request.

  “I hurt you, didn't I Fern?”

  Fern shrugged her slim shoulders and smiled, but the smile was wobbly and her eyes had grown bright. Still, after more than three years, it was easy to see the memory pained her.

  “I hurt you,” he repeated, remorse and realization coloring his voice with regret.

  Fern reached out and touched his scarred cheek. “You just didn't see me, that's all,”

  “I was so blind then.” He fingered a curl that coiled against her brow.

  “Actually . . . you're kind of blind now,” Fern teased quietly, seeking to ease his guilt with jest. “Maybe that's why you like me.”

  She was right. He was partially blind, but in spite of that, maybe because of that, he was seeing things more clearly than he ever had before.

  Iraq

  “Let me see your tat, Jess,” Beans wheedled, looping his arm around his buddy's neck and squeezing a little harder than could be deemed affectionate. Jesse had spent some of his downtime that morning with a medic who dabbled in tattoos, but he'd been quiet about the results and more morose than usual.

  “Shut up, Beans. Why you gotta know every damn thing? You're always in my business,” Jesse said, pushing at his pesky friend who was intent on seeing what was inked on Jesse's chest.

  “It's because I love you. That's why. I just gotta make sure you didn't get something stupid that you'll regret. Is it a unicorn? Or a butterfly? You didn't get Marley's name wrapped around a rose, did you? She might not be interested when you get home, man. She might be hanging on some other stud. Better not put her name on your skin.”

  Jesse swore and shoved Beans hard, knocking the smaller soldier to the ground. Beans was up in a flash, his temper hot, his string of obscenities hotter, and Grant, Ambrose and Paulie rushed to get between the two. The heat was making them all crazy. Add that to the tension that never eased, and it was amazing they hadn't turned on each other before.

  “I have a kid! I have a little boy! A new baby boy, who I've never seen, and Marley is his mother! So don't you talk shit about my baby's mother, asshole, or I will beat the livin' hell outta you and spit on your sorry ass when I'm done.”

  Beans immediately stopped trying to take a swipe at Jesse, and the anger drained from his face as quickly as it had come. Ambrose immediately let him go, recognizing the danger had passed.

  “Jess, man. I'm sorry. I was just messin'.” Beans rested his locked hands on his head and turned away, cursing himself this time. He turned back, his expression heavy with remorse. “It sucks, man. Being here when you got that goin' on at home. I'm sorry. I just talk too damn much.”

  Jesse shrugged, but his throat worked rapidly like he was trying to swallow an especially bitter pill, and if he hadn't been wearing eye protection, just like they all were, he might not have been able to hide the moisture in his eyes that threatened to spill out and make the situation even tougher for all of them. Without a word, he began removing his body armor, his fingers sure and swift. It was something they did several times a day, something they wore every time they left base, and it was as familiar to his fingers as tying his shoes.

  He lifted his body armor from his chest and tossed it to the ground. Then he loosened the Velcro flap on his shirt and unzipped it, leaving it hanging open as he pulled his undershirt out of his waistband and pushed it up, exposing his chiseled, black, abdomen and well-developed chest. Jesse was every bit as beautiful as Ambrose, which he pointed out continually. There, on his left pec, written across his heart in careful black stencil, were the words:

  My Son

  Jesse Davis Jordan

  May 8, 2003

  He held his khaki undershirt bunched in his fist just below his chin for several seconds, letting his friends stare at the new tattoo he'd been reluctant to share. Then, without commenting, he pulled his undershirt down, closed his shirt, tucked it in, and pulled his body armor back on.

  “That's cool, Jess,” Beans whispered, his voice hollow and gutted like he'd taken a bullet in his chest. Everyone else was nodding, but nobody could speak. They were all fighting off the emotion of the moment, knowing nothing they could say would make Jesse feel any better. Or Beans, for that matter. They resumed their walk back to base in silence.

  Paulie fell into step with Jesse and slung his arm around his shoulders. Jesse didn't shrug him off like he'd done a moment ago with Beans. Then, with the words swirling around them in the shimmering desert heat, Paulie began to sing.

  I wrote your name across my heart

  So I would not forget.

  The way I felt when you were born

  Before we'd even met

  I wrote your name across my heart

  So your heart beats with mine

  And when I miss you most I trace

  Each loop and every line

  I wrote your name across my heart,

  So we could be together

  So I could hold you close to me

  And keep you there forever.

  The words hung in the air when Paulie was finished. If anyone else had tried to sing, it wouldn't have worked. But Paulie had a gentle heart and a way of communicating that they had all grown accustomed to. The fact that he'd broken into song to comfort his friend didn't faze any of them.

  “You write that, Paulie?” Grant whispered, and there was a tremor in his voice that everyone noted and studiously ignored.

  “Nah. Just an old folk song my mom used to sing. I don't even remember the group that sang it. They had hippie hair and they wore socks with their sandals. But I've always liked the song. I changed the first verse a little, for Jesse.”

  They
walked in silence a little longer until Ambrose started to hum the tune and Jesse demanded, “Sing it again, Paulie.”

  “What kind of tattoo should I get? I mean, really? The word Mom inside a heart? That's just pathetic. I can't think of a damn thing that's cool without being ridiculous for a guy in a wheelchair,” Bailey complained.

  The three of them--Ambrose, Bailey and Fern--were on their way to Seely, to a tattoo parlor called the Ink Tank. Bailey had been begging Fern to take him to get a tattoo since he was eighteen years old, and he'd brought up the subject again a few days ago at the lake. When Ambrose said he would go, Fern was officially outnumbered. Now she was at the wheel, the accommodating chauffeur, as usual.

  “Hey, you could get a club, Brosey, like Hercules. That would be cool,” Bailey suggested.

  Ambrose sighed. Hercules was dead, and Bailey just kept trying to bring him back to life.

  “Bailey, you could get an S, a Superman S inside a shield. Remember how much you loved Superman?” Fern perked up at the memory.

  “I would have thought it was Spider-Man,” Ambrose said, remembering the fuss Bailey had made over the dead spider when they were ten.

  “I gave up on spider venom pretty quickly,” Bailey said. “I figured I'd probably been bit by a million mosquitoes, so bugs probably weren't the answer. When spider venom lost its appeal, I abandoned Spider-Man and latched onto Superman.”

  “He became convinced his muscular dystrophy was a direct result of being exposed to Kryptonite. He had his mom make him a long red cape with a big S on the back.” Fern laughed and Bailey huffed.

  “I'm going to be buried in that cape. I still have it. That thing is awesome.”

  “So what about you, Fern? Wonder Woman?” Ambrose teased.

  “Fern decided super heroes weren't for her,” Bailey said from the back. “She decided she would just be a fairy because she liked the option of flying without the responsibility of saving the world. She made a pair of wings from cardboard, covered them in glitter, and rigged up some duct tape straps so she could wear the wings around on her back like a back pack.”

  Fern shrugged. “Sadly, I don't still have the wings. I wore those things to death.”

  Ambrose was quiet, Bailey's words resonating in his head. She liked the option of flying without the responsibility of saving the world. Maybe he and Fern were soul mates. He understood that sentiment perfectly.

  “Is Aunt Angie going to ground us from each other, Bailey?” Fern worried her lower lip. “I can't imagine they want you getting a big tattoo.”

  “Nah. I'll just play the give-the-dying-kid-his-last-wish card,” Bailey said philosophically. “Works every time. Fern, you should get a little fern on your shoulder. Not the word–an actual fern. You know, with fronds and everything.”

  “Hmm. I don't think I'm brave enough for a tattoo. And if I was, it wouldn't be a fern.”

  They pulled in front of the tattoo parlor. It was quiet–noon wasn't a popular hour for tattoos apparently. Bailey was suddenly quiet, and Ambrose wondered if he was having second thoughts. But as Fern removed the restraints from his chair and he maneuvered himself down the ramp, he didn't hesitate.

  Fern and Bailey were all eyes inside the little business, and Ambrose braced himself, just like he always did, for the curious second glances and the blatant staring. But the man who approached them had a face that was so inked in intricate designs that Ambrose, with his marks and scars, looked tame beside him. He looked at Ambrose's scars with a professional eye and offered to add a few embellishments. Ambrose refused, but instantly felt more at ease.

  Bailey had chosen to get a tattoo high on his right shoulder where it wouldn't rub against the back of his chair. He chose the words “Victory is in the Battle,” the words from the bench at the memorial, the words his dad had repeated hundreds of time, the words that were a testament to Bailey's own life and a tribute to the sport he loved.

  And then Ambrose made his own request, surprising Fern and Bailey, peeling off his shirt and telling the tattooed man what he wanted done. It didn't take long. It wasn’t a complicated design that required a great deal of skill or a mix of colors. He wrote out what he wanted, neatly, checking that the spelling was right and handed it to the artist. He chose a font, the letters were stenciled on his skin, and then, without fanfare, the artist began the process.

  Fern watched in fascination as, one after another, the names of Ambrose's fallen friends were inked across the left side his chest. Paulie, Grant, Jesse, Beans, one beside the other, neat block letters in a solemn row. When it was finished, Fern traced the names with the tip of her finger, careful not to touch the tender skin. Ambrose shuddered. Her hands felt like balm on a wound, welcome and painful at the same time.

  They paid, thanked the tattoo artist and were heading for home when Bailey asked quietly, “Does it make you feel closer to them?”

  Ambrose looked out the window at the landscape streaming by–trees and sky and homes as familiar to him as his own face . . . or the face he used to see when he looked in the mirror.

  “My face is messed up.” His eyes met Bailey's in the rearview mirror, and he reached up and traced the longest scar, the one that ran from his hairline to his mouth. “I didn't get to choose these scars. My face is a reminder every day of their deaths. I guess I just wanted something that reminded me of their lives. It was something Jesse did first. I've been wanting to do it for a while.”

  “That's nice, Brosey. That's really nice.” Bailey smiled wistfully. “I think that's the worst part. The thought that no one will remember me when I'm gone. Sure, my parents will. Fern will. But how does someone like me live on? When it's all said and done, did I matter?”

  The silence in the old blue van was thick with empty platitudes and meaningless reassurances that begged to be uttered, but Fern loved Bailey too much to pat him on the head when he needed something more.

  “I'll add you to my list,” Ambrose promised suddenly, his eyes holding Bailey's in the mirror. “When the time comes, I'll write your name across my heart with the others.”

  Bailey's eyes swam and he blinked rapidly and for several minutes he didn't speak. Fern looked at Ambrose with such love and devotion in her face that he would have offered to write an entire epitaph across his back.

  “Thank you, Brosey,” Bailey whispered. And Ambrose started to hum.

  “Sing it again, please?” Fern begged, tracing the longest scar on his right cheek, and he let her, not even minding the reminder that it was there. When she touched his face he felt her affection and her fingertips soothed him.

  “You like it when I sing?” he said sleepily, knowing he didn't have much longer before he would have to drag himself into work. Fern had the day off, but he didn't. The trip to the tattoo parlor had taken all afternoon and when evening fell, he and Fern had said goodbye to Bailey but had struggled to say goodbye to each other. They’d ended up watching the summertime sun set from the trampoline in Fern's back yard. Now it was dark and quiet, and the heat had tiptoed away with the sun, making him drowsy as he sang the lullaby Paulie had taught them in the first months of their tour in Iraq. Jesse's son had just been born, and the tour had stretched out in front of them, endless dust and endless days before they could return home.

  “I love it when you sing,” Fern said, shaking him from his reverie. She started to sing the song, pausing when she forgot a word, letting him fill in the blanks until her voice faded away and he finished the song on his own. “I wrote your name across my heart so we could be together, so I could hold you close to me and keep you there forever.” He'd sung it three times already.

  When he sang the last note, Fern snuggled into him, as if she too needed a nap, and the trampoline rocked slightly beneath them, rolling her into the valley his big body made, depositing her across his chest. He stroked her hair as her breaths became deeper.

  Ambrose wondered wistfully how it would feel to sleep beside her all the time. Maybe then the nights wouldn’t be so hard.
Maybe then the darkness that tried to consume him when he was alone would slink away for good, overpowered by her light. He’d spent an hour in a session with his psychologist yesterday. She’d been floored by the “improvements in his mental health.” And it was all due to a little pill called Fern.

  He had no doubt that she would agree if he asked her to run away with him. Although they would have to take Bailey. Still. She would marry him in a heartbeat . . . and his heart beat enthusiastically at the idea. Fern had to feel the increase in volume and tempo beneath her cheek.

  “Have you heard the joke about the man who had to choose a wife?” Ambrose asked quietly.

  Fern shook her head where it lay against him. “No,” she yawned delicately.

  “This guy has a chance to marry a girl who is gorgeous or a girl who has a wonderful voice, but isn't much to look at. He thinks about it and decides that he will marry the girl who can sing. After all, her beautiful voice should last a lot longer than a beautiful face, right?”

  “Right.” Fern's voice sounded more awake, as if she found the subject matter highly interesting.