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.
FIREWORKS OR PARADES?
“You think Sheen wants to come with us?” Ambrose asked when Fern stepped out onto her front steps. He'd been relieved when Fern had circled Fireworks on the whiteboard. Parades were boring and they usually involved lots of glaring sunlight and lots of staring people. Plus, it was the Fourth o
f July and Hannah Lake Township always had a pretty good fireworks display on the football field at the high school. Fern had seemed excited when he'd asked her if she wanted to go.
“Bailey's in Philadelphia.”
Ambrose tamped down the jubilant leap of his heart. He loved Sheen, but he really wanted to be alone with Fern.
“Should we walk?” Fern suggested. “It's nice out, and the field isn't far.”
Ambrose agreed, and he and Fern cut across the lawn and headed toward the high school.
“What's Bailey doing in Philly?” he asked after they'd walked a ways.
“Every year, Bailey, Angie, and Mike head to Philadelphia for the Fourth of July. They visit the Museum of Art, and Mike carries Bailey up those 72 steps and they do the Rocky reenactment. Angie helps Bailey raise his arms and they all yell, 'one more year!' Bailey loves Rocky. Does that surprise you?”
“No. It doesn't,” Ambrose said with a wry twist of his lips.
“They first went on a family vacation to Philadelphia when Bailey was eight. He climbed the steps himself. They have a picture of him in their family room with his arms up, dancing around.”
“I've seen it,” Ambrose said, now understanding the significance of the picture he'd seen in a place of prominence in the Sheen home.
“They had such a good time they went back the next year, and Bailey made it up the steps again. It became more and more significant every year. The summer Bailey was eleven he couldn't make it up the steps, not even a few of them. So Uncle Mike carried him.”
“One more year?”
“Yep. Bailey's already defying the odds. Most kids with Dushenne Muscular Dystrophy don't reach his age. And if they're still around, they don't look like Bailey. They aren't nearly as healthy. Twenty-one has always been a bit of a battle cry for Bailey. When he turned twenty-one this year we had a huge party. We’re all convinced he’s going to set records.”
Ambrose spread the blanket out on the edge of the grass, far away from the other folks that had gathered to watch the display. Fern settled beside him and it wasn't long before the first fireworks were being shot into the sky. Ambrose lay back, stretching out so he could see without straining his neck. Fern eased herself back self-consciously. She had never lain on a blanket with a boy. She could sense the hard length of Ambrose along her right side, his big body taking up more than half of the small blanket. He had chosen the right side of the blanket so the right side of his face was turned away from her, as usual. She and Ambrose didn't link hands, and she didn't lay her head on his shoulder. But she wanted to.
Fern felt like she'd spent most of her life wanting Ambrose in some way or another, wanting him to see her . . . really see her. Not the red hair or the freckles on her nose. Not the glasses that made her brown eyes look like moon pies. Not the braces on her teeth or the boyishness of her figure.
When those things morphed and eventually disappeared–well, all except for the freckles–she wished he would notice. She wished he would see her brown eyes, free of glasses. She wished he would see that her figure had finally rounded and filled out, see her teeth that were white and straight. But whether she was homely or pretty, she still found herself wishing.
Fern’s yearning for Ambrose was something that had been so much a part of her, that as the patriotic songs accompanying the display rang across the football field, Fern felt incredibly grateful, grateful that in that moment, Ambrose Young lay by her side. That he knew her. Seemingly liked her, and had returned to her, to the town, to himself.
The gratitude made her weepy, and moisture leaked out the sides of her eyes and made warm rivers on her cheeks. She didn't want to wipe them away because that would draw attention to them. So she let them flow, watching the burst of colors crackle and boom in the air, feeling the aftershocks ring in her head.
Fern wondered suddenly if the sound was reminiscent of war and hoped that Ambrose was in the moment with her and not somewhere in Iraq, his mind on roadside bombs and the friends who didn't come home. Afraid that he might need someone to hold him there, hold him to the celebration, she reached out and slipped her hand in his. His hand tightened around hers.
He didn't interlock his fingers the way couples do as they walk. Instead he held her hand inside his, like an injured bird in his palm. And they watched the display to its conclusion, not speaking, their heads tilted toward the light, only their hands touching. Fern sneaked a look at his profile, noting that in the darkness, in the space between bursts of cascading light, that his face was beautiful, as beautiful as it had ever been. Even the smoothness of his bald head did not detract from the strength of his features. Somehow it made them more stark, more memorable.
With the last crack of the manic finale, families and couples started to stand and make their way off the field. Nobody had noticed Fern and Ambrose there on the far edge, beyond the circle of the track, behind the goal post. As the field lost its occupants and the smoky residue of revelry left the air, the sounds of night resumed. Crickets chirped, the wind whispered softly in the trees that edged the field, and Fern and Ambrose lay still, neither of them wishing to break the silence or the sense of pause that surrounded them.
“You are still beautiful,” Fern said softly, her face turned to his. He was quiet for a moment, but he didn't pull away or groan or deny what she'd said.
“I think that statement is more a reflection of your beauty than mine,” Ambrose said eventually, turning his head so he could look down at her. Fern's face was touched with moonglow, the color of her eyes and the red of her hair undecipherable in the wash of pale light. But her features were clear–the dark pools of expressive eyes, the small nose and soft mouth, the earnest slant of her brow that indicated she didn't understand his response.
“You know that thing people always say, about beauty being in the eye of the beholder?”
“Yes?”
“I always thought it meant we all have different tastes, different preferences . . . you know? Some guys focus on the legs, some guys prefer blondes, some men like girls with long hair, that kind of thing. I never thought about it really, not before this moment. But maybe you see beauty in me because you are beautiful, not because I am.”
“Beautiful on the inside?”
“Yes.”
Fern was silent, thinking about what he'd said. Then, in a small voice she whispered. “I understand what you're saying . . . and I appreciate it. I do. But I would really like it if, just for once, I could be beautiful to you on the outside.”
Ambrose chuckled and then stopped. The expression on her face made him think she wasn't kidding, wasn't being flirtatious. Ahh. Ugly Girl Syndrome again. She didn't think he thought she was pretty.
He didn't know how to make her understand that she was so much more than just pretty. So he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. Very carefully. Not like the other night when he'd been scared and impulsive, and had smacked her head against the wall in his attempt to kiss her. He kissed her now to tell her how he felt. He pulled away almost immediately, not giving himself a chance to linger and lose his head. He wanted to show her he valued her, not that he wanted to rip her clothes off. And he wasn't sure when it came right down to it, that she wanted to be kissed by an ugly SOB. She was the kind of girl that would kiss him because she didn't want to hurt his feelings. The thought filled him with despair.
She let out a frustrated sigh and sat up, running her hands through her hair. It flowed through her fingers and down her back, and he wished he could bury his own hands in it, bury his face in the heavy locks and breathe her in. But he'd obviously upset her.
“I'm sorry, Fern. I shouldn't have done that.”
“Why?” she snapped, startling him enough that he winced. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because you're upset.”
“I'm upset because you pulled away! You're so careful. And it's frustrating!”
Ambrose was taken back by her honesty, and he smiled, instantly flattered. But the smile faded as
he tried to explain himself.
“You're so small, Fern. Delicate. And all of this is new to you. I'm afraid I'm going to come on too strong. And if I break you or hurt you, I won't survive that, Fern. I won't survive it.” That thought was worse than walking away from her, and he shuddered inwardly. He wouldn't survive it. He had already hurt too many. Lost too many.
Fern knelt in front of him, and her chin wobbled and her eyes were wide with emotion. Her voice was adamant as she held his face between her hands, and when he tried to pull away so she wouldn't feel his scars, she hung on, forcing his gaze.
“Ambrose Young! I have waited my whole life for you to want me. If you don't hold me tight I won't believe you mean it, and that's worse than never being held at all. You’d better make me believe you mean it, Ambrose, or you will most definitely break me.”
“I don't want to hurt you, Fern,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Then don't,” she whispered back, trusting him. But there were lots of ways to cause pain. And Ambrose knew he was capable of hurting her in a thousand ways.
Ambrose stopped trying to pull his face away, surrendering to the way it felt to be touched. He hadn't allowed anyone to touch him for a long time. Her hands were small, like the rest of her, but the emotions they stirred in him were enormous, gigantic, all-consuming. She made him shake, made him quake inside, made him vibrate like the tracks under an on-coming train.
Her hands left his face and traveled down the sides of his neck. One side smooth, the other riddled with divots and scars and rippled where the skin had been damaged. She didn't pull away, but felt each mark, memorized each wound. And then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his neck, just below his jaw. And then again on the other side, on the side that bore no scars, letting him know that the kiss wasn't about sympathy, but desire. It was a caress. And his control broke.