Bailey was transfixed by the action in the center of the room. Fern was too, although not for the same reasons. For Bailey it was the smell of the mats, the movement, the wrestler who might just make a comeback. For Fern it was the smell of the man, his movements, the wrestler who had finally come back. Bailey had been crashing some of the drill sessions between his dad and Ambrose for the last few weeks, but tonight was a first for Fern. She tried not to chew on her nails, a habit she forbade herself, especially since she'd just painted them that morning, and looked on, hoping it was really okay that she was there.
Ambrose was dripping with sweat. His grey shirt was soaked through on his chest and down his back, and he mopped at his bare head with a hand towel. Mike Sheen challenged him through another series of drills, encouraging, correcting, but when Ambrose flopped on the mat at the end of the workout, the coach's brow was furrowed and he kept biting his lip, chewing over an obvious concern.
“You need a partner. You need some guys to beat up on, to beat up on you . . . drilling shots is one thing. But you gotta do some live wrestling or you aren't going to get back into the kind of shape you need to be in . . . not wrestling shape, anyway.
“Remember how gassed Beans got when he couldn't compete until halfway through the season his junior year? He'd been in the room, practicing with the team, but he hadn't been in a real live match, and he about died those first couple meets after he came back. Heck, Grant pinned him in the Big East tourney, and Grant had never pinned Beans before. Remember how tickled he was?”
Coach Sheen's words rang through the room, the mention of Grant and Beans, the mention of death in any context, creating an odd echo that kept ricocheting off the walls. Ambrose stiffened, Bailey hung his head, and Fern gave in and gnawed her fingernail. Mike Sheen realized what he'd said and ran a hand over his cropped hair. He continued on as if the words hadn't been spoken.
“We'll get some guys in here, Brose. I've got a couple bigger guys on the high school team that you could work over. It'd be good for them and helpful to you.”
“No. Don't do that.” Ambrose shook his head, his voice a low rumble as he stood and started shoving his gear into a gym bag. “I'm not here for that, Coach. I don't want you thinking I am. I missed the room. That's all. I just missed the room. But I'm not wrestling . . . not anymore.”
Mike Sheen's face fell and Bailey sighed beside Fern. Fern just waited, watching Ambrose, noticing the way his hands shook as he untied his wrestling shoes, the way he had turned away from his old coach so he couldn't see Mike Sheen's reaction to his firm refusal.
“All right,” Coach Sheen said gently. “Are we done for today?”
Ambrose nodded, not looking up from his shoes, and Mike Sheen jangled the keys in his pocket. “You going home with Fern, Bailey?” he said to his son, noting the dejection in Bailey's posture.
“We walked and rolled, Dad,” Bailey quipped, trying as he always did to ease an uncomfortable situation with humor. “But I'll come home with you, if you don't mind . . . you got the van, right?”
“I'll take Fern,” Ambrose spoke up keeping his gaze on his laces. He hadn't moved from where he was crouched by his bag, and he didn't look up at the three people who were all focused on him. He seemed tense and eager to be left alone, and Fern wondered why he wanted her to remain behind. But she said nothing, letting her uncle and Bailey leave without her.
“Make sure the lights are off and the doors are all locked,” Coach Sheen said quietly, and held the door open for Bailey to wheel through. Then the heavy door swung shut and Fern and Ambrose were alone.
Ambrose took a long draw from a bottle of water, his throat working as he swallowed greedily. He splashed a little on his face and head and wiped it off with his towel, but still made no move to get up. He pulled his wet shirt over his head, grabbing the back of the neck with one hand and yanking it over his head the way guys always do and girls never do. He didn't pause to let her look at him, though her eyes raced over his skin, trying to soak in every detail. Showing off wasn't his intent, and a clean blue T-shirt replaced his soiled gray one almost instantly. He slipped his running shoes on and laced them up, but still he sat, his arms looped around his knees, his head bent against the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“Will you turn off the light, Fern?” His voice was so soft she wasn't sure she heard him right, but she turned and walked toward the door and the light switches that were lined up to the right of it, expecting him to follow her.
“Are you coming?” she asked, her hand poised on the switch.
“Just . . . turn it off.”
Fern did as he asked, and the wrestling room vanished before her eyes, disappearing in the darkness. Fern paused uncertainly, wondering if he wanted her to leave him there in the dark. But why then had he said he would take her home?
“Do you want me to go? I can walk . . . it's not that far.”
“Stay. Please.”
The door thumped shut and Fern stood next to it, wondering how she was going to find her way back to him. He was acting so strange, so forlorn and aloof. But he wanted her to stay. That was enough for Fern. She walked toward the middle of the room, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.
“Fern?” Just a little to the left. Fern sank to her hands and knees and crawled toward the sound of his voice.
“Fern?” He must have heard her coming, because his voice was soft, more welcome than question. She stopped and reaching out, felt her fingers graze his upraised knee. He clasped her fingers immediately and then slid his hand up her arm, pulling her into him and then down to the mat, where he stretched out beside her, his length creating a wall of heat on her left side.
It was a strange sensation, feeling his touch in the dark. The wrestling room had no windows, and the darkness was absolute. Her senses were heightened by her lack of sight, the sound of his breathing both erotic and chaste–erotic because she didn't know what would come next, chaste because he was simply breathing, in and out, a flutter of warmth against her cheek. Then his mouth descended and the warmth became heat that singed her parted lips. And the heat became pressure as his mouth sank into hers.
He kissed Fern like he was drowning, like she was air, like she was land beneath his feet, and maybe that was simply how he kissed, how he had always kissed, whenever he kissed whomever he kissed. Maybe that was the way he had kissed Rita. But Fern had only been kissed by Ambrose and had nothing to compare it to, no informed analysis of what was good or bad, skilled or unschooled. All she knew was that when Ambrose kissed her, he made her feel like she was going to implode, implode like one of those controlled demolitions where the building simply collapses into a neat pile of rubble, disturbing nothing and no one around it.
Nothing around Fern would collapse. The room would not burst into flame, the mats would not melt beneath her, but when Ambrose was done with her, she would be a smoldering pile of what used to be Fern Taylor all the same, and there was no way she could go back. She would be unalterably changed, ruined for anyone else. And she knew it as surely as if she'd been kissed by a thousand men.
She moaned into his mouth, the sigh wrenched from the hungry little beast inside her that longed to tear at his clothing and sink her tiny claws into him just to make sure she wouldn't be hungry for long, just to make sure he was absolutely real and absolutely hers, even if it was just for this moment. She pressed herself against him, breathing in the clean sweat that tangled with the scent of the freshly laundered cotton of his clean shirt. She licked and kissed at the salt on his skin, the ripples of his scarred cheek a contrast to the sandpapery line of his jaw. And then, just like that, a thought slid into her fevered brain, a venomous sliver of self-doubt wrapped in a moment of truth.
“Why do you only kiss me in the dark?” she whispered, her lips hovering above his.
Ambrose's hands moved restlessly, circling her hips, sliding up the slim curve of her waist and brushing by the places he most wanted to explore, and Fern trembled
, straddling the need to continue and the need to be reassured.
“Are you afraid someone will see us?” she breathed, her head falling to his chest, her hair tickling his mouth and neck and wrapping around his arms.
His silence felt like ice dribbled down her back, and Fern pulled herself from him, moving away in the darkness.
“Fern?” He sounded lost.
“Why do you only kiss me in the dark?” Fern repeated, her voice small and tight, as if she were trying to prevent her feelings from leaking out around the words. “Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”
“I don't only kiss you in the dark . . . do I?”
“Yes . . . you do.” Silence again. Fern could hear Ambrose breathing, hear him thinking. “So does it? Embarrass you . . . I mean.”
“No, Fern. I'm not ashamed to be seen with you. I'm ashamed to be seen,” Ambrose choked, and his hands found her in the dark once more.
“Why?” She knew why . . . but she didn't. Not really. His hand found her jaw and his fingers traced her cheekbone lightly, moving along her face, finding her features, stopping at her mouth. She pulled away so she wouldn't pull him in.
“Not even me?” she repeated. “You don't even want me to see you?
“I don't want you to think about how I look when I kiss you.”
“Do you think about how I look when you kiss me?”
“Yes.” His voice was raspy. “I think about your long red hair and your sweet mouth, and the way your little body feels when it’s pressed up against me, and I just want to put my hands on you. Everywhere. And I forget that I am ugly and alone and confused as hell.”
Flames licked the sides of Fern's belly and she swallowed hard, trying to contain the steam that rose up and burned her throat and drenched her face in shocked heat. She'd read books about men that said things like that to the women they desired, but she didn't know people really said such things in real life. She never thought someone would say those things to her.
“You make me feel safe, Fern. You make me forget. And when I kiss you I just want to keep kissing you. Everything else falls away. It's the only peace I've found since . . . since . . .”
“Since your face was scarred?” she finished softly, still distracted by the things he’d said about her mouth and her hair and her body. Still flushed yet afraid, eager yet reluctant.
“Since my friends died, Fern!” He swore violently, a vicious verbal slap, and Fern flinched. “Since my four best friends died right in front of me! They died, I lived. They're gone, I'm here! I deserve this face!” Ambrose wasn't shouting, but his anguish was deafening, like riding a train through a tunnel, the reverberations making Fern’s head hurt and her heart stutter in her chest. His profanity was shocking, his utter, black despair more shocking still. Fern wanted to run to the door and find the light switch, ending this bizarre confrontation playing out in the pitch black. But she was disoriented and didn't want to sprint into a brick wall.
“In the dark, with you, I forget that Beans isn't going to come walking in here and interrupt us. He was always sneaking girls in here. I forget that Grant won't fly up that rope like he's weightless and that Jesse won't try his hardest to kick my ass every damn day because he secretly thinks he's better than I am.
“When I came in today, I almost expected to find Paulie asleep in here, curled up in the corner, having a nap on the wrestling mats. Paulie never went anywhere else when he sluffed. If he wasn't in class, he was here, sound asleep.” A sob, deep and hard, rattled and broke from Ambrose's chest, like it had grown rusty over time, waiting to be released. Fern wondered if Ambrose had ever cried. The sound was heart wrenching, desperate, desolate. And Fern wept with him.
She reached toward the sound of his pain and her fingers brushed his lips. And then she was in his arms again, her chest to his, their wet cheeks pressed together, their tears merging and dripping down their necks. And there they sat, comforting and being comforted, letting the thick darkness absorb their sorrow and hide their grief, if not from each other, then from sight.
“This was where I was the happiest. Here in this smelly room with my friends. It was never about the matches. It was never about the trophies. It was this room. It was the way I felt when I was here.” Ambrose buried his face in her neck and fought for speech. “I don't want Coach to bring in a bunch of guys to replace them. I don't want anybody else in this room . . . not yet . . . not when I'm here. I can feel them when I'm here, and it hurts like hell, but it hurts so good . . . because they aren't really gone when I can still hear their voices. When I can feel what is left of us in this room.”
Fern stroked his back and his shoulders, wanting to heal, like a mother's kiss to a skinned knee, a bandage to a bruise. But that wasn't what he wanted, and he lifted his head, his breath tickling her lips, his nose brushing hers. And Fern felt desire drown the grief.
“Give me your mouth, Fern. Please. Make it all go away.”
“You'll have to help me undress, you know, and I don't think Ambrose can handle it. The sight of my glorious naked body takes some getting used to.”
Ambrose, Bailey and Fern were at Hannah Lake. It had been a spontaneous trip, prompted by the heat and the fact that Fern and Ambrose both had the day (and night) off. They'd hit a drive-thru for food and drinks, but they hadn’t gone back home to get their suits.
“You won't be naked, Bailey. Stop. You're scaring Ambrose.” Fern winked at Ambrose and said, “You will have to help me get him in the water, Ambrose. At that point I can hold him under all by myself.”
“Hey!” Bailey interjected with mock outrage. Fern's laughter peeled out and she patted Bailey's cheeks.
Ambrose got behind Bailey and hooked him under the arms, lifting him so Fern could slide his pants around his hips and down to his feet.
“Okay. Set him down for a minute.”
Bailey looked like a frail old man with a bit of thickness around his mid-section. He patted his belly with good humor. “This little baby helps me float. It also keeps me from falling over in my wheelchair.
“It's true” Fern said, pulling Bailey's shoes and socks from his feet. “He's lucky that he's chubby. It gives his trunk some support. And he really does float. Just watch.”
Fern set Bailey's shoes neatly to the side and removed her own sneakers. She wore shorts and a turquoise tank top and made no move to remove those, unfortunately. Ambrose unlaced his boots and unzipped his jeans. Fern looked away, a rosy tinge climbing up her neck and onto her smooth cheeks.
When he was standing in his boxers, he picked Bailey up in his arms without a word and started walking toward the water.
Fern pranced along behind him, shooting instructions about how to hold Bailey, how to release him so that he wouldn't tip forward and not be able to turn onto his back.
“Fern. I got this, woman!” Bailey said as Ambrose released him. Bailey bobbed, almost in a sitting position, butt down feet floating up, head and shoulders well above the surface.
“I'm free!” he yelled.
“He yells that every time he's in the water,” Fern giggled. “It probably feels amazing. Floating without anyone holding onto him.”
“Kites or balloons?” Ambrose said softly, watching Bailey. Floating without anyone holding onto him. Those were the very same words he'd used when Fern had asked him the question long ago. How foolish he'd been. What good was flying if there was no one on the other end of the string? Or floating when there was no one to help you back to dry land? Ambrose tried to float, but he couldn't seem to keep his legs from falling like anchors. He resorted to treading water instead, and the symbolism didn't escape him.
Bailey crowed, “Too much muscle? Poor Brosey. Bailey Sheen wins this round, I'm afraid.”
Fern had found the sweet spot and was concentrating on keeping herself afloat, her pink toenails peeking above the surface of the water, her eyes fixed on the clouds.
“Do you see the Corvette?” Fern lifted her arm out of the water and pointed at a fluffy congl
omeration. She immediately started to sink and Ambrose slid a hand under her back before her face slipped beneath the water.
Bailey wrinkled his nose, trying to find a car in the clouds. Ambrose found it, but by that time it had shifted and looked a little more like a VW bug.
“I see a cloud that looks like Mr. Hildy!” Bailey laughed. He couldn't point so Fern and Ambrose studied frantically, trying to catch the face before it dissolved into something else.
“Hmmm. I see Homer Simpson,” Fern murmured.
“More like Bart . . . or maybe Marge,” Ambrose said.
“It's funny how we all see something different,” Fern said.
They all stared as the image because softer, less defined, and floated away. Ambrose was reminded of another time he’d floated on his back, staring at the sky.
“Why do you think Saddam had his face plastered all over the city? Everywhere you look you see his ugly mug. Statues, posters, banners every-freakin'-where!” Paulie said.
“Cause he's 'Suh damn' good-looking,” Ambrose said dryly.
“It's intimidation and mind control.” Grant, ever the scholar, filled in the answer. “He wanted to make himself seem God-like so that he could more easily control the population. You think these people fear God or Saddam more?”
“You mean Allah,” Paulie corrected mildly.
“Right. Allah. Saddam wanted the people to think he and Allah were one in the same,” Grant said.
“What do you think Saddam would think if he saw us swimming in his pool right now? And I must say, it’s ‘Suh damn’ fine pool,” Jesse stood in the chest deep water, arms spread on the surface of the water, staring at the ornate fountain that rimmed the far side of the pool.
“He wouldn't mind. He's 'Suh damn' generous he would invite us to come back whenever we want,” Ambrose said. The “Suh damn” jokes had been going on for days.