Fern knelt by her bike where it was chained to a downspout and clicked the combination absentmindedly. Her mind was far away, wrapped in Ambrose and the thought of losing him once more, and she reacted slowly to the sudden rush of footsteps coming up behind her. Steely arms wrapped around her and shoved her to the ground, causing her to lose her grip on her bike so it teetered and toppled beside her.
Her first thought was that is was Ambrose. He had surprised her in the dark before, just outside the employee entrance. But it wasn't Ambrose. He would never hurt her. The arms that gripped her were thinner, the body less corded with muscle, but whoever it was, he was still much bigger than Fern. And he intended to hurt her. Fern shoved frantically at the weight that pressed her face into the sidewalk.
“Where is she, Fern?” It was Becker. His breath reeked of beer and vomit and days without a toothbrush. The immaculate Becker Garth was coming undone, and that scared Fern more than anything.
“I went to her mother's house but it's dark. I've been watching it for two days. And she's not at home! I can't even get in my own house, Fern!”
“They left, Becker,” Fern wheezed, trying to keep the terror at bay. Becker sounded hysterical, like he had lost his sanity when he'd forced Bailey off the road. The police didn't think Becker knew that they had Bailey's 911 call. Maybe he had thought he could just come back home now that the dust had settled and nobody would be the wiser.
“WHERE ARE THEY?!” Becker grabbed Fern's hair and ground her cheek into the sidewalk. Fern winced and tried not to cry as she felt the burn and scrape of the concrete against her face.
“I don't know, Becker,” Fern lied. There was no way she was telling Becker Garth where his wife was. “They just said they were leaving for a couple days to get some rest. They'll be back.” Another lie.
As soon as Rita had been discharged from the hospital, she’d given her landlord notice and Sarah had put her house up for sale with a local realtor and asked that it be kept private. Rita was devastated by Bailey’s death and they were afraid. With Becker unaccounted for, they didn't feel safe in their homes, in their town, and they liquidated everything they could and had decided to take off until Becker was no longer a threat, if that day ever came.
Fern's father had arranged to have their belongings sold and what couldn't be sold was kept in a storage unit owned by the church. He'd given them $2,000 in cash, and Fern had dipped into her own savings account. In less than a week, they were gone. Fern had been so afraid for Rita. She hadn't thought she needed to be afraid for herself.
Fern heard a snick and felt a slide of something cold and sharp against her throat. Her heart sounded like a racehorse at full speed, echoing in the ear that was pressed against the sidewalk.
“You and Bailey turned her against me! You were always giving her money. And Sheen tried to take my kid! Did you know that?”
Fern just squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for deliverance.
“Is she with Ambrose?”
“What?”
“Is she with Ambrose?” he screamed.
“No! Ambrose is with me!” Just inside the door of the bakery. And so, so far away.
“With you? You think he wants you, Fern? He doesn't want you! He wants Rita. He's always wanted Rita. But now his face is all messed up!” Becker spit the words into her ear.
Fern felt the nick of the blade against her skin, and Becker moved the knife from her throat to her face. “And I'm going to cut you up so you match. If you tell me where Rita is, I'll only mark up one side, so you look just like Ambrose.”
Fern squeezed her eyes shut, panting in panic, praying for deliverance.
“Tell me where she is!” Becker raged at her silence and backhanded her. Fern's head rang and her ears popped and for a moment she lost herself, floating out and beyond, a momentary reprieve from the terror that gripped her. Then Becker was up and dragging Fern by her long red hair before she could get her feet under her, pulling her over the curb, crossing the street, and moving across the field that extended into the dark trees behind the store. Fern scrambled, crying against the pain at her scalp, trying to stand. And she screamed for Ambrose.
“Do you feel that?”
The words came into Ambrose's mind as if Paulie stood at his shoulder and spoke them in his ear. His deaf ear. Ambrose rubbed at his prosthetic and stepped back from the mixer. He flipped it off, and turned, expecting someone to be standing there with him. But the bakery was silent and empty. He listened, the silence expectant. And he felt it. A sense of something wrong, a sense of foreboding. Something he didn't have a name for and couldn't explain.
“Do you feel that?” Paulie had said before death had separated the friends forever.
Ambrose walked out of the bakery toward the back door, the door Fern had exited less than ten minutes before. And then he heard her scream. Ambrose flew through the exit door, adrenaline pulsing in his ears and denial pounding in his head.
The first thing he saw was Fern's bike, laying on its side, the front wheel pointing into the air, the pedals holding the front half up in a slight tilt, freeing the big wheel to spin slightly in the wind. Like Cosmo's bike. Smiling Cosmo, who wanted his family to be safe and his country to be delivered from terror. Cosmo, who died at the hands of evil men.
“Fern!” Ambrose roared in terror. And then he saw them, maybe 100 yards away, Fern struggling with someone who held his arm around her throat and was dragging her across the field behind the store. Ambrose ran, sprinting across the uneven ground, his feet barely touching the earth, rage pouring through his veins. He closed the gap in seconds, and as Becker saw him coming he yanked Fern up against him, shielding himself. In a hand that shook like someone who was strung out and beyond reason, he held a knife out toward Ambrose as Ambrose hurtled toward him, closing in fast.
“She's coming with me, Ambrose!” he shrieked. “She's taking me to Rita!”
Ambrose didn't slow, didn't let his eyes rest on Fern. Becker Garth was done. He'd killed Bailey Sheen, left him lying in a ditch, knowing full well he couldn't save himself. He'd abused his wife, terrorized her and his child, and now he held the girl Ambrose loved like a rag doll, shielding himself from the wrath wrapped in vengeance that was coming for him.
Becker cursed viciously, realizing that his knife wasn’t going to prevent a collision with Ambrose. He dropped Fern, releasing her so he could escape, and screamed as he turned to run. Fern screamed as well, her fear for Ambrose evident in the way she staggered back to her feet and spread her arms as if to stop him from hurling himself into Becker's knife.
Becker had staggered only a few steps before Ambrose was on him, knocking him to the ground the way Becker had knocked his wife to the ground. Becker's head collided with the dirt the way Rita's head had collided with her kitchen floor. Then Ambrose let loose, fists flying, pummeling Becker like he'd done in ninth grade when Becker Garth had terrorized Bailey Sheen in the men's locker room at school.
“Ambrose!” Fern cried from somewhere behind him, anchoring him to her and to the present, slowing his fists and calming his rage-fueled barrage. Standing, he grabbed Becker's long hair, the hair that looked like Ambrose's old locks. And he dragged him, the way Becker had dragged Fern, back to where Fern was swaying on her feet, trying not to collapse. He released Becker and pulled Fern into his arms. Becker fell in a heap.
“Don't let him get away. We can't let him find Rita,” Fern cried, shaking her head and clinging to him. But Becker wasn't going anywhere. Ambrose swept Fern up in his arms and carried her back to the store where her bike still lay, its front wheel still spinning gently, impervious to the drama that had played out nearby.
Fern's face was bloody along her throat and blood oozed from an abrasion along her cheekbone. Her right eye was already swollen shut. Ambrose sat her gently against the building, promising her he would be right back. He grabbed the wiry bike lock that dangled from the downspout, and digging out his phone, he called 911. While he calmly told the 911 dispatche
r what had transpired, he hog-tied Becker Garth with Fern's bike lock in case he regained consciousness before the cops arrived. Ambrose hoped he did. He hoped Becker woke up soon. He wanted him to know how it felt to be trapped on his back in the dark, unable to move, knowing he couldn't save himself. The way Bailey must have felt in ninth grade in a black locker room, lying in his toppled chair, waiting for rescue. The way Bailey must have felt, face down in a ditch knowing his attempts to help his friend would cost him his life.
Then Ambrose walked back to Fern, fell to his knees beside her, and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her gently, humbly. And he whispered his thanks into her hair as his body began to shake.
“Thank you, Paulie.”
Prom, 2002
Fern fiddled with her neckline for the hundredth time since arriving and smoothed her skirt as if it had suddenly become wrinkled since she’d smoothed it four seconds ago.
“Do I have lipstick on my teeth, Bailey?” she hissed at her cousin, grimacing in a parody of a smile so he could see the two white rows of perfect, straight teeth she had suffered three long years in braces for.
Bailey sighed and shook his head no. “You're fine, Fern. You look great. Just relax.”
Fern took a deep breath and immediately started nervously biting the lip she had just covered in a new coat of coral red lipstick.
“Crap! Now I know I have lipstick on my teeth!” she wailed in a voice pitched for his ears alone.
“I'll be right back, okay? I'm just going to go to the girl’s room a second. Will you be okay without me?”
Bailey raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Are you kidding me, woman?”
Fern hadn't been gone for five seconds before Bailey was shooting across the dance floor toward the circle of wrestlers he had been wanting to talk to since arriving at the Prom with Fern.
Ambrose, Paulie, and Grant had come without dates. Bailey didn't know why. If he had a chance to ask a girl to Prom, hold her in his arms, smell her hair, and stand on his own two legs and dance, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass him by.
Beans and Jesse were there with girls, but their dates were huddled a little way off in a serious discussion about shoes, hair, and dresses–their own and everyone else's.
The five friends all saw Bailey coming at break-neck speed in his wheelchair, weaving in and out of dancers on the floor like a man on a mission, and they smiled in greeting. They were good guys and always made him feel like they didn't mind having him around.
“Lookin' good, Sheen.” Grant whistled.
Paulie straightened Bailey's bow tie just a smidge, and Ambrose walked around his chair, giving him the once over.
“You come stag like the rest of us?” Ambrose asked, stopping in front of Bailey and sinking to his haunches so Bailey didn't have to strain his neck to make eye contact.
“Speak for yourself, man. I am with the lovely Lydia,” Beans crooned, his eyes on his date.
Lydia was pretty cute, but she kind of let it all hang out, and Bailey thought she'd be prettier if she had a little of Rita's secrecy. Rita showed just enough to suggest it only got better beneath her clothes. Lydia showed so much you wondered why she even bothered with clothes. But Beans seemed to appreciate that about her.
“Marley looks good.” Bailey complimented Jesse's girl, and Jesse waggled his eyebrows. “Yes, she does, Sheen. Yes, she does.”
Marley's dress was pretty revealing too, but she wasn't as voluptuous as Rita or Lydia, which made it seem less so. She was slight like Fern, but she had long black hair and an exotic slant to her eyes and cheekbones. She and Jesse had been a couple since sophomore year, and they looked good together.
“I'm here with Fern.” Bailey got right to the point, not wanting Fern to come back and see him working the crowd on her behalf. Ambrose immediately rose back to his feet and Bailey sighed inwardly. Ambrose acted like Fern was a Russian spy who had tricked him into spilling the country's secrets instead of a girl who had written him a few love letters and signed someone else's name. His reaction made Bailey wonder if maybe he had feelings for Fern after all. You didn't get that angry over something that didn't matter.
Bailey looked at Paulie and Grant and forged ahead, hoping Ambrose would hear him out. “You guys that don't have dates, would you ask her to dance? Fern's always taking care of me, but it would be nice if she could dance with someone besides her cousin at her Senior Prom.”
Ambrose took a few steps back and then turned and walked away without saying a word. Grant and Paulie watched him go, matching stunned expressions on their faces.
Beans burst into laughter and Jesse whistled low and slow, shaking his head.
“Why does he always act like that whenever anyone says a word about Fern?” Grant wondered, his eyes still on his friend's retreating back.
Bailey felt his face grow hot and his collar felt too tight all of a sudden. It took a lot to embarrass Bailey. Pride was a luxury a kid like him couldn't afford and have any kind of life, but Ambrose's rebuff had embarrassed him.
“What is his problem?” Bailey asked, baffled.
“I think he has a thing for Fern,” Beans said, as if that was the most outrageous thing ever.
Bailey shot Beans a look that made Beans stop short and clear his throat, swallowing his laughter.
“I would really appreciate it if you guys would dance with her. If you think you're too damn good for her then never mind. It's your loss, definitely not hers,” Bailey said, the heat of embarrassment morphing into anger.
“Hey Bailey, no problem, man. I'll ask her to dance.” Grant patted his shoulder, reassuringly.
“Yeah, I'm in. I like Fern. I'd love to dance with her,” Paulie agreed, nodding.
“Me too. I love Fern,” Beans chimed in, his eyes gleaming with mirth. Bailey decided to let it go. It was just Beans. He couldn't seem to help himself.
“You know I got your back, Sheen. But if I dance with her, she's going to know something's up,” Jesse said regretfully. “Marley's my girl, and everyone knows it.”
“That's okay, Jess. You're right. I don't want to make it too obvious.” Bailey heaved a sigh of relief.
“So what you gonna do while we're keeping Fern busy?” Beans teased.
“I'm going to dance with Rita,” Bailey said without pause.
The four wrestlers immediately burst into whoops and laughter as Bailey smirked and pivoted his chair around. Fern had just walked back into the gymnasium and was turning this way and that, looking for him.
“You guys take care of Fern. I'll take care of Rita,” he called over his shoulder.
“We'll take care of her. Don't worry,” Grant reassured, waving him off.
“We'll take care of her,” Paulie repeated. “And I'll take care of Ambrose. He needs someone to look after him too.”
“Can I stay?” Ambrose cleared his throat. It was so hard to ask. But he couldn't leave. Not now. They had all been up most of the night, and dawn was only an hour away. Elliott Young had taken over at the bakery and Joshua and Rachel Taylor had rushed to their daughter's side when they got the call. It had only been two weeks since they were awakened and told to come to the hospital not knowing what had happened to Bailey. It was clear by their panic-stricken faces followed by their grateful tears that they had expected the worst.
Fern and Ambrose were questioned at length by the responding officers, and Becker Garth was taken to the hospital in an ambulance and then remanded into police custody. Fern had refused to go the hospital but had allowed the police to take pictures of her injuries. She was bruised and scraped, and she would be sore in the morning, but now she slept in her own bed, and Ambrose was standing by the front door, his hand on the knob, asking Joshua Taylor if he could stay the night.
“I don't want to leave. Every time I close my eyes, I see that bastard dragging her away . . . sorry, sir.” Ambrose apologized, although he really wasn't sure what other word he could have used to describe Becker Garth.
?
??That's okay, Ambrose. My sentiments exactly,” Joshua Taylor smiled wanly. His eyes roved over Ambrose's face, and Ambrose knew it wasn't because of his scars. They were they eyes of a father, trying to ascertain the intentions of a man who was clearly in love with his daughter.
“I'll make you a bed down here.” He nodded once and turned, walking away from the door, motioning for Ambrose to follow. He moved as if he'd aged ten years in the last week, and Ambrose realized suddenly how old Joshua Taylor really was. He had to be twenty-five years older than Elliott, which would put him at seventy. Ambrose had never really thought about Fern's parents, never really looked at them, the way he'd never really looked at Fern until that night at the lake.
They must have been fairly old when Fern was born. How would it feel to discover you were having a child when you never thought you would? How the pendulum could swing! Such immeasurable joy at welcoming a miracle into the world, such unfathomable pain when that child is taken from the world. Tonight Joshua Taylor had almost lost his miracle, and Ambrose had witnessed a miracle.
The Pastor took a flat sheet, a pillow, and an old pink quilt out of a linen closet, walked into the family room, and began making up the couch as if he'd done it a hundred times.
“I've got it, sir. Please. I can do that.” Ambrose rushed to relieve him of the duty, but Fern's father waved him off and continued tucking the sheet securely into the cushions and folding it in half so Ambrose could tuck himself inside like a taco.
“There. You'll be comfortable here. Sometimes when I've got a lot on my mind and don't want to keep Rachel awake, I come down here. I've spent a lot of nights on this couch. You're longer than I am, but I think you'll be fine.”
“Thank you, sir.” Joshua Taylor nodded and patted Ambrose on the shoulder. He turned as if to leave, but then paused, looking at the old rug that snuggled up to the couch where Ambrose would sleep.