“Yep. Scarecrow sounds badass, don't you think, Grant?”
“It's better than Dorothy,” Grant laughed. He'd made the mistake of wearing his red wrestling shoes to the gym one day and the rest was history. When they weren't on patrol or sleeping, they were working out. There just wasn't much else to do in their down time.
“Why don't you click your heels together, Dorothy, and get us back home?” Paulie said. “Hey, and how come you didn't get a nickname, Beans?”
“Um . . . my name is Connor. I think you just contradicted yourself.” Beans was beginning to doze off.
“We should call him Munchkin . . . or maybe Toto. After all he's just a little dog with a big bark,” Jesse said.
Beans was alert immediately. “Try it, Jess, and I'll tell Marley about the time you made out with Lori Stringham in the wrestling room.” Beans had always been sensitive about his stature. It made for a great 125 pound wrestler, but wasn't especially helpful anywhere else.
“Brosey's The Tin Man because he doesn't have a heart. Poor little Fern Taylor found that out the hard way.” Beans tried to turn the attention back to Ambrose, ribbing him once more.
“Brosey's The Tin Man because he's made of metal. Damn, how much did you put up on your bench today, Brosey?” another member of the unit butted into the conversation. “You are a freaking monster! We should call you Iron Man.”
“Here we go again,” Jesse moaned. “Hercules and now Iron Man.” He resented the attention Ambrose always garnered and didn't pretend otherwise.
Ambrose laughed. “I'll let you beat me in an arm wrestle tomorrow, Witchy Poo, okay?”
Jesse chuckled, his irritability more an act than he cared to admit.
The tent quieted down until the occasional snore and sigh was all that was heard in the darkness. But Ambrose couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about what Beans had said. Rita Marsden was beautiful. She'd taken his breath away. He’d thought he was in love with her until he’d figured out he really didn't know her at all. Rita wasn't smart. Not in the way he wanted her to be. He hadn’t been able to figure out why she was so appealing in her little notes and then when they were together she was so different. She was beautiful, but after a while, she really wasn't very attractive to him at all. Ambrose wanted the girl in the letters.
His eyes shot open in the dark. The girl in the letters was Fern Taylor. Did he really want Fern Taylor? He laughed a little. Fern was a little bitty thing. They would look ridiculous together. And she wasn't hot. Although she had looked pretty good at the prom. Seeing her there in her gold dress, dancing with his stupid friends, had surprised him and ticked him off. Guess he hadn't forgiven her completely for the stunt she and Rita pulled.
He had tried not to think about Fern, about that night at the lake, and he'd all but convinced himself it was just temporary insanity, a last desperate act before leaving home. And she hadn't written like she’d said she would. He couldn't blame her after everything that had happened. But he would have liked to get a letter. She wrote good letters.
Homesickness shot through him. They definitely weren't in Kansas anymore. He wondered what he'd gotten himself into. What he'd gotten them all into. And if he was being honest with himself, he wasn't Hercules and he wasn't The Tin Man. He was The Cowardly Lion. He'd run away from home and brought his friends with him, his security blanket, his very own cheering section. He wondered what the hell he was doing in Oz.
Iraq
“Marley said Rita's getting married,” Jesse reported, his eyes on Ambrose. “Your ex is getting hitched, Brosey. How does it feel?”
“She's a fool.”
“Whoa!” Jesse cried, surprised by the vehemence from his friend. He thought Ambrose was over Rita. Guess he was wrong.
“You don't still like her, do you, Brose?” Grant asked in surprise.
“No. I don't. But she's a fool to marry Becker Garth.”
Beans shrugged. “I've never had a problem with Garth.”
“You remember when I got suspended in ninth grade?”
Beans shook his head that he didn't, but Paulie lit up with the memory.
“You smashed Becker's pretty face in! I remember. But you never told us why.”
Ambrose adjusted his sunglasses and shifted his weight. They, and about one hundred other soldiers and marines, were on guard duty outside a high-security meeting of the Provisional Iraqi Government. It was cool to think maybe different factions could come together to form some governing body, that they were making progress, though some days Ambrose wondered. It wasn't the first time he'd played bodyguard, though in Bailey Sheen's case it had come after the fact.
“I forgot about that!” Grant crowed. “You didn't get to wrestle Loch Haven. Coach was pissed.”
“He wouldn't have been quite as mad if he knew why I felt the need to pound Becker,” Ambrose said wryly. He supposed enough time and distance had passed for him to share the story without violating confidences.
January, 1999
Ambrose knew Becker Garth. Becker was a senior and the girls all seemed to like him and think he was hot. That always made other guys sit up and take notice. Ambrose had noticed him because Becker had started wearing his hair like Ambrose, which Ambrose didn't like. Becker was dark haired too, and when he tossed his chin-length hair back from his brown eyes, he looked too much like Ambrose for comfort.
But that was where the similarities in their appearances ended. Becker was wiry and on the small side, his muscles defined and lean, like a jockey or a runner. He was about 5”8 and big enough that the girls still flocked around him, but Ambrose was much taller, even as a freshman.
Maybe because Becker was smaller than the freshman, or maybe because he was jealous, he liked to poke at Ambrose. Just jabs, innuendos, side comments that made his group of friends snicker and look away. Ambrose ignored it for the most part. He had very little to prove and wasn't bothered too much. His size and strength made him less intimidated and less vulnerable to bullying than the other boys his age. And he comforted himself by imagining Becker in the wrestling room trying to hang with him or any of his friends. But Ambrose wasn't the only one Becker liked to torment.
It was fourth period, right before lunch, and Ambrose asked to be excused from English on the pretext of needing to use the bathroom. Really, he needed to check his weight. He had weigh-ins at 3:00 for the duel against Loch Haven. He was wrestling 160 but that morning he'd been at 162. He could sweat two pounds off, but just getting to 162 had been work. He had started the season at 172, and there wasn't much wiggle room or fat on his big frame to allow for weight loss. And he was still growing. He had a month until district championships and two weeks after that, state. The next six weeks would be brutal, and he would be hungry most of the time. Hungry equated to ornery, and Ambrose was very ornery. When he walked into the locker room and was greeted by darkness, he swore, hoping something wasn't wrong. He needed to see the scale. He felt along the wall, trying to find the switches. A voice rang out in the dark, making him jump.
“Becker?” the voice said nervously.
He found the lights and flipped them, flooding the lockers and benches with light. What he saw made him curse again. In the middle of the tile floor, Bailey Sheen's wheel chair had been tipped over onto its back, and Bailey was hanging helplessly with his thin legs in the air, unable to right himself or do anything but beg for help in the darkness.
“What the hell?” Ambrose said. “Sheen, are you okay?”
Ambrose ran to Bailey, eased the chair back onto its wheels, and sat Bailey up straight in his seat. Bailey's face was flushed and his shoulders shook, and Ambrose wanted to hurt someone. Badly.
“What happened, Sheen?”
“Don't tell anyone, okay, Ambrose?” Bailey begged.
“Why?!” Ambrose was so angry he could feel his pulse pounding behind his eyes.
“Just . . . just don't tell, okay? It's freakin' embarrassing.” Bailey gulped and Ambrose could tell he was mortified.
&nb
sp; “Who did this?” Ambrose demanded.
Bailey shook his head and wouldn't say. Then Ambrose remembered how Bailey had startled him by calling out a name while Ambrose had been searching for the light.
“Becker?” Ambrose asked, his voice rising in outrage.
“He just pretended he was going to help me out and then he tipped me over. I'm not hurt!” Bailey added, as if being hurt would make him weaker. “Then he turned off the lights and left. I would have been okay. Someone would have come. You came, right?” Bailey tried to smile, but the smile wobbled and he looked down at his hands. “I'm glad it was you and not an entire gym class. It would have been really humiliating.”
Ambrose was beyond speech. He just shook his head, the scale forgotten.
“I don't come in here if someone's not with me because I can't open the doors by myself,” Bailey offered by way of explanation. “But Becker let me in, and I thought my dad was in here. And I can get out by myself because the door swings out and I can just push it open with my wheelchair.”
“Except when someone tips you over and leaves you hanging upside down,” Ambrose said, anger dripping from his comment.
“Yeah. Except then,” Bailey said softly. “Why do you think he did that?” Bailey looked at Ambrose, his face troubled.
“I don't know, Sheen. Because he's an asshole with a little pecker,” Ambrose grumbled. “He thinks picking on people who can't or won't fight back will make his pecker bigger. But it just gets smaller and smaller and he just gets meaner and meaner.”
Bailey howled with laughter, and Ambrose smiled, glad that Bailey wasn’t shaking anymore.
“You promise you won't tell anyone?” Bailey insisted again.
Ambrose nodded. But he didn't promise not to make Becker pay.
When Ambrose entered the lunchroom, he found Becker seated at a corner table, surrounded by a group of other seniors and several pretty girls that Ambrose wouldn't mind talking to under different circumstances. Ambrose gritted his teeth and walked to the table. He hadn't told his friends what was up. His friends were wrestlers, and Ambrose was probably going to get suspended for what he was about to do. He didn't want them getting in trouble with him and hurting the team’s chances against Loch Haven. He probably wouldn't be wrestling tonight. Guess it was okay that he was a couple of pounds over his weight.
Ambrose brought his fists down on the table as hard as he could, spilling people's drinks and making an empty tray clatter to the floor. Becker looked up in surprise, his curse ringing out above the din in the lunchroom as milk splashed in his lap.
“Stand up,” Ambrose demanded quietly.
“Get lost, Gorilla boy.” Becker sneered, wiping at the milk. “Unless you want to get the shit beat out of you.”
Ambrose leaned over the table and shot his right hand out toward Becker's face. His flat palm connected squarely with Becker's forehead, thumping his head back against the wall behind him.
“Stand up!” Ambrose wasn't quiet anymore.
Becker came out from around the table and lunged wildly for Ambrose, his sharp fist catching Ambrose across the bridge of his nose, making his eyes smart and the blood start to stream from his left nostril. Ambrose swung back, catching Becker across the mouth, then again in his right eye. Becker howled and went down in a snarling heap. Ambrose grabbed the collar of his shirt and the back of his jeans and stood him up again. Becker swayed. Ambrose had hit him hard.
“That's for Bailey Sheen,” he whispered in Becker's ear, honoring his promise to Bailey that no one would know what Becker had done. Then he released Becker and turned away, wiping his nose on his ruined white shirt.
Coach Sheen was striding toward him, his face red with anger. Apparently, it was his turn at lunchroom duty. Damn Ambrose's luck. Ambrose followed him meekly, willing to take whatever punishment was his, and true to his word, he didn't utter Bailey Sheen's name even once.
“I'm getting married, Fern.” Rita shoved her hand beneath Fern's nose, an impressive diamond on her left ring finger.
“It's beautiful,” Fern said honestly and tried to smile, tried to give her friend the reaction she obviously wanted, but she felt a little sick inside. Becker was very handsome and he and Rita looked so good together. And Ty, Rita and Becker's baby, would have both his parents under one roof. But Becker scared Fern. Fern wondered why he didn't scare Rita. Or maybe he did. Some girls were drawn to that.
“We want to be married next month. I know it's soon, but do you think your dad would marry us? He's always been so nice to me. Your mom, too. We're just going to have a little party afterward. Maybe I can get a DJ and we can dance. Becker's a good dancer.”
Fern remembered Rita and Becker dancing at the prom, Rita glowing with new love, Becker trying to control his temper when Bailey had interrupted and stolen a couple of dances.
“Sure. Dad would love to. Pastors like nothing better than a wedding. Maybe you could have your reception under the church pavilion. There's power and tables. We can get flowers and refreshments and you can wear a beautiful dress. I'll help.”
And she did. They planned frantically for a month, finding Rita a dress that made Sarah Marsden, Rita's mother, cry and dance around her lovely daughter. They sent out invitations, hired a photographer, ordered flowers, made mints, crème puffs, and homemade chocolates, and filled the Taylor's garage freezer to overflowing with their efforts.
The morning of the big day, they wrapped white twinkle lights around each column of the pavilion and moved the tables covered in white lace out onto the lawn lining the pavilion so the concrete floor beneath the pavilion could serve as the dance floor. They filled yellow vases with daisies for centerpieces and tied yellow balloons to every chair.
They put daisies in the church, too. Fern was the maid of honor, and Rita had let her pick her own dress in whatever shade of yellow she wished. Fern found Bailey a yellow tie to match and he escorted her down the aisle in his wheelchair. Fern carried a bouquet of the cheerful flowers, and Bailey had a daisy pinned to his black suit coat.
Becker wore black as well, a yellow rose pinned to his lapel that matched the roses in Rita's bouquet. His hair was swept back from his high cheek-boned face, reminding Fern of Ambrose and the way his hair had fallen to his shoulders like a young Adonis. Ambrose's long hair was gone now, and Ambrose was gone too.
She still thought about him more than she should. He'd been in Iraq for a year. In fact, it had been eighteen months since he first left for basic training. Marley Davis, Jesse's girlfriend, attended the wedding and she told Fern the boys had only six months left on their tour. Marley said Jesse had asked her to marry him when he got home. She seemed thrilled at the prospect. Jesse Jr. was the same age as Rita's baby, Tyler. But where Ty favored his mother, baby Jesse favored his daddy, his brown skin and kinky black hair making him a little replica of his father. He was adorable, happy and healthy, and already a handful for his young mother.
When Rita walked down the aisle and made her solemn vows to Becker Garth and he repeated them in return, both sacred and sweet, Fern felt her heart swell in hope for her friend. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe Becker loved her like he said he did. And maybe love would be enough. Maybe the promises he was making would inspire him to be a better man.
From the look on Bailey's face, he didn't hold out much hope. Bailey sat beside Fern in the front row, his wheel chair parked at the end of the long pew, his expression as wooden as the bench. After all, he and Rita were friends too, and he worried just like Fern. Bailey had been subdued since Rita's announcement. Fern knew he had feelings for Rita. But she thought he'd moved beyond them, sort of the way she'd outgrown her infatuation with Ambrose Young. And maybe that was his problem . . . because Fern really hadn't outgrown anything. But Rita was a mother now, tied to Becker in a way that was permanent and final. Still, old feelings had a way of resurfacing just when you thought they were gone forever.
“’Til death do us part,” Rita promised, her face lovely in its sincerity.
When Becker kissed her smiling lips, sealing the deal, Bailey closed his eyes, and Fern reached for his hand.
It only took about three months before Rita drifted out of sight. The occasions she was seen in public with her husband, she kept her eyes carefully averted and other times wore sunglasses even when it was raining. Fern called regularly and even stopped by Rita's duplex a few times. But her visits seemed to make Rita nervous. Once Fern swore she saw Rita pull into her garage just before Fern arrived, yet Rita didn't answer the door when she knocked.
Things improved slightly when Becker got a job where he traveled for several days at a time. Rita even called and took Fern to lunch on her birthday. They ate enchiladas at Luisa's Cocina, and Rita smiled brightly and reassured Fern that everything was just fine when Fern asked gently if she was okay. According to Rita, everything was just wonderful--perfect. But Fern didn't believe her.
Fern didn't tell Bailey about her fears for Rita. She didn't want to upset him, and what could he do? Fern saw Becker every once in a while at the store, and though he was polite and always greeted her with a smile, Fern didn't like him. And he seemed to know it. He was always perfectly groomed, every dark hair in place, his handsome face clean-shaven, his clothes crisp and stylish. But it was all packaging. And Fern was reminded of the analogy of the grease her father had shared with Elliott Young once upon a time. Fern couldn't have been more than fourteen, but the lesson had stuck.
Elliott Young looked nothing like his son. He was short, maybe 5'8 at the most. His blond hair had thinned until he'd finally shaved it off. His eyes were a soft blue, his nose a little flat, his smile always at the ready. Today he wasn't smiling, and his eyes were heavily ringed, like he hadn't slept well in a long time.
“Hi, Mr. Young,” Fern said, a question in her voice.
“Hi, Fern. Is your dad home?” Elliott didn't make a move to enter even though Fern held the screen door wide in welcome.