Making Faces(32)

“Yeah. They write letters back and forth for a year or more. Then at the ceremony, she signs her name along with a promise that she'll always wear her burka in front of other men. He recognizes her handwriting and that’s how he knows it’s her beneath her veil.”

Grant was scowling. “I've never heard anything like that. Handwriting?”

Jesse had caught on and was trying not to laugh. “Yeah. Just think, if Ambrose and Fern had lived in Iraq, he never woulda figured out that it was Fern writing him those letters instead of Rita. Fern could have roped him into marriage. Ambrose would have seen her handwriting at the wedding and said, 'yep, it's Rita, all right!'“

Ambrose's friends howled with laughter, even Paulie, who had finally figured out that it was just a set-up to rib Ambrose about Fern. Again.

Ambrose sighed, his lips twitching. It was pretty funny. Beans was laughing so hard he was wheezing, and he and Jesse were making each other laugh even harder as they reenacted the moment the burka was removed and Fern stood beneath it instead of the buxom blonde, Rita.

Ambrose wondered what his friends would think if they knew he'd kissed Fern. Really kissed her. Knowing full well who he was kissing. No need of subterfuge. Or burkas. He wondered absentmindedly if the burka was such a bad idea. Maybe more guys would make better decisions if they weren't distracted by the packaging. For that matter, maybe guys should wear them too. 'Course, his packaging had always worked in his favor.

He pondered whether Fern would have even wanted him if he was packaged differently. He knew Rita wouldn't have. Not because she wasn't a nice enough girl, but because they had nothing in common. Take away the mutual physical attraction, and they had nothing.

With Fern, there was a possibility of a lot more. At least, the letters made him think there could be more. The tour was up in two months. He decided when he got home he would find out. And his friends would never let him hear the end of it. They would torment him for the rest of his life. He sighed and checked his weapon for the umpteenth time, wishing the day would end.





It was just a routine patrol--five army vehicles taking a turn around the southern part of the city. Ambrose was at the wheel of the last Humvee, Paulie in the passenger seat beside him. Grant was driving the vehicle in front of Ambrose, Jesse riding shotgun, Beans in the turret--the last two vehicles in the small convoy of five.

Just out for a routine patrol. Out for an hour, back to base. Up and down the crumbling, embattled streets of Baghdad along the assigned route. Paulie was singing the song he'd made up about Oz. “Iraq may not have munchkins, but it sure as hell has sand. I haven't got my girlfriend, but I've still got my hand . . .”

Suddenly, a group of kids were running along the side of the road, shrieking and running their fingers across their throats. Little boys and girls of various ages, shoeless, limbs slim and brown, clothing leached of color in the simmering heat. Running, yelling. At least six of them.

“What are they doing?” Ambrose grunted, confused. “Are they doing what I think they're doing? Do you think they hate us that much? They want our throats slashed? They're just kids!”

“I don't think that's what they're doing.” Paulie turned, watching the kids fall back as the convoy passed. “I think they were warning us.” He had stopped singing, and his face was still, contemplative.

Ambrose checked his rearview mirror. The kids had stopped running and stood in the road unmoving. They grew smaller as the convoy continued down the road, but they remained in the street, watching. Ambrose turned his attention back to the road in front of them. Except for the convoy, it was completely empty, abandoned. Not a single soul in sight. They would turn the corner on the next street, circle around the block, and head back to base.

“Brosey . . . do you feel that?”

Paul's face was tipped as if he was hearing something in the distance, something Ambrose couldn't hear, something he definitely couldn't feel. It reminded Ambrose of the way Paulie had looked when they made their clandestine visit to the memorial of Flight 93, when he'd asked the very same question. It had been almost too still that night at the memorial, as if the world had bowed its head for a moment of silence and never lifted it up again. It was too still now. The hair rose on Ambrose's neck.

And then Hell shoved a gnarled hand up through the hard packed road and unleashed fire and flying shards of metal beneath the wheels of the Humvee in front of Ambrose and Paulie, the Humvee that carried Grant, Jesse and Beans--three boys, three friends, three soldiers from Hannah Lake, Pennsylvania. And that was the last thing Ambrose Young remembered, the very last piece of Before.





When the phone rang early Monday morning, the Taylor family looked at each other with bleary eyes. Fern had stayed up all night writing and was looking forward to crawling back into bed after she ate her Cheerios. Joshua and Rachel had plans to head to Loch Haven College for a symposium for the next couple of days and wanted to get an early start. Fern couldn't wait to have the house to herself for a few days.

“It's only six-thirty! I wonder who that is?” Rachel said, puzzled.

As the local pastor, calls at odd hours weren't unusual–but the odd hours tended to be from midnight to three am. People were usually too tired at six-thirty in the morning to get in trouble or bother their pastor.

Fern jumped up and grabbed the receiver and chirped a cheerful hello, her curiosity getting the best of her.