Making Faces(40)

Ambrose tried not to smile. Really he did. But Bailey was wearing a headlamp on his head, a giant one, with thick elastic bands that wrapped around his head like one of those old-fashioned retainers. It was the kind of headlamp he imagined miners would wear as they tunneled into the earth. It was so bright Ambrose winced, covering his good eye and turning away.

“What the hell are you wearing, Sheen?”

Fern's head whipped around, obviously surprised that he had ventured out from the confines of the bakery.

Bailey wheeled past Fern and kept rolling toward Ambrose. Bailey didn't act surprised to see him there, and though his eyes were locked on Ambrose's face, he didn't react at all to the changes in Ambrose's appearance. Instead, he rolled his eyes and wrinkled his brow, trying to look up at the klieg light strapped to his forehead.

“Help me out, man. My mom makes me wear this damn thing whenever I'm out at night. She's convinced I'm going to get run over. I can't take it off by myself.”

Ambrose reached out, still grimacing at the blazing bluish-white light. He pulled the lamp from Bailey's head and snapped the light off. Bailey's hair stood up on end, and Fern smoothed it down absentmindedly as she walked up behind him. It was a touching gesture, maternal even. She patted Bailey's hair into place as if she had done it a thousand times before, and Ambrose realized suddenly that she probably had. Fern and Bailey had been friends for as long as he could remember. Obviously, Fern had become accustomed to doing things for Bailey that he couldn't do for himself, without him asking or even realizing what she was doing.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Bailey, surprised that Bailey was roaming the streets in his wheelchair at eleven o'clock.

“Karaoke, baby.”

“Karaoke?”

“Yep. Haven't done it in a while, and we've been getting complaints from the produce section. Seems the carrots have formed a Bailey Sheen fan club. Tonight is for the fans. Fern's got quite a following in the frozen foods.”

“Karaoke . . . here?” Ambrose didn't even crack a smile . . . but he wanted to.

“Yep. Closing time means we have free rein of the place. We take over the store’s sound system, use the intercom for a microphone, plug in our CDs, and rock Jolley's Supermarket. It's awesome. You should join us. I should warn you, though, I'm amazing, and I'm also a mic hog.”

Fern giggled, but looked at Ambrose hopefully. Oh, hell, no. He wasn't singing Karaoke. Not even to please Fern Taylor, which he actually wanted to do, surprisingly enough.

Ambrose stammered something about cakes in the oven and made a hasty beeline for the kitchen. It was only a few minutes before the store was filled with karaoke tracks and Bailey was doing a very poor Neil Diamond impression. Ambrose listened as he worked. He really had no choice. It was loud, and Bailey was definitely a mic hog. Fern only jumped in occasionally, sounding like a kindergarten teacher trying to be a pop star, her sweet voice completely at odds with the songs she chose. When she broke into Madonna's “Like a Virgin” he found himself laughing out loud, and stopped abruptly, surprised at the way the laughter felt rumbling in his chest and spilling out his mouth. He thought back, his mind racing over the last year, since the day his life had been thrown into a black hole. He didn't think he had laughed. Not once in an entire year. No wonder it felt like engaging the gears on a fifty-year-old truck.

They sang a duet next. And it was a stunner. “Summer Nights” from Grease. Wella wella wella oomph poured from the speakers and the Pink Ladies begged to be told more as Bailey and Fern sang their lines with gusto, Bailey growling on all the suggestive parts and Fern snickering and flubbing her words, making up new ones as she went along. Ambrose laughed through the next hour, enjoying himself thoroughly, wondering whether Bailey and Fern had ever considered doing comic relief. They were hysterical. He had just finished rolling out a batch of cinnamon rolls when he heard his name echoing throughout the store.

“Ambrose Young? I know you can sing. How about you come out here and quit pretending we can't see you back there, spying on us. We can, you know. You aren't as sneaky as you think. I know you want to sing this next song. Wait! It's the Righteous Brothers! You have to sing this one. I won't be able to do it justice. Come on. Fern's been dying to hear you sing again ever since senior year when we heard you nail “The National Anthem” at that pep rally.”

“Had she really?” Ambrose thought, rather pleased.

“AAAAAMMMMMBRRRROOOOSE YOUUUNG!” Bailey thundered, obviously enjoying the intercom way too much. Ambrose ignored him. He was not going to sing. Bailey called him several more times, changing his tactics until finally the lure of the karaoke track distracted him. Ambrose continued working as Bailey informed him that he'd lost that loving feeling.

Yeah. He had. A year ago in Iraq. That loving feeling had been completely decimated.





Rita's left eye was swollen shut and her lip was puffy and split down the middle. Fern sat by her side and held the ice to her face, wondering how many other times Rita had looked this way and hid it from her friends.

“I called the cops. Becker's Uncle Barry showed up and took Becker in, but I don't think they're going to charge him,” Rita said dully. At that moment she looked like she was forty years old. Her long, blonde hair lay limp on her shoulders and the fatigue in her face created shadows and valleys that wouldn't otherwise be there.