Making Faces(47)

“Ambrose Young. That you?”

Ambrose turned reluctantly.

“It is you! Well, I'll be damned. How ya doin' lad?” It was Seamus O'Toole, Beans's dad.

“Mr. O'Toole.” Ambrose nodded stiffly, extending the hand that wasn't pumping gas.

Seamus O'Toole clasped his hand and his eyes roamed over Ambrose's face, wincing slightly at what he saw. After all, Ambrose's face was also a casualty of the bomb that took his son. His lips trembled and he released Ambrose's hand. Turning, he leaned into his vehicle and spoke to the woman sitting in the passenger seat. The nozzle snapped, indicating the tank was full, and Ambrose wished he could turn and make a break for it while Seamus's back was turned.

Luisa O'Toole stepped out into the rain and walked over to Ambrose, who had replaced the nozzle and was waiting with his hands shoved in his pockets. She was a tiny woman, smaller than Fern by a couple of inches, maybe five feet at the most. Beans got his height, or lack of it, from her. He was there in her fine features, as well, and Ambrose felt nausea roil in his belly. He should have just stayed home. Luisa O'Toole was as fiery as her husband was meek. Beans said his mom was the reason his dad drank himself into a better mood every night. It was the only way to deal with her.

Luisa walked past the pump and stopped in front of Ambrose, lifting her face to the rain so she could gaze up at him. She didn't speak and neither did Ambrose. Fern and Seamus looked on, not knowing what to say or do.

“I blame you,” Luisa said finally, her accented English broken and bleak. “I blame you for this. I tell him no go. He go. For you. Now he dead.”

Seamus sputtered and apologized, taking his wife by the arm. But she shook him off and turned toward the truck, not looking back at Ambrose as she climbed in and shut the door firmly behind her.

“She's just sad, lad. She just misses him. She doesn't mean it,” Seamus offered gently. But they both knew he lied. He patted Ambrose's hand and tipped his head to Fern. Then he returned to his truck and drove away without filling his tank.

Ambrose stood frozen in place, his T-shirt soaked through, his black knit cap plastered against his head. He pulled it off and threw it, sending it flying across the parking lot, a soggy, pathetic substitute for the things he wanted to do, for the rage he needed to expend. He turned and started walking, away from Fern, away from the terrible scene that had just transpired.

Fern ran after him, slipping and sliding, calling for him to wait. But he walked, ignoring her, needing to escape. He knew she wouldn't follow. Bailey was sitting in the van at the pumps, unable to get home on his own.





Ambrose had been walking for about half an hour, walking toward home with his back to the rain letting it trickle down the back of his shirt and soak his jeans. His feet squished in his boots with each step. He wished he hadn't chucked his hat. The occasional streetlight shone down on his smooth head, and he felt exposed and vulnerable, unable to cover himself. His bald head bothered him almost more than his face, made him feel more like a freak than the ridges and scars, so when car lights drew up behind him and slowed to a crawl, he ignored them, hoping his appearance would scare them off and make them think twice about messing with him, or worse, offering him a ride.

“Ambrose!” It was Fern, and she sounded scared and upset. “Ambrose? I took Bailey home. Please get in. I'll take you wherever you want to go . . . okay?”

She'd obviously switched cars after she took Bailey home. She was driving an old sedan that belonged to her father. Ambrose had seen that car parked at the church for as long as he could remember.

“Ambrose? I'm not leaving you. I will follow you all night if I have to!”

Ambrose sighed and looked at her. She was leaning across the seat so she could peer out the passenger side window as she inched along beside him. Her face was pale and she had mascara under her eyes. Her hair was plastered against her head and her shirt still stuck to her pretty breasts. She hadn't even taken a second to change her wet clothes before she'd come after him.

Something in his face must have told her she'd won, because she slowed to a stop and hit the door locks as he reached for the handle. The warmth that blasted from the heaters felt like an electric blanket against his skin and he shivered involuntarily. Fern reached over and rubbed his arms briskly as if he was Bailey and she had rescued him from a blizzard and wasn't soaking wet herself. She shoved the car into park and leaned over the seat, reaching for something in the back.

“Here. Wrap this around yourself!” she said, dropping a towel in his lap. “I grabbed it when I switched cars.”

“Fern. Stop. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine! She should never have said those things to you! I hate her! I am going to throw rocks at her house and break all her windows!” Fern's voice broke, and he could see she was close to tears.

“She lost her son, Fern,” Ambrose said softly. His own anger dissipated as he spoke the simple truth. He took the towel from Fern's hands and used it on her hair, wrapping and squeezing, absorbing the moisture, the way he used to do on his own. She stilled, obviously not used to a man’s hands in her hair. He continued his ministrations, and she sat quietly, her head lolling to the side, letting him.

“I haven't seen any of them. Not Grant's family. Not Jesse's. I haven't seen Marley or Jesse’s little boy. Paulie's mom sent me a basket of stuff when I was in the hospital. But my jaw was wired shut and I gave most of it away. She sent a card too. Told me to get well. She's like Paulie, I think. Sweet. Forgiving. But I haven't seen her since I've been back either, even though she works the front counter at the bakery. Tonight was the first time I've had any contact with any of the families. It went about like I expected. And frankly, it was what I deserved.”