Making Faces(52)

Dan Gable, the cat, rubbed himself against Ambrose's leg but abandoned him immediately when Bailey patted his knees with the tips of his fingers. The cat jumped up on Bailey's lap and was rewarded with stroking and praise.

“Animals are supposed to be good therapy. Actually, I was supposed to get a puppy. You know, man's best friend, a dog to love only me, the kid who couldn't walk. Cue the violins. But Mom said no. She sat down at the kitchen table and cried when I asked her.”

“Why?” Ambrose asked, surprised. Angie Sheen was a damn good mom, as far as he could tell. It seemed a little out of character for her to refuse a dog to the kid who couldn't walk, who needed a loyal companion . . . cue the soft lighting and the farmhouse on Christmas morning.

“Do you know that I can't wipe my own ass?” Bailey said, looking Ambrose straight in the eye. He wasn't smiling.

“Um. Okay,” Ambrose said uncomfortably.

“Do you know that if I lean down too far to get something, I can't sit back up? I got caught once for a half hour just hanging limp over my knees until my mom came back from running errands and sat me back up again.”

Ambrose was silent.

“Do you know that my 120 pound mother can pick me up under the arms and move me into the chair in my shower? She washes me, dresses me, brushes my teeth, combs my hair. All of it. At night, she and my dad take shifts coming in and turning me throughout the night because I can't roll over, and I get sore if I lay in one spot. They've done that since I was about fourteen, night after night.”

Ambrose felt a lump forming in his throat, but Bailey carried on.

“So when I said I wanted a puppy, I think something kind of broke in her. She just couldn't take care of anyone else. So we compromised. Cats are low maintenance, you know? There's cat food and a litter box in the garage. Most the time Fern is the one who feeds Dan Gable and changes his litter. I think she made a deal with my mom when we got the kittens, though I can't pin either one of them down on it.”

“Shit.” Ambrose ran his hands over his bald head, agitated and distraught. He didn't know what to say.

“When are you going to start wrestling again, Brosey?” Bailey used the name the guys had called him. Ambrose had a feeling he did it on purpose. “I want to see you wrestle again. Having a cat named Dan Gable just doesn't cut it.” Dan Gable meowed and hopped off Bailey's lap as if he didn’t appreciate Bailey’s comments.

“And just like that, he abandons the cripple.” Bailey sighed tragically.

“I can't hear or see on my right side, Bailey. I can't see anyone coming! Hell, my legs would be tied up so fast I wouldn't know what hit me. Add to that, my balance sucks. The hearing loss has thrown it all out of whack, and I would really rather not have an entire arena of people looking at me.”

“So you're just going to make cupcakes?”

Ambrose glared at Bailey, and Bailey grinned back.

“How much can you bench, Brosey?”

“Will you quit calling me that?”

Bailey looked genuinely confused. “Why?”

“Because it . . . it . . . just . . . call me Ambrose.”

“So 400, 500 pounds? How much?”

Ambrose was glaring again.

“You can't tell me you haven't been lifting,” Bailey said. “I can tell. You may have a naturally good physique, but you're shredded. You've got serious size and you're hardened down.”

This coming from a kid who'd never lifted a weight in his life, Ambrose thought, shaking his head and pushing another tray of cupcakes into the oven. Yeah, cupcakes.

“So what's the point? I mean, you've got this amazing body–big, strong. You just going to keep it to yourself? You gotta share it with the world, man.”

“If I didn't know better, I would think you were hitting on me,” Ambrose said.

“Do you stand naked in front of the mirror and flex every night? I mean, really, at least go into the adult film industry. At least it won't go completely to waste.”

“There you go again . . . talking about things you know nothing about,” Ambrose said. “Fern reads romance novels and you are suddenly Hugh Hefner. I don't think either of you has room to lecture me about anything.”

“Fern's been lecturing?” Bailey sounded surprised and not at all offended that Ambrose had basically told him he didn't know jack crap because he was in a wheelchair.

“Fern's been leaving inspirational quotes,” Ambrose said.

“Ahhh. That sounds more like Fern. Like what? Just Believe? Dream big? Marry me?”

Ambrose choked and then found himself laughing, in spite of everything.

“Come on, Bros–Ambrose,” Bailey amended, his tone conciliatory, his face serious. “Don't you even think about it? Coming back? My dad unlocks the wrestling room for open use in the summer. He would work with you. Hell, he'd wet himself if you told him you wanted to drill some shots. You think all this hasn't been hard on him? He loved you guys! When he heard the news . . . Jesse, Beans, Grant . . . Paulie. They were his too. They weren't just yours, man. They were his boys. He loved them too! I loved them too,” Bailey said, vehemence making his voice shake. “Did you ever think about that? You aren't the only one who lost them.”