Making Faces(63)

“I see a cloud that looks like Mr. Hildy!” Bailey laughed. He couldn't point so Fern and Ambrose studied frantically, trying to catch the face before it dissolved into something else.

“Hmmm. I see Homer Simpson,” Fern murmured.

“More like Bart . . . or maybe Marge,” Ambrose said.

“It's funny how we all see something different,” Fern said.

They all stared as the image because softer, less defined, and floated away. Ambrose was reminded of another time he’d floated on his back, staring at the sky.





“Why do you think Saddam had his face plastered all over the city? Everywhere you look you see his ugly mug. Statues, posters, banners every-freakin'-where!” Paulie said.

“Cause he's 'Suh damn' good-looking,” Ambrose said dryly.

“It's intimidation and mind control.” Grant, ever the scholar, filled in the answer. “He wanted to make himself seem God-like so that he could more easily control the population. You think these people fear God or Saddam more?”

“You mean Allah,” Paulie corrected mildly.

“Right. Allah. Saddam wanted the people to think he and Allah were one in the same,” Grant said.

“What do you think Saddam would think if he saw us swimming in his pool right now? And I must say, it’s ‘Suh damn’ fine pool,” Jesse stood in the chest deep water, arms spread on the surface of the water, staring at the ornate fountain that rimmed the far side of the pool.

“He wouldn't mind. He's 'Suh damn' generous he would invite us to come back whenever we want,” Ambrose said. The “Suh damn” jokes had been going on for days.

Their whole unit was splashing around in the huge outdoor pool located at the Republican Palace, now in U.S. hands. It was a rare treat to be this wet and this comfortable, and the boys from Pennsylvania couldn't have been happier if they were actually back home in their very own Hannah Lake, lined with trees and rocks instead of ornate fountains, palm trees and domed buildings.

“I think Saddam would demand we kiss his rings and then he would cut off our tongues,” Beans joined in.

“I don't know, Beans, with you that might be an improvement,” Jesse said. Beans launched himself at his friend and a round of water wrestling ensued. Ambrose, Paulie, and Grant laughed and egged them on, but they were all too grateful for the wet reprieve to waste it by joining in on the horseplay. Instead they floated, staring up at the sky that didn't look all that different than the sky over Hannah Lake.

“I've seen Saddam's face so much I can see it when I close my eyes, like it's burned on my retinas,” Paulie complained.

“Just be glad Coach Sheen didn't use the same methods of intimidation during wrestling season. Can you imagine? Coach Sheen's face everywhere we looked, eyes blazing at us.” Grant laughed.

“It's weird, when I try to really picture his face, or anyone's face, I can't. I try to pull in the details, you know, and . . . I can't. It hasn't been that long. We've only been gone since March,” Ambrose said, shaking his head at the unreality of it all.

“The longest months of my life.” Paulie sighed.

“You can't picture Rita's face . . . but I bet you can picture her naked, right?” Beans had stopped wrestling over Jesse's comment about his tongue, and he was wielding it offensively once more.

“I never saw Rita naked,” Ambrose said, not caring if his friends believed him or not.

“Whatever!” Jesse said in disbelief.

“I didn't. We only went out for about a month.”

“That's plenty of time!” Beans said.

“Does anyone else smell bacon?” Paulie sniffed the air, reminding Beans that he was being a pig again. Beans splashed water in his face, but didn't attack. The mention of bacon had everyone's stomachs growling.

With one last look at the sky, the five climbed out of the stately pool and dripped their way to their piled fatigues. There were no clouds in the sky, no faces to reconstruct in white film, nothing to fill the holes in Ambrose's memory. Unbidden, a face rose in his mind. Fern Taylor, her chin tipped up, her eyes closed, wet eyelashes thick on her freckled cheeks. Her soft pink mouth, bruised and trembling. The way she'd looked after he'd kissed her.





“Have you ever stared at a painting so long that the colors blur and you can't tell what you're looking at anymore? There's no form, face, or shape–just color, just swirls of paint?” Fern spoke again, and Ambrose let his eyes rest on the face that had once filled his memory in a faraway place, a place that most days he would rather forget.

Bailey and Ambrose were silent, finding new faces in the clouds.

“I think people are like that. When you really look at them, you stop seeing a perfect nose or straight teeth. You stop seeing the acne scar or the dimple in the chin. Those things start to blur, and suddenly you see them, the colors, the life inside the shell, and beauty takes on a whole new meaning.” Fern didn't look away from the sky as she talked, and Ambrose let his eyes linger on her profile. She wasn't talking about him. She was just being thoughtful, pondering life's ironies. She was just being Fern.

“It works both ways, though,” Bailey contributed his two cents. “Ugly is as ugly does. Becker's not ugly because of the way he looks. Just like I'm not devastatingly handsome because of the way I look.”