Making Faces(69)

Bailey had chosen to get a tattoo high on his right shoulder where it wouldn't rub against the back of his chair. He chose the words “Victory is in the Battle,” the words from the bench at the memorial, the words his dad had repeated hundreds of time, the words that were a testament to Bailey's own life and a tribute to the sport he loved.

And then Ambrose made his own request, surprising Fern and Bailey, peeling off his shirt and telling the tattooed man what he wanted done. It didn't take long. It wasn’t a complicated design that required a great deal of skill or a mix of colors. He wrote out what he wanted, neatly, checking that the spelling was right and handed it to the artist. He chose a font, the letters were stenciled on his skin, and then, without fanfare, the artist began the process.

Fern watched in fascination as, one after another, the names of Ambrose's fallen friends were inked across the left side his chest. Paulie, Grant, Jesse, Beans, one beside the other, neat block letters in a solemn row. When it was finished, Fern traced the names with the tip of her finger, careful not to touch the tender skin. Ambrose shuddered. Her hands felt like balm on a wound, welcome and painful at the same time.

They paid, thanked the tattoo artist and were heading for home when Bailey asked quietly, “Does it make you feel closer to them?”

Ambrose looked out the window at the landscape streaming by–trees and sky and homes as familiar to him as his own face . . . or the face he used to see when he looked in the mirror.

“My face is messed up.” His eyes met Bailey's in the rearview mirror, and he reached up and traced the longest scar, the one that ran from his hairline to his mouth. “I didn't get to choose these scars. My face is a reminder every day of their deaths. I guess I just wanted something that reminded me of their lives. It was something Jesse did first. I've been wanting to do it for a while.”

“That's nice, Brosey. That's really nice.” Bailey smiled wistfully. “I think that's the worst part. The thought that no one will remember me when I'm gone. Sure, my parents will. Fern will. But how does someone like me live on? When it's all said and done, did I matter?”

The silence in the old blue van was thick with empty platitudes and meaningless reassurances that begged to be uttered, but Fern loved Bailey too much to pat him on the head when he needed something more.

“I'll add you to my list,” Ambrose promised suddenly, his eyes holding Bailey's in the mirror. “When the time comes, I'll write your name across my heart with the others.”

Bailey's eyes swam and he blinked rapidly and for several minutes he didn't speak. Fern looked at Ambrose with such love and devotion in her face that he would have offered to write an entire epitaph across his back.

“Thank you, Brosey,” Bailey whispered. And Ambrose started to hum.





“Sing it again, please?” Fern begged, tracing the longest scar on his right cheek, and he let her, not even minding the reminder that it was there. When she touched his face he felt her affection and her fingertips soothed him.

“You like it when I sing?” he said sleepily, knowing he didn't have much longer before he would have to drag himself into work. Fern had the day off, but he didn't. The trip to the tattoo parlor had taken all afternoon and when evening fell, he and Fern had said goodbye to Bailey but had struggled to say goodbye to each other. They’d ended up watching the summertime sun set from the trampoline in Fern's back yard. Now it was dark and quiet, and the heat had tiptoed away with the sun, making him drowsy as he sang the lullaby Paulie had taught them in the first months of their tour in Iraq. Jesse's son had just been born, and the tour had stretched out in front of them, endless dust and endless days before they could return home.

“I love it when you sing,” Fern said, shaking him from his reverie. She started to sing the song, pausing when she forgot a word, letting him fill in the blanks until her voice faded away and he finished the song on his own. “I wrote your name across my heart so we could be together, so I could hold you close to me and keep you there forever.” He'd sung it three times already.

When he sang the last note, Fern snuggled into him, as if she too needed a nap, and the trampoline rocked slightly beneath them, rolling her into the valley his big body made, depositing her across his chest. He stroked her hair as her breaths became deeper.

Ambrose wondered wistfully how it would feel to sleep beside her all the time. Maybe then the nights wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe then the darkness that tried to consume him when he was alone would slink away for good, overpowered by her light. He’d spent an hour in a session with his psychologist yesterday. She’d been floored by the “improvements in his mental health.” And it was all due to a little pill called Fern.

He had no doubt that she would agree if he asked her to run away with him. Although they would have to take Bailey. Still. She would marry him in a heartbeat . . . and his heart beat enthusiastically at the idea. Fern had to feel the increase in volume and tempo beneath her cheek.

“Have you heard the joke about the man who had to choose a wife?” Ambrose asked quietly.

Fern shook her head where it lay against him. “No,” she yawned delicately.

“This guy has a chance to marry a girl who is gorgeous or a girl who has a wonderful voice, but isn't much to look at. He thinks about it and decides that he will marry the girl who can sing. After all, her beautiful voice should last a lot longer than a beautiful face, right?”