Making Faces(82)

“Fern? We can go. We don't have to do this now,” Ambrose offered.

“It hurts to be here. But it hurts not to be here too.” She shrugged and blinked rapidly. “I'm okay.” She wiped at her cheeks and pointed to the book in his hands. “Why did he want you to have that book?”

Ambrose flipped through the pages of the book, not pausing for the mighty Zeus or the big-breasted nymphs. With the book heavy in his hands and the memory heavy in his heart, he kept turning until he found the section and the picture he'd thought of many times since that day.

The Face of a Hero. Ambrose understood it so much better now. The sorrow on the bronze face, the hand on a breaking heart. Guilt was a heavy burden, even for a mythological champion.

“Hercules,” Ambrose said, knowing that Fern would understand.

He raised the book so Fern could see the pages he perused. When he held it upright, turning it so she could see, the thick pages fell forward, fanning out before he could smooth them back, and a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the ground.

Fern leaned down to retrieve it, sliding it open to ascertain its importance. Her eyes moved back and forth and her lips moved as she read the words printed on the page.

“It's his list,” she whispered, her voice colored with surprise.

“What list?”

“The date says July 22, 1994.”

“Eleven years ago.” Ambrose said.

“We were ten. Bailey's last summer,” Fern remembered.

“His last summer?”

“Before he was in a wheelchair. Everything happened that summer. Bailey's disease became very real.”

“So what does it say?” Ambrose crossed to Fern and sat beside her, looking at the sheet of lined paper with the fringe still attached, where Bailey had ripped it from a notebook. The handwriting was juvenile, the items listed in a long column with details listed out to the side.

“Kiss Rita? Get married?” Ambrose chortled. “Even at ten, Bailey was in love.”

“Always. From day one.” Fern giggled. “Eat pancakes every day, Invent a time machine, Tame a lion, Make friends with a monster. You can tell he's ten, huh?

Ambrose chuckled too, his eyes skimming the dreams and desires of a ten-year-old Bailey. “Beat up a bully, Be a superhero or a super star, Ride in a police car, Get a tattoo. Typical boy.”

“Live. Have courage. Be a good friend. Always be grateful. Take care of Fern,” Fern whispered.

“Maybe not so typical,” Ambrose said, his own throat closing with emotion. They were quiet for several long moments, their hands entwined, the page growing blurry as they fought the moisture in their eyes.

“He did so many of these things, Ambrose,” Fern choked out. “Maybe not in the typical way, but he did them . . . or helped someone else do them.” Fern handed Ambrose the page. “Here. It belongs in your book. Number four says Meet Hercules.” Fern pointed at the list. “To him, you were Hercules.”

Ambrose pressed the precious document back between the pages of the Hercules chapter, and one word leaped from the page. Wrestle. Bailey hadn't clarified the word, hadn't added anything to it. He'd just written it on the line and moved to the next thing on his bucket list. Ambrose closed the book on the pages of long ago dreams and ancient champions.

Hercules had tried to make amends, to balance the scales, to atone for the murder of his wife and three children, the four lives he had taken. And though some would say he was not to blame, that it was temporary madness sent by a jealous goddess, he was still responsible. For a time, Hercules had even held the weight of the heavens on his shoulders, convincing Atlas to surrender the weight of the world to his willing back.

But Ambrose wasn't a god with super-human strength and this wasn't ancient mythology. And some days, Ambrose feared he more closely resembled a monster than a hero. The four lives he felt responsible for were lost, and no amount of labor or penance would bring them back. But he could live. And he could wrestle, and if there was a place beyond this life where young men lived on and heroes like Bailey walked again, when the whistle blew and the mat was slapped, they would smile and know he wrestled for them.





Fern returned to work a few days after Bailey's funeral. Mr. Morgan had covered for her for almost a week and he needed her to come back. It was easier than staying home and moping, and Ambrose would be there at the end of her shift. By ten o'clock Fern was exhausted. Ambrose took one look at her and told her to go home. Which prompted tears and insecurity from Fern, which prompted kisses and reassurances from Ambrose, which led to passion and frustration, which led to Ambrose telling her to go home. And the cycle repeated.

“Fern. I am not going to make love to you on the bakery floor, baby. And that's what's going to happen if you don't get your cute butt out of here. Go!”

Ambrose dropped a kiss on her freckled nose and pushed her away from him. “Go.”

Fern was still thinking about sweaty sex on the bakery floor when she walked out of the employee entrance at the back of the store. She almost couldn't stand to leave him. Being apart had become torture. Soon Ambrose would be leaving for school. And with Bailey gone and Ambrose far away, Fern didn't know what she was going to do with herself.

The thought caused a flood of emotion that had her turning back toward the employee entrance, eager to return to his side. She wondered what Ambrose would do if she followed him. She could register for school and get a student loan. She could live in the dorms and take a couple of classes and write in the evenings and follow him around like a puppy, the way she'd done her whole life.