Making Faces(84)

The first thing he saw was Fern's bike, laying on its side, the front wheel pointing into the air, the pedals holding the front half up in a slight tilt, freeing the big wheel to spin slightly in the wind. Like Cosmo's bike. Smiling Cosmo, who wanted his family to be safe and his country to be delivered from terror. Cosmo, who died at the hands of evil men.

“Fern!” Ambrose roared in terror. And then he saw them, maybe 100 yards away, Fern struggling with someone who held his arm around her throat and was dragging her across the field behind the store. Ambrose ran, sprinting across the uneven ground, his feet barely touching the earth, rage pouring through his veins. He closed the gap in seconds, and as Becker saw him coming he yanked Fern up against him, shielding himself. In a hand that shook like someone who was strung out and beyond reason, he held a knife out toward Ambrose as Ambrose hurtled toward him, closing in fast.

“She's coming with me, Ambrose!” he shrieked. “She's taking me to Rita!”

Ambrose didn't slow, didn't let his eyes rest on Fern. Becker Garth was done. He'd killed Bailey Sheen, left him lying in a ditch, knowing full well he couldn't save himself. He'd abused his wife, terrorized her and his child, and now he held the girl Ambrose loved like a rag doll, shielding himself from the wrath wrapped in vengeance that was coming for him.

Becker cursed viciously, realizing that his knife wasn’t going to prevent a collision with Ambrose. He dropped Fern, releasing her so he could escape, and screamed as he turned to run. Fern screamed as well, her fear for Ambrose evident in the way she staggered back to her feet and spread her arms as if to stop him from hurling himself into Becker's knife.

Becker had staggered only a few steps before Ambrose was on him, knocking him to the ground the way Becker had knocked his wife to the ground. Becker's head collided with the dirt the way Rita's head had collided with her kitchen floor. Then Ambrose let loose, fists flying, pummeling Becker like he'd done in ninth grade when Becker Garth had terrorized Bailey Sheen in the men's locker room at school.

“Ambrose!” Fern cried from somewhere behind him, anchoring him to her and to the present, slowing his fists and calming his rage-fueled barrage. Standing, he grabbed Becker's long hair, the hair that looked like Ambrose's old locks. And he dragged him, the way Becker had dragged Fern, back to where Fern was swaying on her feet, trying not to collapse. He released Becker and pulled Fern into his arms. Becker fell in a heap.

“Don't let him get away. We can't let him find Rita,” Fern cried, shaking her head and clinging to him. But Becker wasn't going anywhere. Ambrose swept Fern up in his arms and carried her back to the store where her bike still lay, its front wheel still spinning gently, impervious to the drama that had played out nearby.

Fern's face was bloody along her throat and blood oozed from an abrasion along her cheekbone. Her right eye was already swollen shut. Ambrose sat her gently against the building, promising her he would be right back. He grabbed the wiry bike lock that dangled from the downspout, and digging out his phone, he called 911. While he calmly told the 911 dispatcher what had transpired, he hog-tied Becker Garth with Fern's bike lock in case he regained consciousness before the cops arrived. Ambrose hoped he did. He hoped Becker woke up soon. He wanted him to know how it felt to be trapped on his back in the dark, unable to move, knowing he couldn't save himself. The way Bailey must have felt in ninth grade in a black locker room, lying in his toppled chair, waiting for rescue. The way Bailey must have felt, face down in a ditch knowing his attempts to help his friend would cost him his life.

Then Ambrose walked back to Fern, fell to his knees beside her, and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her gently, humbly. And he whispered his thanks into her hair as his body began to shake.

“Thank you, Paulie.”





Prom, 2002





Fern fiddled with her neckline for the hundredth time since arriving and smoothed her skirt as if it had suddenly become wrinkled since she’d smoothed it four seconds ago.

“Do I have lipstick on my teeth, Bailey?” she hissed at her cousin, grimacing in a parody of a smile so he could see the two white rows of perfect, straight teeth she had suffered three long years in braces for.

Bailey sighed and shook his head no. “You're fine, Fern. You look great. Just relax.”

Fern took a deep breath and immediately started nervously biting the lip she had just covered in a new coat of coral red lipstick.

“Crap! Now I know I have lipstick on my teeth!” she wailed in a voice pitched for his ears alone.

“I'll be right back, okay? I'm just going to go to the girl’s room a second. Will you be okay without me?”

Bailey raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Are you kidding me, woman?”

Fern hadn't been gone for five seconds before Bailey was shooting across the dance floor toward the circle of wrestlers he had been wanting to talk to since arriving at the Prom with Fern.

Ambrose, Paulie, and Grant had come without dates. Bailey didn't know why. If he had a chance to ask a girl to Prom, hold her in his arms, smell her hair, and stand on his own two legs and dance, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass him by.

Beans and Jesse were there with girls, but their dates were huddled a little way off in a serious discussion about shoes, hair, and dresses–their own and everyone else's.