Two days later, Becker Garth came strolling into Jolley's like his wife wasn't still bruised and his shirt didn't still smell like the slammer. Apparently, his connections on the Hannah Lake police force were coming in handy. He smiled cheekily at Fern as he strutted by her register.
“You're looking pretty today, Fern.” His eyes slid to her chest and back up again. He winked and popped his gum. Fern had always thought Becker was a handsome guy. But the handsome didn't quite cover the scum beneath, and sometimes the scum seeped through and oozed out around the edges. Like it was doing now.
He obviously didn't expect her to respond because he walked on, calling over his shoulder “Rita says you came by. Thanks for the money. I needed some beer.” He held up the twenty-dollar bill Fern had left on the counter for Rita and waved it in the air. Becker sauntered toward the aisle where the alcohol was shelved and disappeared from sight. And Fern saw red. She wasn't a girl prone to anger or rash acts. Until now. She was amazed at the steadiness of her voice as she spoke into the intercom.
“Attention Jolley's shoppers, today at Jolley's Supermarket we have some wonderful specials going on. Bananas are on sale for 39 cents a pound. Juice boxes are ten for a dollar, and our bakery has a dozen sugar cookies for $3.99,” Fern paused and gritted her teeth, finding she was unable to stay quiet. “I would also like to draw your attention to the giant asshole in aisle ten. I promise you have never seen a bigger asshole than this one, shoppers. He regularly hits his wife and tells her she's ugly and fat even though she's the most beautiful girl in town. He also likes to make his baby cry and can't hold down a steady job. Why? You guessed it! Because Becker Garth is a big, ugly, giant butt . . .”
“You bitch!” Becker came roaring down aisle ten, screaming, a twelve pack of beer under his arm and rage in his eyes.
Fern held the phone in front of her, as if the intercom would provide a buffer between her and the man she'd publicly insulted. Patrons were gaping, some laughing at Fern's audacious display, others frowning in confusion. Becker threw down the twelve pack and several punctured cans shot out of the broken box, spraying beer in a wide swath. He ran toward Fern and snatched the phone from her hands, pulling on its curly cord until it sprang free, whipping past Fern's face. She ducked reflexively, certain that Becker was going to swing the phone like a nunchuck, striking everything in its path.
Suddenly, Ambrose was there, grabbing Becker by the arm and the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric in his hands until he lifted Becker completely off his feet, his legs flailing helplessly, his tongue hanging out, strangled by his own T-shirt. Then Ambrose threw him. Just tossed him away, like Becker weighed little more than a child. Becker landed on his hands and feet, twisting like a cat as he fell, and he stood up as if he'd meant to be flung ten feet, pushing his chest out like a rooster among his hens.
“Ambrose Young! You look like shit, man! Better run before the townsfolk mistake you for an ogre and come after you with pitchforks!” Becker spat, smoothing down his T-shirt and prancing like a boxer ready to enter the ring.
Ambrose's head was covered with a red bandana, making him look like a huge pirate, the way he always wore it when he was working in the bakery, away from curious eyes. His apron was still wrapped tightly around his lean torso and his hands were fisted at his sides, his eyes on Becker. Fern wanted to hurl herself over the counter and tackle Becker to the ground, but her brief impetuosity had created this situation, and she didn't want to make it worse–for Ambrose especially.
Fern noticed how the patrons of the store were frozen in place, their eyes glued on Ambrose's face. Fern realized that none of them had probably seen him, not since he'd left for Iraq two and a half years before. There had been rumors, as there always were in small towns with big tragedies. And the rumors had been exaggerated, making Ambrose out to be horrifically wounded, grotesque even, but many of the faces registered surprise and sadness, but not revulsion.
Jamie Kimball, Paul Kimball's mother, stood in line at another register, her face pale and grief-stricken as her eyes clung to Ambrose's scarred cheek. Hadn't she seen Ambrose since he returned? Had none of the parents of the fallen boys gone to visit him? Or maybe he hadn't allowed them entrance. Maybe it was more than any of them could bear.
“You need to leave, Becker,” Ambrose said, his voice a soft rumble in the shocked silence of the grocery store. An instrumental version of “What a Wonderful World” serenaded Jolley's shoppers as if all was well in Hannah Lake when it decidedly was not. Ambrose continued, “If you decide to stay, I'll pound you like I did in ninth grade, and this time I'll blacken both your eyes and you'll lose more than just one tooth. Don't let my ugly mug fool you; there isn't anything wrong with my fists.”
Becker sputtered and turned away, glaring at Fern and pointing at her face, issuing his own warning. “You're a bitch, Fern. Stay away from Rita. You come around my house, and I'll call the cops.” Becker turned his venom back on Fern, ignoring Ambrose, saving face by turning on a weaker opponent, the way he always did.
Ambrose shot forward, grabbing Becker by the shirt once more and propelling him toward the sliding doors at the front of the store. The doors slid open in accommodation, and Ambrose hissed a warning into Becker's ear.
“You call Fern Taylor a bitch again or threaten her in any way, and I will rip your tongue out of your mouth and feed it to that ugly dog you keep chained and hungry in your backyard. The one that barks at me whenever I run by. And if you so much as harm a hair on Fern's head or lift your hand to your wife or child, I will find you and I will hurt you.” Ambrose gave a shove and sent Becker sprawling out onto the crumbling blacktop in front of the store.
Two hours later, when the store was empty, the beer mess cleaned up and the doors locked, Fern made her way to the bakery. The yeasty smell of bread, the warm sweetness of melted butter, and the heavy sugar scent of icing greeted her as she pushed through the swinging door that separated Ambrose from the rest of the world. Ambrose started when he saw her, but continued pounding and kneading the giant mound of dough on a floured surface, positioning himself so that his left side, his beautiful side, was facing her. A radio in the corner spilled out eighties rock and Whitesnake asked “Is This Love?” Fern thought it might be.
The muscles in Ambrose's arms tensed and released, bunching as he rolled the dough into a wide circle and began stamping circles with a giant, eight-section cookie cutter. Fern watched him, his motions smooth and sure, and decided she liked the looks of a man in the kitchen.
“Thank you,” she said at last.
Ambrose looked up briefly and shrugged, grunting something unintelligible.
“Did you really beat him up in ninth grade? He was a senior then.”
Another grunt.
“He's a bad man . . . if you can call him a man. Maybe he's not grown up yet. Maybe that's his problem. Maybe he'll be better when he is. I guess we can hope.”
“He's old enough to know better. Age isn't an excuse. Eighteen-year-old kids are considered old enough to fight for their country. Fight and die for their country. So a twenty-five year old piece of shit like Becker can't hide behind that excuse.”
“Did you do it for Rita?”
“What?” His eyes shot to her face in surprise.
“I mean . . . you used to like her, right? Did you throw him out of the store tonight because of Rita?”
“I did it because it needed to be done,” Ambrose said briefly. At least he wasn't grunting anymore. “And I didn't like him getting in your face.” Ambrose met her eyes briefly again before he turned to pull an enormous tray of sugar cookies from the oven. “Even though you did taunt him . . . just a little bit.”
Was that a grin? It was! Fern smiled in delight. Ambrose's lips quirked on one side, just for a second, before he started the process of rolling the dough all over again.
When Ambrose smiled, one side of his mouth, the side damaged by the blast, didn't turn up as much, giving him a crooked grin. Fern thought it was endearing, but judging from the infrequency of his smile, Ambrose probably didn't think so.
“I did taunt him. I don't think I've ever taunted anyone before. It was . . . fun,” Fern said seriously, honestly.
Ambrose burst out laughing and set down his rolling pin, looking at her and shaking his head. And this time he didn't duck his head and turn away.
“Never taunted anyone, huh? I seem to remember you making faces at Bailey Sheen at a big wrestling tournament. He was supposed to be taking stats, but you were making him laugh. Coach Sheen got after him, which hardly ever happened. I think that qualifies as taunting.”
“I remember that tournament! Bailey and I were playing a game we made up. You saw that?”
“Yeah. You two looked like you were having fun . . . and I remember wishing I could trade places with the two of you . . . just for an afternoon. I was jealous.”
“Jealous? Why?”
“The coach from Iowa was at that tournament. I was so nervous I was sick. I was throwing up between matches.”
“You were nervous? You won every match. I never saw you lose. What did you have to be nervous about?”
“Being undefeated was a lot of pressure. I didn't want to disappoint anybody.” Ambrose shrugged. “So tell me about this game.” Ambrose smoothly moved the conversation away from himself. Fern tucked away the information he had revealed for later perusal.
“It's a game Bailey and I play. It's our version of Charades. Bailey can't really act anything out, for obvious reasons, so we play this game we call Making Faces. It's stupid, but . . . fun. The idea is to communicate strictly through facial expressions. Here. I'll show you. I'll make a face and you tell me what I'm feeling.”
Fern dropped her jaw and widened her eyes theatrically.
“Surprise?”
Fern nodded, smiling. Then she flared her nostrils and wrinkled her forehead, screwing her mouth up in disgust. Ambrose chortled.
“Something smells bad?”
Fern giggled and immediately changed faces. Her lower lip quivered and her chin puckered and shook and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh man, you are way too good at that!” Ambrose was laughing full out now, the dough forgotten as she entertained him.
“Do you want to try?” Fern was laughing too, wiping away the tears she had manufactured to create her “sad” face.
“Nah. I don't know if my face would cooperate,” Ambrose said quietly, but there was no self-consciousness in his voice, no defensiveness, and Fern let it go with a quiet “okay.”
They visited for a few minutes more and then Fern thanked him again and said good night. And it had been a good night, in spite of Becker Garth. Ambrose had talked to her. He'd even laughed with her. And Fern felt a glimmer of hope flicker in her heart.
The following day when Fern arrived at work there was a quote on the whiteboard.
“God has given you one face and you make yourself another.” - Hamlet
Shakespeare again. Hamlet again. Ambrose seemed to have a thing for the tortured character. Maybe because he was a tortured character. But she had made him laugh. Fern smiled, remembering the invention of the Making Faces game.
2001
“Why are you making that face, Fern?” Bailey asked.
“What face?”
“That face that looks like you can't figure something out. Your eyebrows are pushed down and your forehead is wrinkled. And you're frowning.”
Fern smoothed out her face, realizing she was doing exactly what Bailey said she was doing. “I was thinking about a story I've been writing. I can't figure out how to end it. What do you think this face means?” Fern gave herself an underbite and crossed her eyes.
“You look like a brain-dead cartoon character,” Bailey answered, snickering.
“What about this one?” Fern pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows while wincing.
“You're eating something super sour!” Bailey cried. “Let me try one.” Bailey thought for a minute and then he made his mouth go slack and opened his eyes as wide as they could go. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth like a big dog.
“You're looking at something delicious,” Fern guessed.
“Be more specific,” Bailey said and made the face once more.
“Hmm. You're looking at a huge ice cream sundae,” Fern tried again. Bailey pulled his tongue back into his mouth and grinned cheekily.
“Nope. That's the face you make every time you see Ambrose Young.”
Fern swatted Bailey with the cheap stuffed bear she'd won at the school carnival in fourth grade. The arm flew off and ratty stuffing flew in all directions. Fern tossed it aside.
“Oh yeah? What about you? This is the face you make whenever Rita comes over.” Fern lowered one eyebrow and smirked, trying to replicate Rhett Butler's smolder in Gone with the Wind.
“I look constipated whenever I see Rita?” Bailey asked, dumbfounded.
Fern snorted, laughter exploding from her nose, making her grab for a tissue so she didn't gross herself out too much.
“I don't blame you for liking Ambrose,” Bailey said, suddenly serious. “He is the coolest guy I know. If I could be anyone in the whole world, I'd be Ambrose Young. Who would you be?”
Fern shrugged, wondering as she always did what it would be like to be beautiful. “I wouldn't mind looking like Rita,” she answered honestly. “But I think I would still like to be me on the inside. Wouldn't you?”
Bailey thought for a minute. “Yeah. I am pretty awesome. But so is Ambrose. I'd still trade places.”
“I'd just trade faces,” Fern said.
“But God gave you that face,” Rachel Taylor said from the kitchen. Fern rolled her eyes. Her mother had the hearing of a bat; even at sixty-two years old she didn't miss trick.
“Well, if I could, I'd make myself another,” Fern retorted. “Then maybe Ambrose Young wouldn't be too beautiful to even look at me.”
She hadn't even meant to quote Shakespeare then, but Ambrose had been too beautiful to even look at her.
Fern wondered at Ambrose's choice in quotes until she saw the display cases in front of the bakery. She shrieked like an excited little girl seeing her favorite pop star, and then began laughing out loud. The cases were filled with dozens of round sugar cookies iced in cheerful pastels. Each cookie had a simple face. Squiggles and lines in black icing created a different expression on each one–frowns and smiles and scowls, edible emoticons.
Fern bought a dozen of her favorite ones and wondered how in the world she would ever be able to eat them, or let anyone else eat them. She wanted to save them forever and remember the night she made Ambrose Young laugh. Maybe having a funny face wasn't such a bad thing after all.
Fern found a marker and wrote Making cookies or Making faces beneath Ambrose’s message on the board. Then she circled Making cookies, so he would know she had seen his offering. And she added a little smiley face.