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.