Bailey laughed and groaned loudly. “Boo, freakin' hoo! Waaa! You big baby! Do you expect me to feel sorry for you, Ambrose? 'Cause I don't. It reminds me of a book I just read for this online English course I'm taking . This guy, Cyrano De Bergerac, was born with a big nose. Who the hell cares? So Cyrano never got with the girl he loved because he was ugly. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life! He let his big honker keep him away?”
“That Cyrano guy? Wasn't he the one that wrote love notes for the good looking guy? Didn't they make a movie out of that?”
“That's the one. Remind you of anyone? I seem to remember someone writing you love notes and signing them Rita. Just like Cyrano. Kind of ironic, isn't it? Fern didn't think she was good enough for you then, and you don't think you're good enough for her now. And both of you are wrong . . . and so stupid! Stuuupiiiid!” Bailey dragged the word out in disgust. “I'm ugly! I'm not worthy of love, waaa!” Bailey mimicked them in a whiny, high-pitched voice, and then he shook his head as if he was thoroughly disappointed. He paused a moment, gearing up for a new rant.
“Now you're telling me that you are afraid to love Fern because you don't look like a movie star anymore? Shoot, man! You still look like a movie star . . . just one that's been through a war zone is all. Chicks dig that! I keep thinking that maybe you and I could take a road trip and tell all the girls we meet along the way that we're both vets. You've got a messed up face and my war wounds have put me in this chair. You think they'd believe it? Maybe then I could get some action. Problem is, how am I going to get a handful of tit if I can't lift my arms?”
Ambrose choked, laughing at Bailey's irreverence, but Bailey just continued, unfazed.
“I would give anything to do one of those Freaky Friday switch-aroo things with you, Ambrose. Just for one day I want to trade bodies with you. I wouldn't waste one second. I'd be knocking on Rita's door. I'd pummel Becker a few times, throw Rita over my shoulder, and I wouldn't come up for air until neither of us could move. That's what I would do.”
“Rita? You like Rita?”
“I love Rita. Always have. And she's married to a dick, which is actually comforting in a very selfish way. If she was married to a cool, nice, awesome guy I would be more miserable.”
Ambrose found himself laughing again. “You are something else, Bailey! Your logic is priceless.”
“It is kinda funny. Funny ironic, I mean. Fern always said Rita has spent her whole life being chased by boys. Because of that, she never had a chance to stop running long enough to figure out who she was and what kind of guy she should let catch her. It's kinda ironic that Rita and I are friends, seeing as I've never been able to chase her. Maybe that's the silver lining. I couldn't chase her, so she never had to run.”
After a time, Ambrose picked Bailey up in his arms once more, and together they descended the hill from the memorial, lost in their own thoughts of life and death and silver linings.
24: Make Something Disappear
Uncle Mike looked surprised when he saw Fern slip into the wrestling room with Bailey Saturday night. He did a double-take, then seemed confused, and then he looked at Fern again, frowning a little. But when Ambrose noticed her sitting on a rolled-up mat next to Bailey's chair he smiled, and his smile negated Uncle Mike's frown.
Bailey was transfixed by the action in the center of the room. Fern was too, although not for the same reasons. For Bailey it was the smell of the mats, the movement, the wrestler who might just make a comeback. For Fern it was the smell of the man, his movements, the wrestler who had finally come back. Bailey had been crashing some of the drill sessions between his dad and Ambrose for the last few weeks, but tonight was a first for Fern. She tried not to chew on her nails, a habit she forbade herself, especially since she'd just painted them that morning, and looked on, hoping it was really okay that she was there.
Ambrose was dripping with sweat. His grey shirt was soaked through on his chest and down his back, and he mopped at his bare head with a hand towel. Mike Sheen challenged him through another series of drills, encouraging, correcting, but when Ambrose flopped on the mat at the end of the workout, the coach's brow was furrowed and he kept biting his lip, chewing over an obvious concern.
“You need a partner. You need some guys to beat up on, to beat up on you . . . drilling shots is one thing. But you gotta do some live wrestling or you aren't going to get back into the kind of shape you need to be in . . . not wrestling shape, anyway.
“Remember how gassed Beans got when he couldn't compete until halfway through the season his junior year? He'd been in the room, practicing with the team, but he hadn't been in a real live match, and he about died those first couple meets after he came back. Heck, Grant pinned him in the Big East tourney, and Grant had never pinned Beans before. Remember how tickled he was?”
Coach Sheen's words rang through the room, the mention of Grant and Beans, the mention of death in any context, creating an odd echo that kept ricocheting off the walls. Ambrose stiffened, Bailey hung his head, and Fern gave in and gnawed her fingernail. Mike Sheen realized what he'd said and ran a hand over his cropped hair. He continued on as if the words hadn't been spoken.
“We'll get some guys in here, Brose. I've got a couple bigger guys on the high school team that you could work over. It'd be good for them and helpful to you.”
“No. Don't do that.” Ambrose shook his head, his voice a low rumble as he stood and started shoving his gear into a gym bag. “I'm not here for that, Coach. I don't want you thinking I am. I missed the room. That's all. I just missed the room. But I'm not wrestling . . . not anymore.”