“Hey!” Bailey interjected with mock outrage. Fern's laughter peeled out and she patted Bailey's cheeks.
Ambrose got behind Bailey and hooked him under the arms, lifting him so Fern could slide his pants around his hips and down to his feet.
“Okay. Set him down for a minute.”
Bailey looked like a frail old man with a bit of thickness around his mid-section. He patted his belly with good humor. “This little baby helps me float. It also keeps me from falling over in my wheelchair.
“It's true” Fern said, pulling Bailey's shoes and socks from his feet. “He's lucky that he's chubby. It gives his trunk some support. And he really does float. Just watch.”
Fern set Bailey's shoes neatly to the side and removed her own sneakers. She wore shorts and a turquoise tank top and made no move to remove those, unfortunately. Ambrose unlaced his boots and unzipped his jeans. Fern looked away, a rosy tinge climbing up her neck and onto her smooth cheeks.
When he was standing in his boxers, he picked Bailey up in his arms without a word and started walking toward the water.
Fern pranced along behind him, shooting instructions about how to hold Bailey, how to release him so that he wouldn't tip forward and not be able to turn onto his back.
“Fern. I got this, woman!” Bailey said as Ambrose released him. Bailey bobbed, almost in a sitting position, butt down feet floating up, head and shoulders well above the surface.
“I'm free!” he yelled.
“He yells that every time he's in the water,” Fern giggled. “It probably feels amazing. Floating without anyone holding onto him.”
“Kites or balloons?” Ambrose said softly, watching Bailey. Floating without anyone holding onto him. Those were the very same words he'd used when Fern had asked him the question long ago. How foolish he'd been. What good was flying if there was no one on the other end of the string? Or floating when there was no one to help you back to dry land? Ambrose tried to float, but he couldn't seem to keep his legs from falling like anchors. He resorted to treading water instead, and the symbolism didn't escape him.
Bailey crowed, “Too much muscle? Poor Brosey. Bailey Sheen wins this round, I'm afraid.”
Fern had found the sweet spot and was concentrating on keeping herself afloat, her pink toenails peeking above the surface of the water, her eyes fixed on the clouds.
“Do you see the Corvette?” Fern lifted her arm out of the water and pointed at a fluffy conglomeration. She immediately started to sink and Ambrose slid a hand under her back before her face slipped beneath the water.
Bailey wrinkled his nose, trying to find a car in the clouds. Ambrose found it, but by that time it had shifted and looked a little more like a VW bug.
“I see a cloud that looks like Mr. Hildy!” Bailey laughed. He couldn't point so Fern and Ambrose studied frantically, trying to catch the face before it dissolved into something else.
“Hmmm. I see Homer Simpson,” Fern murmured.
“More like Bart . . . or maybe Marge,” Ambrose said.
“It's funny how we all see something different,” Fern said.
They all stared as the image because softer, less defined, and floated away. Ambrose was reminded of another time he’d floated on his back, staring at the sky.
“Why do you think Saddam had his face plastered all over the city? Everywhere you look you see his ugly mug. Statues, posters, banners every-freakin'-where!” Paulie said.
“Cause he's 'Suh damn' good-looking,” Ambrose said dryly.
“It's intimidation and mind control.” Grant, ever the scholar, filled in the answer. “He wanted to make himself seem God-like so that he could more easily control the population. You think these people fear God or Saddam more?”
“You mean Allah,” Paulie corrected mildly.
“Right. Allah. Saddam wanted the people to think he and Allah were one in the same,” Grant said.
“What do you think Saddam would think if he saw us swimming in his pool right now? And I must say, it’s ‘Suh damn’ fine pool,” Jesse stood in the chest deep water, arms spread on the surface of the water, staring at the ornate fountain that rimmed the far side of the pool.
“He wouldn't mind. He's 'Suh damn' generous he would invite us to come back whenever we want,” Ambrose said. The “Suh damn” jokes had been going on for days.
Their whole unit was splashing around in the huge outdoor pool located at the Republican Palace, now in U.S. hands. It was a rare treat to be this wet and this comfortable, and the boys from Pennsylvania couldn't have been happier if they were actually back home in their very own Hannah Lake, lined with trees and rocks instead of ornate fountains, palm trees and domed buildings.
“I think Saddam would demand we kiss his rings and then he would cut off our tongues,” Beans joined in.
“I don't know, Beans, with you that might be an improvement,” Jesse said. Beans launched himself at his friend and a round of water wrestling ensued. Ambrose, Paulie, and Grant laughed and egged them on, but they were all too grateful for the wet reprieve to waste it by joining in on the horseplay. Instead they floated, staring up at the sky that didn't look all that different than the sky over Hannah Lake.
“I've seen Saddam's face so much I can see it when I close my eyes, like it's burned on my retinas,” Paulie complained.
“Just be glad Coach Sheen didn't use the same methods of intimidation during wrestling season. Can you imagine? Coach Sheen's face everywhere we looked, eyes blazing at us.” Grant laughed.
“It's weird, when I try to really picture his face, or anyone's face, I can't. I try to pull in the details, you know, and . . . I can't. It hasn't been that long. We've only been gone since March,” Ambrose said, shaking his head at the unreality of it all.