“Ambrose? I'm not leaving you. I will follow you all night if I have to!”
Ambrose sighed and looked at her. She was leaning across the seat so she could peer out the passenger side window as she inched along beside him. Her face was pale and she had mascara under her eyes. Her hair was plastered against her head and her shirt still stuck to her pretty br**sts. She hadn't even taken a second to change her wet clothes before she'd come after him.
Something in his face must have told her she'd won, because she slowed to a stop and hit the door locks as he reached for the handle. The warmth that blasted from the heaters felt like an electric blanket against his skin and he shivered involuntarily. Fern reached over and rubbed his arms briskly as if he was Bailey and she had rescued him from a blizzard and wasn't soaking wet herself. She shoved the car into park and leaned over the seat, reaching for something in the back.
“Here. Wrap this around yourself!” she said, dropping a towel in his lap. “I grabbed it when I switched cars.”
“Fern. Stop. I'm fine.”
“You're not fine! She should never have said those things to you! I hate her! I am going to throw rocks at her house and break all her windows!” Fern's voice broke, and he could see she was close to tears.
“She lost her son, Fern,” Ambrose said softly. His own anger dissipated as he spoke the simple truth. He took the towel from Fern's hands and used it on her hair, wrapping and squeezing, absorbing the moisture, the way he used to do on his own. She stilled, obviously not used to a man’s hands in her hair. He continued his ministrations, and she sat quietly, her head lolling to the side, letting him.
“I haven't seen any of them. Not Grant's family. Not Jesse's. I haven't seen Marley or Jesse’s little boy. Paulie's mom sent me a basket of stuff when I was in the hospital. But my jaw was wired shut and I gave most of it away. She sent a card too. Told me to get well. She's like Paulie, I think. Sweet. Forgiving. But I haven't seen her since I've been back either, even though she works the front counter at the bakery. Tonight was the first time I've had any contact with any of the families. It went about like I expected. And frankly, it was what I deserved.”
Fern didn't argue with him. He got the feeling she wanted to, but then she sighed and wrapped her hands around his wrists, pulling his hands from her hair. “Why did you go, Ambrose? Didn't you have a big scholarship? I mean . . . I understand patriotism and wanting to serve your country, but . . . didn't you want to wrestle?”
He had never spoken about this to anyone, never verbalized the feelings he'd had back then. He decided to start at the beginning.
“We sat at the back of the auditorium–Beans, Grant, Jesse, Paulie and me. They laughed and made jokes during the army recruiter's whole presentation. It wasn't out of disrespect . . . not at all. Mostly it was because they knew that nothing the army could throw at us could possibly be any worse than Coach Sheen's wrestling practices. Any wrestler knows that there is nothing worse than being hungry, tired, sore, and being told at the end of a brutal practice that it's time to run halls. And knowing if you don't bust your ass, you'll be letting your teammates down, 'cause Coach will make everyone run 'em again if you aren't pushing the whole time. Joining the army couldn't be harder than wrestling season. No way.
“It didn't scare us, signing up. Not the way I imagine it scares most guys. For me it felt like a chance to get away, to be with the guys just a little longer. I didn't really want to go to college. Not yet. I felt like the whole town was depending on me, and if I screwed up or didn't perform well at Penn State, I was going to let everyone down. I liked the idea of being a different kind of hero. I always wanted to be a soldier, I just never told anyone. And after 9/11, it just felt like the right thing to do. So I convinced the guys to sign up.
“Beans was actually the easiest to persuade. Then he just kept working on everyone. Paulie was the last one to sign on. He'd spent four years wrestling, doing what we wanted. See, wrestling was never really his passion. He was just damn good at it, and he didn't have a dad around; Coach Sheen kind of filled that role for him.
“He wanted to be a musician and tour the world with his guitar. But he was a good friend. He loved us. So in the end he came along, just like he always did.” Ambrose's voice shook and he rubbed at his cheek viciously, as if trying to erase the end of his tale, to change what happened next.
“So we all went. My dad cried, and I was embarrassed. Jesse got wasted the night before we left for basic training and got Marley pregnant. Jesse never met his baby boy. I really should go see Marley, but I can't. Grant was the only one who seemed to take it all seriously. He told me he never prayed so hard as he prayed the night before we left for Iraq. And that kid was always praying. Which is why I don't ever pray anymore. 'Cause if Grant prayed that hard and still died, then I'm not wasting my time.”
“God spared your life,” Fern said, a pastor's daughter through and through.
“You think God saved my life?” Ambrose struck back, his face incredulous. “How in the hell do you think that makes Paul Kimball's mother feel? Or Grant's parents? Or Jesse's girl, or his baby boy when he's old enough to realize he had a daddy who he'll never meet? We know how Luisa O'Toole feels about it. If God saved my life, why didn't he save their lives? Is my life so much more valuable? So I'm special . . . and they're not?”
“Of course not,” Fern protested, her voice rising slightly in response to his vehemence.
“Don't you get it, Fern? It's so much easier to take if God had nothing to do with it. If God has nothing to do with it, then I can accept that it's just life. Nobody is special, but nobody isn't special, either. You know what I mean? I can come to terms with that. But I can't accept that your prayers are answered and theirs aren't. That makes me angry and hopeless–desperate even! And I can't live that way.”