Joshua Taylor nodded once, a brief affirmation.
“It was like he was standing right next to me, speaking into my ear. He warned me–told me to listen. Paulie was always telling us to listen.”
Joshua Taylor's lips started to tremble and he pressed a hand to his mouth, clearly moved by Ambrose's account.
“Since Iraq, it's been . . . hard . . . for me to believe that there is anything after this life. Or, for that matter, any purpose to this one. We're born, we suffer, we see people we love suffer, we die. It just all seemed so . . . so pointless. So cruel. And so final.” Ambrose paused, letting the memory of Paulie's voice warm him and urge him forward.
“But after tonight, I can't say that anymore. There's a lot I don't understand . . . but not understanding is better than not believing.” Ambrose stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked at Joshua Taylor for affirmation. “Does that make any sense at all?”
Joshua Taylor reached for the arm of the nearest chair and sat abruptly, like his legs could no longer bear his weight.
“Yes. Yes. It makes perfect sense,” he said quietly, nodding his head. “Perfect sense.”
Ambrose sat too, the old couch welcoming his weary frame into her folds.
“You're a good man, Ambrose. My daughter loves you. I can tell.”
“I love her,” Ambrose said, but stopped himself from saying more.
“But?” Pastor Taylor asked, the many years of listening to people's problems making him highly aware when someone was holding back.
“But Fern likes to take care of people. I'm worried that my . . . my . . . my . . ‘“ Ambrose couldn't find the words.
“Need?” Joshua Taylor supplied delicately.
“My ugly face,” Ambrose corrected abruptly. “I'm worried my disfigurement makes Fern want to take care of me. I'm not exactly beautiful, Pastor. What if one day Fern sees me as I really am and decides my need for her isn't enough?”
“Your father came and saw me once, a long time ago. He was concerned about the same thing. He thought if he looked different your mother wouldn't have left.”
Ambrose felt an immediate surge of pain for his father and a corresponding flash of anger for the woman who had discarded him for an airbrushed underwear ad.
“Can I suggest to you what I suggested to him?” Joshua Taylor asked gently. “Sometimes beauty, or lack thereof, gets in the way of really knowing someone. Do you love Fern because she's beautiful?”
Ambrose loved the way Fern looked. But he wondered suddenly if he loved the way she looked because he loved the way she laughed, the way she danced, the way she floated on her back and made philosophical statements about the clouds. He knew he loved her selflessness and her humor and her sincerity. And those things made her beautiful to him.
“There are a lot of girls who are physically more lovely than Fern, I suppose. But you love Fern.”
“I love Fern,” Ambrose readily agreed, once again.
“There are a lot of guys who are needier . . . and uglier . . . than you in this town, yet you're the first guy Fern has ever shown any interest in.” Pastor Taylor laughed. “If it's all about altruism, why isn't Fern out looking to start a home for wayward ugly men?”
Ambrose chuckled too, and for a moment Joshua Taylor looked at him fondly, the lateness of the hour and the brush with death giving the conversation a surreal cast that invited candor.
“Ambrose, Fern already sees who you really are. That's why she loves you.”
Fern was subdued as she helped Ambrose pack. She'd been subdued all week. The trauma of Bailey's death and Becker's attack had taken its toll and now with Ambrose leaving, she didn't know how it was going to feel to wake up tomorrow, completely alone for the first time in her life. Ambrose had helped to temper Bailey's loss. But who would temper Ambrose's?
She caught herself refolding his shirts, rewinding his socks, fiddling with things he'd put in one place, unintentionally putting them in another so when he turned to retrieve them they were gone.
“I'm sorry,” Fern said for the tenth time in the last half hour. She moved away from the open suitcases before she could do more damage and began making Ambrose's bed, simply because she had nothing better to do.
“Fern?”
Fern continued patting, smoothing, and fluffing and didn't look at Ambrose when he said her name.
“Fern. Stop. Leave it. I've just got to climb back in it in a few hours,” Ambrose said.
Fern couldn't stop. She needed to keep doing, keep busy. She bustled into the hallway, looking for the vacuum so she could tidy up Ambrose's room. Elliott was working a swing shift at the bakery, covering for Ambrose on his last night at home, and the house was quiet. It didn't take her long to find the vacuum and a dust cloth and Windex too.
She buzzed around Ambrose's half-empty room, hunting dust bunnies and wiping down every available surface until Ambrose sighed heavily and, zipping his last suitcase, turned on her with his hands on his hips.
“Fern.”
“Yeah?” Fern answered staring at a section of the wall where the paint looked suspiciously light. She had scrubbed too hard.
“Put the Windex down and step away slowly,” Ambrose commanded. Fern rolled her eyes but stopped, fearing she was doing more harm than good. She set the Windex down on Ambrose's desk. “The rag too,” Ambrose said. Fern folded the rag and set it beside the Windex. Then she put her hands on her hips, mimicking his stance.
“Hands in the air, where I can see 'em.”
Fern put her hands up and then stuck her thumbs in her ears, waggling her fingers. Then she crossed her eyes, puffed out her cheeks, and poked out her tongue. Ambrose burst out laughing and swooped her up like she was five years old and tossed her on his bed. He followed her down, rolling over so he pinned her partially beneath him.