“You're looking pretty today, Fern.” His eyes slid to her chest and back up again. He winked and popped his gum. Fern had always thought Becker was a handsome guy. But the handsome didn't quite cover the scum beneath, and sometimes the scum seeped through and oozed out around the edges. Like it was doing now.
He obviously didn't expect her to respond because he walked on, calling over his shoulder “Rita says you came by. Thanks for the money. I needed some beer.” He held up the twenty-dollar bill Fern had left on the counter for Rita and waved it in the air. Becker sauntered toward the aisle where the alcohol was shelved and disappeared from sight. And Fern saw red. She wasn't a girl prone to anger or rash acts. Until now. She was amazed at the steadiness of her voice as she spoke into the intercom.
“Attention Jolley's shoppers, today at Jolley's Supermarket we have some wonderful specials going on. Bananas are on sale for 39 cents a pound. Juice boxes are ten for a dollar, and our bakery has a dozen sugar cookies for $3.99,” Fern paused and gritted her teeth, finding she was unable to stay quiet. “I would also like to draw your attention to the giant asshole in aisle ten. I promise you have never seen a bigger asshole than this one, shoppers. He regularly hits his wife and tells her she's ugly and fat even though she's the most beautiful girl in town. He also likes to make his baby cry and can't hold down a steady job. Why? You guessed it! Because Becker Garth is a big, ugly, giant butt . . .”
“You bitch!” Becker came roaring down aisle ten, screaming, a twelve pack of beer under his arm and rage in his eyes.
Fern held the phone in front of her, as if the intercom would provide a buffer between her and the man she'd publicly insulted. Patrons were gaping, some laughing at Fern's audacious display, others frowning in confusion. Becker threw down the twelve pack and several punctured cans shot out of the broken box, spraying beer in a wide swath. He ran toward Fern and snatched the phone from her hands, pulling on its curly cord until it sprang free, whipping past Fern's face. She ducked reflexively, certain that Becker was going to swing the phone like a nunchuck, striking everything in its path.
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.