When Bailey told him about the spot, Ambrose could see how much Bailey wanted to go, and Ambrose told himself he would take him. But not yet. This time, this first time, Ambrose needed to go by himself. He had avoided it since coming home to Hannah Lake almost six months before. But talk of cupcakes and humility and Bailey's lack of pride had convinced Ambrose that maybe it was time for small steps. And so he put one foot in front of the other and climbed the hill that led to the pretty overlook where his four friends were buried.
They stood in a straight line, four white headstones looking out over the high school where they had all wrestled and played football, where they had grown to maturity. There was a little stone bench situated near the graves where family or friends could sit for a while and the trees were thick beyond the clearing. It was a good spot, quiet and peaceful. There were flowers and a few notes and stuffed animals placed around the graves, and Ambrose was happy to see that others had frequently visited, though he hoped no one would visit today. He needed some time alone with his friends.
Paulie and Grant were in the middle, Beans and Jesse on each side. Funny. That was kind of how it had been in life. Paulie and Grant were the glue, the steady ones, Beans and Jesse the protectors, the wild men. The two that would bitch and moan about you to your face but who, in the end, always had your back. Ambrose crouched next to each grave and read the words carved into the stones.
Connor Lorenzo “Beans” O'Toole
May 8, 1984 – July 2, 2004
Mi hijo, Mi corazon
Paul Austin Kimball
June 29, 1984 – July 2, 2004.
Beloved friend, brother, and son.
Grant Craig Nielson
November 1, 1983 – July 2, 2004
Forever in our Hearts
Jesse Brooks Jordan
October 24, 1983 – July 2, 2004.
Father, Son, Soldier, Friend
Victory is in the Battle was written on the stone bench. Ambrose traced the words. It was something Coach Sheen always said. Something Coach Sheen always yelled from the side of the mat. It was never about the end result with Coach. It was always about fighting to the whistle.
Ambrose sat down on the bench and looked out over the valley below, at the town where he'd lived every day of his life, every day except the years where everything had changed. And he talked to his friends. Not because he believed they could hear him, but because there were things he knew he needed to say.
He told them about what Bailey had said. About taking his life back. He wasn't sure what that meant. Sometimes you can't take your life back. Sometimes it's dead and buried and you can only make a new life. Ambrose didn't know what that new life would look like.
Fern's face floated in his mind. Maybe Fern would be part of a new life, but strangely enough, Ambrose didn't want to talk to the guys about Fern. It felt too soon. And he discovered he wanted to protect her, even from the ghosts of his closest friends. They'd all laughed too often at the little redhead, told too many jokes at her expense, poked too many holes and taunted one too many times. So Ambrose kept Fern to himself, safe inside a rapidly expanding corner of his heart, where only he knew she belonged.
When the sun started to wane and dip below the trees, Ambrose rose and found his way back down the hill, relieved that he'd finally found the strength to climb it.
The wrestling room smelled like sweat and bleach and memories. Good memories. Two long ropes hung in the corners, ropes he'd climbed and swung from a thousand times. The mats were unrolled, thick red slabs of rubber with the circle that marked inbounds and the lines in the center where the action began. Coach Sheen was mopping down the mats, something he'd probably done more than a thousand times. In a thirty-year coaching career, it had to be more.
“Hey Coach,” Ambrose said softly, his mind on all the times he'd turned Coach away when he first returned home.
Coach Sheen looked up in surprise, startled from his own thoughts, not expecting company.
“Ambrose!” His face wore such an expression of sheer joy that Ambrose gulped, wondering why he’d kept his old coach at arm’s length for so long.
Coach Sheen stopped mopping and folded his hands on the handle. “How are ya, soldier?”
Ambrose winced at the address. Guilt and grief hung like heavy chains around the word. His pride in being a soldier had been decimated by the loss of his friends and the responsibility he felt for their deaths. Let heroes wear the word. He felt unworthy of the title.