Fern had no rhythm. Bailey wasn't much better. But his lack of skill wasn't exactly his fault. He moved his chair forward and back in a parody of the simple step-touch move everyone resorted to at a school dance. He bobbed his head in time with the music and his face wore an expression that said “Hell, yeah,” even though his body said “No way.” Rita danced around Bailey's chair but her moves were too self-conscious, too self-aware, to allow her to truly enjoy herself, or for anyone to enjoy watching her. Fern shook her butt and did chicken arms and clapped and snapped randomly, but there was such uninhibited joy, such wild abandon, such pleasure in the act, that although he was laughing at her–yes, laughing at her–she was laughing, too.
She danced anyway, knowing she was horrible, knowing there was nothing about her performance that would lure him in or make him want her, and doing it anyway, just for the fun of it. And somehow, suddenly, he did. He did want her. Desperately. Her light, her loveliness, her enthusiasm for simple things. All of her. Everything. He wanted to pick her up, right off of her dancing feet, her legs dangling above the ground, and kiss her until they were breathless with passion instead of laughter.
“And your kiss!” Fern sang out the final words and struck an awkward pose, breathing hard and giggling. “The. Most. Awesome. Song. Ever. “ She sighed, throwing her arms wide, ignoring the next song on the Taylor/Sheen hits CD.
“You need to come with me for just a minute. I need to show you something in the, um, kitchen,” Ambrose said firmly, grabbing Fern by the hand and pulling her along behind him like she'd just done to him minutes before. Bailey and Rita were dancing again, David Bowie's Pressure picking up where Prince had left off.
“Wh-what? But there's a slow song coming up after this, and I really, really want to slow dance with you,” Fern protested, resisting, pulling against his arm. So Ambrose swept her up, right off her feet, just like he'd imagined and barreled through the swinging kitchen doors without missing a step. He flipped off the bakery lights so the room was swathed in darkness and then he swallowed Fern's gasp, his mouth crashing down on hers, one hand sliding under her butt to anchor her to him as his other hand cradled the back of her head controlling the angle of the kiss. And all resistance ceased.
Bailey was heavier than Ambrose had anticipated, lankier, and harder to hold onto. But he swept him up in his arms and walked steadily up the well-worn trail, placing his feet carefully, not hurrying. He had run miles in full uniform with 150 pounds on his back many times, and he could carry Bailey up the hill and back again.
They were on their way to visit the graves of the four fallen soldiers, Ambrose for the second time, Bailey for the first. The path was steep and narrow, and getting Bailey's wheelchair to the top with him in it would be harder than carrying him, but carrying him was too much for Mike Sheen or anyone else in Bailey's inner circle, so Bailey had been unable to visit the resting place of his friends. When Ambrose had discovered this, he told Bailey he would carry him to the top, and had shown up unannounced that afternoon, ready to fulfill his promise.
Angie Sheen volunteered to let him take the van, but Ambrose had declined, scooping Bailey up in his arms and depositing him on the passenger side of his old truck and buckling him in snugly. Bailey started to list to the side, unable to keep himself upright without the support of his chair, but Ambrose wedged a pillow between the seat and the door so he could lean against it.
He could tell Angie was a little worried about letting them go without the wheelchair, but she waved them off with a tight smile, and Ambrose took the corners carefully. They didn't have far to go, but Bailey seemed to enjoy riding shotgun and insisted Ambrose crank up the radio and roll down the windows.
When they reached the top of the hill, Ambrose sat Bailey carefully on the stone bench then sat close beside him, propping him up against his side, making sure he wouldn't tip over.
They sat in reverence for a while, Bailey reading the words on each headstone, Ambrose looking beyond the graves, his mind heavy with memories that he wished he could extinguish.
“I wish I could be buried up here with them. I know it's a war memorial. But they could bury me over here by the bench. Put a little asterisk on my tombstone.”
Ambrose laughed, just like Bailey expected him to, but Bailey's glib acceptance of his own demise bothered him.
“But I'm going to be buried in the town cemetery. My grandparents are there and a few other Sheens from generations back. I've got my spot all picked out,” Bailey said easily, comfortably even, and Ambrose could hold his tongue no longer.
“How do you stand it, Bailey? Looking death in the face for so long?”
Bailey shrugged and glanced at him curiously. “You act like death is the worst thing.”