“Bailey was probably more prepared to die than anyone I've ever known. He wasn't eager for it, but he wasn't afraid of it either,” Angie said with conviction, and Ambrose looked away from his coach and listened to a wise mother's words. “He was ready to go. So we have to let him go.” She kissed Fern again and the tears fell once more. “It's okay to let him go, Fern.”
Angie took a deep breath and stepped back, dropping her hands, and releasing them from her gaze. Then, with an acceptance born of years of trial, she reached for her husband's hand, and together they left the quiet spot where the birds sang and a casket waited to be blanketed in the earth, secure in the faith that it wasn't the end.
Fern walked to the hole and crouching down she pulled a handful of rocks from the pockets of her black dress. Carefully, she formed the letters B S at the foot of the grave.
“Beautiful Spider?” Ambrose said softly, just beyond her left shoulder, and Fern smiled, amazed that he remembered.
“Beautiful Sheen. Beautiful Bailey Sheen. That's how I'll always remember him.”
“He wanted you to have this.” Mike Sheen placed a big book in Ambrose's hands. “Bailey was always designating his belongings. Everything in his room has a specified owner. See? He's written your name on the inside.”
Sure enough, “For Ambrose” was written inside the cover. It was the book on mythology, the book Bailey had been reading that long ago day at summer wrestling camp when Bailey had introduced Ambrose to Hercules.
“I'll leave you two for a minute. I think I'm okay . . . but then I come in here and realize that he's really gone. And I'm not okay anymore.” Bailey's father tried to smile, but the attempt made his lips tremble and he turned and fled from the room redolent with Bailey's memory. Fern pulled her legs up and rested her chin on her knees, closing her eyes against the tears that Ambrose could see leaking out the sides. Bailey's parents had asked them to come by, that Bailey had belongings that he had wanted them to have. But it could wait.
“Fern? We can go. We don't have to do this now,” Ambrose offered.
“It hurts to be here. But it hurts not to be here too.” She shrugged and blinked rapidly. “I'm okay.” She wiped at her cheeks and pointed to the book in his hands. “Why did he want you to have that book?”
Ambrose flipped through the pages of the book, not pausing for the mighty Zeus or the big-breasted nymphs. With the book heavy in his hands and the memory heavy in his heart, he kept turning until he found the section and the picture he'd thought of many times since that day.
The Face of a Hero. Ambrose understood it so much better now. The sorrow on the bronze face, the hand on a breaking heart. Guilt was a heavy burden, even for a mythological champion.
“Hercules,” Ambrose said, knowing that Fern would understand.
He raised the book so Fern could see the pages he perused. When he held it upright, turning it so she could see, the thick pages fell forward, fanning out before he could smooth them back, and a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the ground.
Fern leaned down to retrieve it, sliding it open to ascertain its importance. Her eyes moved back and forth and her lips moved as she read the words printed on the page.
“It's his list,” she whispered, her voice colored with surprise.
“What list?”
“The date says July 22, 1994.”
“Eleven years ago.” Ambrose said.
“We were ten. Bailey's last summer,” Fern remembered.
“His last summer?”
“Before he was in a wheelchair. Everything happened that summer. Bailey's disease became very real.”
“So what does it say?” Ambrose crossed to Fern and sat beside her, looking at the sheet of lined paper with the fringe still attached, where Bailey had ripped it from a notebook. The handwriting was juvenile, the items listed in a long column with details listed out to the side.
“Kiss Rita? Get married?” Ambrose chortled. “Even at ten, Bailey was in love.”
“Always. From day one.” Fern giggled. “Eat pancakes every day, Invent a time machine, Tame a lion, Make friends with a monster. You can tell he's ten, huh?
Ambrose chuckled too, his eyes skimming the dreams and desires of a ten-year-old Bailey. “Beat up a bully, Be a superhero or a super star, Ride in a police car, Get a tattoo. Typical boy.”
“Live. Have courage. Be a good friend. Always be grateful. Take care of Fern,” Fern whispered.
“Maybe not so typical,” Ambrose said, his own throat closing with emotion. They were quiet for several long moments, their hands entwined, the page growing blurry as they fought the moisture in their eyes.
“He did so many of these things, Ambrose,” Fern choked out. “Maybe not in the typical way, but he did them . . . or helped someone else do them.” Fern handed Ambrose the page. “Here. It belongs in your book. Number four says Meet Hercules.” Fern pointed at the list. “To him, you were Hercules.”