by Dan Ames
“Mom?”
Beth sees her mom get to her feet, unsteadily. She’s drunk, Beth thinks. Well, of course she is.
“Beth. You’re awake again. I’ll call the doctor.”
Beth reaches out and grabs her mother’s arm. “Not yet,” she says. “I need to know something.”
Her mother lets out a wail. “It’s bad, honey. It’s real, real bad.” Beth can smell the booze on her mother’s breath.
“Not my leg, Mom. The shot. Did I make the shot. Did we win?”
Beth watches her mother process the question.
“Your leg…”
“Answer the question, Mom.”
Tears well up in her mother’s eyes.
“You won, Beth. You made the shot. You won.”
Beth looks at the bulletin board on the wall. She wonders if there is one from Peter. Certainly, Peter would have been here. Would have left some kind of message for her. She thinks maybe she should ask her mother to check the cards for one from Peter when a faint rumbling sounds and then a gust of air from the vent overhead stirs the balloons into action. They bounce against each other as if in celebration.
Beth watches the balloons for a moment, forgets what it was she was going to ask her mother about, and then closes her eyes and falls back into a deep sepia dream.
Chapter 21
Anna Fischer holds the Styrofoam cup beneath the ice dispenser in the hospital’s cafeteria. She fills the cup halfway with ice then adds Diet Coke. She carries the cup to the elevator and takes it up to Beth’s floor. When she gets off the elevator, she goes into the women’s bathroom and pulls the pint of whiskey from the inside pocket of her light jacket. She pours it in until the cup is completely full, then caps it, and pokes a straw through the hole in the top. She takes a long, deep drink.
Why does life have to be such a struggle?
She thinks of the rich folks who live in big houses. Their husbands don’t die. Their daughters don’t wind up in the hospital with a leg that…with injuries. And the scholarship. Anna starts to cry. What’s going to happen now? Will the scouts and the coaches wait until next season when Beth will be better? How does it work?
Anna has no idea.
She takes another long drink.
The images of Beth underneath the basket, of the girls screaming, of the leg all mangled and crooked.
Anna slumps against the bathroom wall. The Styrofoam cup falls from her hand. When it hits the tile floor, the plastic top pops off and the contents—ice, Coke, and booze—spill onto the floor. Anna watches it spread across the tile. Her shoulder pressed against the wall, she slides down the wall to a sitting position. It’s several minutes before she realizes the Coke and whiskey mixture is soaking into her jeans.
She gets up just as a nurse comes into the bathroom.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes. I just…”
“Ma’am?”
“I …slipped.”
Anna pushes the door open and steps into the hallway.
She thinks, where is Beth’s room again?
Chapter 22
In the end, it is the flowers that help Peter Forbes make up his mind. The flowers and the scout.
The flowers are beautiful roses. Red, yellow, even a few white ones thrown in for good measure. An even dozen.
The card is nice too.
If a little impersonal.
He comes to the hospital but a nurse who looks like Ernest Borgnine tells him Beth is sleeping. He sneaks into her room and puts them on the table next to her bed. He watches her sleep.
Peter goes down the hall to the little lounge area and takes a seat among the rickety furniture and two-year-old magazines. The television is off, so he corrects that and turns the channel to ESPN. In spite of the circumstances, he watches for any mention of Marquette University in Milwaukee. Peter has just signed a letter of intent, accepting a full, four-year scholarship to play for the Flying Eagles.
Beth doesn’t know.
He has to tell her.
He shudders at the thought.
It is precisely at the moment when the scout arrives. Unlike the flowers, she isn’t pretty. She is tall and ungainly. Peter knows she was going to offer Beth a scholarship to Northern Illinois University. Without that scholarship, Beth will be devastated. Peter knows Beth’s mother is a drunk and that paying for college is out of the question.
Without a scholarship, Beth will have to stay home, and struggle to pay for community college. If she could afford it at all.
The scout walks into the lounge area, recognizes Peter and walks over.
“Peter.”
He stands. “Hi.”
Her name’s Coach Davies and they’d met when she’d made a recruiting visit to Beth’s house. Beth had asked Peter to sit in on it.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Been better.”
She nods her head. “So has Beth.”
She’s not going to beat around the bush on this one.
“It sucks,” he says.
“She made the shot, though. She was such a competitor.”
“Was?” Peter turns to face her. His eyes are stone cold.
“You know what I mean,” she says.
Unfortunately, I do know, Peter thinks. He knows what’s coming, the only question is how it will be put.
“She’ll be better next year,” the woman says.
“For what?”
“She can do it. Miracles can happen in rehab.”
Peter looks at the television. SportsCenter is replaying highlights of a Duke/Kentucky game. Peter can’t watch it. His eyes won’t focus. Finally, he turns to the scout. To the woman who represents Beth’s chance to get out of Silver Lake. To move on to bigger and better things.
“You’re not going to offer her a scholarship, are you?”
“The injury took away her scholarship this year. Maybe next, if she recovers.”
Peter almost laughs, but his mouth is dry. The scout pulls a letter from her purse. “Do you mind giving this to her? It might make it easier for her. Coming from you, I mean.” Peter mutely accepts the letter. He doesn’t want to give it to Beth but how can he refuse?
“Thanks and good luck,” Davies says. “You’re going to Marquette, right?”
Peter nods. How did she know? Probably his coach. They all talk like grandmothers at a Bingo hall.
She leaves and Peter sits in the lounge. The letter feels like it is made of lead. His hands are sweating, and Peter sees the paper starting to get soggy in his hands.
He thinks again of the flowers. The card isn’t so impersonal, he reasons. A nice note inside.
He signed it, “Love.”
Maybe that was enough.
The words sound in his head. He stands, walks toward Beth’s room. The letter is in his hand. His heart is in his throat.
He gets to the door. Sees the doctor standing at the foot of her bed. Can barely see her mother sitting on a chair. A cup in her hand.
Probably booze, he thinks.
Peter stands in the hallway, uncertain. He knows he should wait. This girl loves him after all. And he, well, he loves to be with her, but he doesn’t love her.
He watches the doctor. More bad news?
Peter makes his decision; he tucks the letter into his jacket pocket and leaves.
Chapter 23
“The damage is extensive.”
Doctor Cunningham is a short man, powerfully built, with blazing red hair and freckles. His voice is thin and reedy, somehow making the news sound even worse.
Beth says, “I knew it was going to be bad.”
“I don’t like to put things in terms of good or bad,” Dr. Cunningham answers. “Like I said, the damage is extensive.”
“When can I play again?”
“Play?”
“Basketball.”
“Beth,” her mother warns her.
“Why don’t I first detail what has happened?” Dr. Cunningham says.
&n
bsp; “Okay,” Beth says. She keeps her voice steady, but it is a struggle.
“Are you familiar with the construction of the knee?”
Beth shakes her head.
“Basically, the knee is a joint held in place by tendons. The most important one is the anterior cruciate ligament, commonly called the ACL. When you were injured, you probably heard a loud pop.”
Beth thinks but can’t remember anything. Just the shot and the crash.
“That was the ACL being torn apart. Now, there are other ligaments, the posterior cruciate, the lateral collateral, as well as the medial collateral and the patellar tendon. In most knee injuries, one of the tendons is ruptured.”
Beth nods. She has heard of the ACL.
“Arthroscopic surgery, using a small camera, can repair the tendons, except in the most severe of cases. You, unfortunately, Beth, are one of those severe cases.”
Beth closes her eyes. Her brave front is crumbling. She’s going to start crying. Goddamnit, she thinks. She’s tempted to tell her mom to leave the room when Dr. Cunningham starts again.
“In your case, you blew apart all three tendons. Something that happens in maybe one in a thousand knee injuries. Again, unfortunately, the patella also shattered, severing the tendon and significantly damaging the nerve endings.”
Through the tears in her eyes, Beth can see her mother put her head in her hands. Beth wants someone to touch her, to comfort her, but she won’t ask. If Peter were here, he would hold her.
I need Peter, she thinks.
“What were you able to do?” she manages to say. Her lip trembles, and she knows she’s about to lose it.
“We immediately prepped you for surgery, repaired the three tendons, and worked to reattach the nerves, cutting away the strands that simply couldn’t be saved. There were quite a few of them. Not a lot, but…”
“…enough.”
Dr. Cunningham nods.
“Enough to ruin me forever?” Beth says. Her voice is rising, unsteady. Don’t get hysterical, she thinks.
“Wonderful things… “
“Doctor.”
“ …can be achieved in therapy. Miraculous recoveries...”
“Stop.”
“…happen all the time.”
Beth slaps her hand down on the tray table next to her. Dr. Cunningham gives an involuntary jerk. “Tell me the truth,” she barks. Her voice is raw and ragged. I’m falling apart, she thinks, just like my knee.
“You’re facing a lot of therapy. You may play basketball again. However, it most likely won’t be at the level you’re playing now.”
“How long before I’ll know?” Beth is thinking. Six weeks. Didn’t a pro recently have knee surgery and was playing six weeks later? She’s sure of it.
“You’ll have a lot of swelling. You’ll have to wear a brace. And you’ll need at least a year of therapy before you can play again.”
A year? Beth closes her eyes.
Gone. The scholarship. Getting out of Silver Lake. College.
It’s all gone.
The shot went in.
They won the game.
But it’s over.
Finally, the tears come. She sobs into the pillow and longs for a caressing hand. A gentle touch. She doesn’t want to ask. But she needs someone to hold her.
When she finally lifts her head, she looks around the room.
It’s empty.
Chapter 24
“What are you doing, Ackerman?”
“Loading ordnance,” Samuel says.
The four sailors surrounding the bomb rack fall silent.
“No, you’re not,” says the lanky black man named Wilkins. He is supervising Samuel at the moment. “You are definitely not loading ordnance. You are screwing up the ordnance, sailor. You are creating a dangerous situation, Ackerman. Loading ordnance is about the only thing you are not doing.”
Samuel throws cold water on the fire that’s starting to burn in the pit of his stomach.
Wilkins looks at Samuel in wonderment. “A very dangerous situation. You see this here clasp? You gotta lock that down.” Wilkins uses his long fingers to fold the metal hinge in place. It slams into place with a satisfying chunk. “Otherwise, ordnance pushes against it, it fails, and we got a live warhead clattering around the deck of our ship. Ready to blow your best buddy to hell and back. You understand the situation you could have created, Ackerman?”
“Yes.” The anger, the fire, is doused. But it is replaced by a bubbling thrill that shoots up Samuel’s spine. It’s a tingle of adventure, spurred by the memory of slitting Nevens’ throat.
“Dummy,” he says.
Wilkins turns back to him. “What did you say?”
“I said dummy. Good thing the bomb is a dummy. Not the real thing.” He can barely hold back the smile that’s fighting to get out of his throat and spread across his face. What’s wrong with him? He’s gotta keep things under control. Focus, he tells himself. Focus.
“Are you being a smartass, Ackerman?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Good.” He backs away from Samuel. “Come on, let’s see you do this right.”
Samuel turns back to his task, as do the others, and snaps the clasps, locks the ordnance in place. It is a simple task. The only reason he didn’t do it right the first time is because he was daydreaming.
Imagining his return to the beach in Coronado, California.
The small meeting room is stark and bare. A table and four chairs sit under a single light fixture. There is a wastebasket in the corner.
Seated at the table is Wilkins.
“Sit down, Ackerman.”
Samuel takes a seat across from Wilkins. He sees the black man’s brown eyes, a little bit yellow in the corners. The black man eases back in his chair and smiles at Samuel.
“Any idea why I called you here?’
“No.”
“I checked your ass out. You couldn’t handle BUD/S, could you?”
Samuel doesn’t respond.
“I read up on you, boy. Know you wanna be a Navy SEAL. Put it right down when you first joined the Navy. So let me ask you again. You wanna be a Navy SEAL?”
“Yes I do.” Samuel’s face is getting hot. But inside, an icy cold has sunk into his body. He sits absolutely still.
“I was just wondering about you because you don’t seem to be too impressed with what we do in ordnance. Maybe you’re thinkin’ that in comparison to that bullshit out in California that you think this ordnance training is a bunch of little piddly stuff. That right, Seaman Ackerman?”
Dead on, Samuel thinks. The icy feeling is washed away by Wilkins’ words. The anger returns. Seeps back into his blood. Heats it.
“No.”
Samuel’s head is pounding. He stares straight ahead, over Wilkins’ shoulder. Instead of seeing the wall, he sees long rows of missile drones. The large bombs hanging from thick chains. The pulley rack with its many nip points.
“You know I can scrub you from this program?” Wilkins leans forward, getting in Samuel’s face. It reminds Samuel of Nevens. Wilkins’ teeth are yellow, the front one chipped. His breath smells like stale coffee.
“Yes, I know that.”
“You get scrubbed enough, maybe you get your ass scrubbed right out of the Navy.”
Samuel stares straight ahead, but says nothing.
“Bye-bye, Navy SEAL.”
“I understand that.” The words come from his mouth, choked.
“Keep it in mind. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Chapter 25
The last rays of the day are gone, replaced by the first stars of the night as Samuel walks to the on-base fitness center. He opens the glass door and steps inside. Like everything associated with keeping sailors fit, it’s state of the art. It’s a huge room, over three thousand square feet. Treadmills, elliptical trainers, rowing machines, stationary bikes, free weights, Nautilus equipment, all of it new and impeccably maintained.
> Samuel has on shorts, tennis shoes, and a gray Navy T-shirt. Wrapped inside the towel is another T-shirt, blue, a naval baseball cap, and a pair of sunglasses.
He glances around the giant room and sees that most of the bikes are being used. Samuel asks the woman behind the desk, a stern-faced, tall woman with black hair, for the bike form. The fitness center allows 60 minutes per machine, longer if no one’s waiting. Samuel signs his name clearly and puts the time next to it.
He crosses the room, glances back over his shoulder and sees that the woman behind the counter has turned her back on him and he quickly veers away from the exercise bicycles and slips into the locker room.
There is a mist in the air and it’s very hot as Samuel walks through the locker area and finds the exit door next to the bathrooms. Shrouded in the room’s mist, Samuel pauses by the door, strips off his gray T-shirt and puts on the blue one. Then he puts on the baseball cap and the sunglasses. He opens the door and steps out into a small corridor that leads to the pool. There is also an exit door next to the pool that leads to the rear entrance of the fitness building.
Samuel steps outside and walks purposefully toward the ordnance hangar. Everything should be on schedule. After several weeks of constant surveillance, Samuel knows that Wilkins should be running final checks on the ordnance supply, an exercise he performs by himself every night.
Alone.
Samuel hears voices and changes direction, keeping his face hidden from two sailors heading for the living quarters. He readjusts his course and, a minute later, is standing at the door to the Ordnance Training Center. He takes off his sunglasses and walks in. The faint metallic squeal of the door is lost in the cavernous silence of the big hangar.
Samuel lets his eyes adjust to the darker interior. He spots Wilkins standing near the small metal desk at the rear of the hangar. In his hands is a clipboard.
Samuel’s cross-trainer tennis shoes make no noise on the cement floor as he advances toward the petty officer.
He passes a small worktable and silently scoops up the biggest crescent wrench of the bunch. It feels good in his hands. He walks toward Wilkins, his blood pounding. Samuel thinks of Nevens at the beach.
