Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  All around Anna, people are on their feet, screaming. The noise is incredible and for a moment, Anna almost faints. The people in front of her have jumped to their feet so she stands quickly. Too quickly. The noise, the screaming, she sways on her feet, reaching out to hold onto the shirt sleeve of the person standing next to her.

  Through the gap between the people in front of her, Anna sees Beth racing to the basket. Sees Beth leap toward the basket, the ball outstretched in one hand. The moment is frozen by the pop of dozens of flashbulbs.

  And then Anna sees the stocky girl crash into Beth.

  They both fall in a heap.

  Fear rips Anna’s heart apart. She drops the big plastic cup to the floor of the bleachers. It splashes onto her shoes. She pushes her way through the people in front of her, stumbles and falls. Someone says something to her but she can’t hear them.

  The crowd continues to scream but Anna’s mind is filled with white noise, a buzzing like electricity. She fights her way to the bottom of the bleachers and onto the court. She runs forward, players stepping aside for her to pass.

  The screaming is louder, growing in intensity. And then Anna realizes that her mouth is open.

  And that she’s screaming. The images pass before her eyes. She sees Beth’s father in the hospital, dying. She sees Beth, featured in hellish postcards from a place so full of pain that Anna staggers as if struck.

  She weaves her way to the huddle of people under the basket and she can see Beth on the ground.

  She pushes through.

  Anna sees Beth’s leg.

  By the time she finishes wailing “No!” blackness has engulfed her.

  Fourteen

  Peter Forbes stands rooted to the bleachers. Next to him, Doug and the others are jumping up and down, yelling, clapping each other on the back, oblivious to the scene unfolding under the basket.

  “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” Doug shouts. His face is flushed and a big dopey grin stretches across his face. He looks at Peter. “Come on, man! We won! Beth did it! We won! Woo-hoo!” Doug claps Peter on the back.

  Peter’s body is cold. His eyes are frozen to the small group of people under the basket. He wants to run onto the court. To go to Beth. But he can’t. He can only stand there. Unmoving.

  “Pete! What the fuck’s wrong with you? We won!”

  Peter watches the older woman push her way through the players. Peter recognizes her. She is Beth’s mother.

  The fucking drunk.

  Oh, God no.

  “Pete,” Doug said, grabbing him by the arm. Doug looks out at the court. At Beth under the basket. He is shouting, as is everyone around them. “She’s going to be all right, man. Probably twisted an ankle.”

  All around them, the students are chanting. “Nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye!”

  Peter sees Beth’s mother collapse to the floor.

  She never saw it coming, he thinks. And it’s not over with yet.

  “Pete, stop looking like a fucking zombie. Your girlfriend’s going to be all right,” Doug says again.

  Peter wrenches his arm away from Doug and starts toward the court. Toward Beth.

  His legs feel like oak. His stomach roils and he feels the Coke in his stomach churn. He wants to puke and cry at the same time.

  “No, she’s not,” he says.

  Fifteen

  Beth hears the screaming. She is short of breath, feels like a weight is pressing down on her lungs. From the fast break? The run down the court?

  No. She feels the warmth on her body. Feels the weight of the Tank on her body. Feels the sweat, the dampness of the girl on top of her.

  Beth cranes her neck to see the basket. To see if the ball went through but it’s too late. She looks for the scoreboard, but it’s above her and she can’t see it from that angle.

  The screaming continues. But whose fans are they?

  The Tank gets off her, and turns toward Beth, holding out her hand. Beth thinks that she should reach out, take hold of the girl’s hand and get up. But it’s as if once the weight is taken from her body, the signals from her leg reach her brain.

  The pain.

  It comes in a blinding flash like a bolt of lightning.

  The Tank, holding out her hand, looks down at Beth’s body, then brings her hand to her mouth.

  And starts screaming.

  Beth closes her eyes. The pain swarms her body. It attacks her leg like a thousand wasps, burying their stingers in her leg.

  No, Beth thinks. Not her leg.

  Her knee.

  She forces her eyes open. Tears are streaming from her face. Watery, indistinct images loom over her.

  She hears voices. Gasps. And more screams.

  Beth uses the sweatband on her left forearm to wipe away the tears. She tries to sit up even though hands push her back toward the court. She pushes harder and gets to a sitting position.

  And then she looks down.

  An optical illusion, she thinks.

  Her right leg, smooth and supple is the way it always is. The quadriceps nicely defined, tapering down to her calf muscle where her shin narrows down to her white crew socks and Nike hi-tops.

  But her left leg isn’t…recognizable. The quadriceps, thick and strong, is there. But the knee…the knee…isn’t…

  …there…

  Beth remembers a time when she was trying to break a thick branch for firewood at a Girl Scout camping trip. The branch was too green. But she broke it, and then tried to twist it apart, the fibers and strands of wood not separating, just twisting. Beth remembers trying to break it off, but it wouldn’t, so she just twisted it and twisted it and twisted it until it was hanging there by a single strand…all mangled…

  Now it’s Beth’s turn to scream.

  She can’t beat to look at what’s left of her leg. Instead, she turns toward the faces around her. Beth sees her mother. Watches her mother’s face in the process of crumpling. Her mother falls to the ground.

  Later, in the hospital, Beth remembers that moment. Remembers her mother fainting, remembers the words that flashed through her mind:

  Useless. Absolutely fucking useless. Like always.

  Hands reach for Beth.

  She has stopped screaming and is now sobbing.

  The pain scorches its way up her spine and pounds her brain. She reels and slumps back onto the court. She thinks of Peter. Peter will help her. She imagines his strong, handsome face.

  Where is he?

  The voices and the images recede into blackness but before she joins them, two words escape her mouth like rats from a sinking ship.

  “Who won?”

  Sixteen

  Samuel stands outside the squat brick building, the palmetto leaves slapping lazily against one another in the warm breeze. He lets the sun shine on his face. Lets it warm him.

  His hotel room was cold last night, an adjustable thermostat that ignored any adjustment and simply blew cool air around the small, dingy room. He has been in many hotel rooms recently, always paying cash, always staying away from the chains and going to anonymous places on the outskirts of the cities and towns he drove through. The trip to Florida from San Diego was a slow one. Samuel was careful to follow the speed limit, not wanting any record of his trip logged in a cop’s paperwork.

  Now, the Naval base at Pensacola, Florida was his new home. Where he would have to make due until his next chance for BUD/S training: eighteen months away. It was a long time, but he could do it.

  The Florida sun was hot, much stronger than southern California. In the week since he sent BUD/S instructor Nevens and his blonde whore to the great boot camp in the sky, cold has always reminded Samuel of the water that night.

  Now, he pauses a moment longer, the sun’s heat intense on his face. His eyes shielded by from the rays by sunglasses. Finally, when the warmth threatens to bring a line of sweat to his forehead, he turns and enters the building.

  •

  Commander Lowry’s office is on the se
cond floor. Samuel climbs the stairs with neither anticipation nor dread. He is starting back at square one. The frustration, the depression, are gone. Because he isn’t really starting back at square one. Nevens is gone.

  The door is open and he walks in. On the walls there are photos and illustrations of ships, but Samuel ignores them. He walks toward the metal desk directly in front of him and the woman sitting behind it. The secretary is a woman in her forties with a tired face and a pointy chin, which she uses to gesture Samuel toward the two shoddy chairs just outside the door to the CO’s office.

  Samuel takes the least flimsy chair and looks at the pile of magazines and newspapers on the cheap veneered table between the chairs. He skips the Sports Illustrated and the Men’s Health. Instead, he spies a newsletter published by the Navy called All Hands.

  On the front page is a picture of deceased BUD/S Instructor Larry Nevens.

  Samuel’s heart shudders.

  He scans the story quickly. A brutal murder. Nevens was last seen with a woman, Rhonda McFarland, who is still missing. She looked like a Rhonda, Samuel thinks.

  There are no suspects in custody. A reward is offered for more information.

  Samuel reads on about Nevens’ background, noting that there is no mention of what a cocksucking prick he was. A small throbbing, a muffled thudding of pain builds in Samuel’s head. His hand goes above his right eye and he rubs it while he reads.

  Finally, Samuel puts down the paper. He closes his eyes and slows his breathing.

  Suddenly, Samuel feels good. Confident.

  When he goes back to BUD/S training, he will be in better shape, mentally prepared for the ordeal ahead. But through it all, he will have one thing on his side.

  He will be the only of the recruits who has actually killed a Navy SEAL.

  A small smile appears on Samuel’s face.

  When he looks up, the secretary is watching him.

  “He’ll see you now.”

  Seventeen

  “Afternoon, Commander,” Samuel says, standing at attention and saluting.

  “At ease,” Lowry says. Samuel drops his hand and relaxes his stance. He takes in Lowry; a thin man with narrow shoulders and a thin face hidden by giant aviator glasses. He looks like an insect, Samuel thinks. He imagines squashing Commander Lowry’s head. Sees the buggy eyes pop out of the man’s skull.

  But the eyes behind the lenses are intelligent and quick. Samuel instinctively senses the man’s intelligence. Lowry’s office is neat as a pin. Not a paper out of place. Even the pens on the left side of the desk are symmetrically arranged.

  Weak, but smart, Samuel thinks. And a by-the-book kind of freak.

  “I see you almost made it through Hell Week,” Lowry says. The smile tries to tell Samuel that hey, it happens to the best of us.

  “Almost, sir” Samuel says, keeping his voice even. The pain in his head flares up. I’d like to wipe that fucking smile off your face. You and your chicken bone arms and bug eyes wouldn’t have lasted one minute. So come on, be an asshole, Samuel thinks. Give me shit about it.

  The bug eyes focus on Samuel. Their eyes meet and something momentarily flashes through Lowry’s before he looks back down at the folder in front of him. He briefly imagines slitting Lowry’s throat and feeding him to the sharks. A calm, peaceful feeling makes its way through his body.

  “You’re from Michigan?” Lowry asks.

  “Lake Orion, sir.”

  “All your life?”

  “Yes, sir.” Samuel gives a nearly imperceptible nod.

  Lowry leans back in his chair. “I’m from Wisconsin. Don’t miss it all. All that snow and bitter cold.” He shudders as if a blast of Arctic air has stormed through the office. “I’ll take Florida any day. Golfing in January! Can’t beat it, my man.” Lowry smiles and Samuel notes the crooked teeth. Samuel imagines that Lowry doesn’t smile too often.

  “Yes, sir,” Samuel says.

  “I’m going to assign you to ordnance. According to your enlistment papers, you expressed an interest in weapons. Does that sound good to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lowry jots something down in the folder then looks up at Samuel. “Are you planning to try again at BUD/S?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Now it’s Lowry’s turn for a slight nod.

  “Well, welcome aboard. Report to Hangar F2 tomorrow morning at 0800 sharp. Your supervisor will be Lieutenant Murphy. That’ll be all.”

  Samuel stands and salutes, then leaves the office.

  Outside, he steadies his hands. The sun has disappeared, hiding behind a thick wall of black clouds. The air is cool.

  Rain, Samuel thinks.

  Eighteen

  Samuel is pleased to learn that he’ll have his own room. Apparently space is so limited that the only bunks available are the private rooms normally reserved for officers. A single room is a rarity among the lower ranks of the Navy. Not that Samuel’s a newbie, exactly. He’s already an E-3.

  The room is very small, about eight feet by ten feet. A single bed takes up one wall. A desk and dresser are along the other side. Samuel stows his gear in the foot locker at the foot of the bed. Before closing it, he reaches into the sleeve on the outside of his duffel bag. From it, he pulls a single sheet of paper, folded several times. He takes it to the desk and carefully unfolds it. Smooths it out along the top of the desk. From the desk’s top drawer he takes a push pin and tacks the paper to the small bulletin board on the wall above the desk.

  Samuel goes to the bed and lays down on his side, so he can look at the picture. It’s of a Navy SEAL, his face in camo, a knife in his hand. The eyes jump from the page. Deep blue. Bright. Dangerous. It’s the same picture that Samuel has been looking at since he was very young. It was from a magazine. A National Geographic maybe. That face. Those eyes. They’ve given Samuel strength during times when he’s desperately needed it. Now, he looks into those eyes.

  They remind Samuel of his own eyes.

  He can see himself in their place. Stalking. The knife in his hand. He’s done that, in fact.

  He doesn’t know how long he sleeps. He dreams of Nevens.Samuel awakes in a cold sweat. He sits up, his head is pounding. He rubs his temples, massages his forehead. When his heart slows and his breathing becomes normal, he rises slowly, gets his running gear out from his duffel and runs along the course outside the barracks. The air is cool, cleansed by an afternoon rain. He pushes himself along the jogging path.

  Another phase, he thinks. Nevens gone. A fresh start. And now, more physical training for his next shot at the BUD/S course.

  He runs approximately seven miles, then finishes his work out with pull ups, push ups and sits ups.

  When he’s done, his body is flooded with adrenaline, his mind drenched with endorphins. He feels powerful. Ready for battle.

  Nothing will stop him.

  Nothing.

  And no one.

  Nineteen

  “If you ain’t ordnance, you ain’t shit.”

  Samuel wants to laugh at the short, squat lieutenant. Murphy. Lieutenant Murphy. Crewcut. Pale face. A zit or two.

  “That’s our motto around here,” he says. “You like it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Samuel says. He thinks Lieutenant Murphy is shit and that the pathetic pride he takes in being in charge of ordnance is shit, too. But he keeps it to himself and tries to ignore the faint pounding in his head.

  Murphy walks ahead of him, along a row of missiles and bombs. Samuel sees more pimples at the base of Murphy’s head. “These are drones we use for training,” Murphy says. “You’ll work with these for approximately three months before we assign you to a ship where you’ll use the real deal. Maybe you’ll get a chance to give some sand monkey a wake-up call, know what I’m saying Samuel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Murphy walks Samuel around a corner where an ordnance team is working on loading a bomb rack. They move fast, hoisting together at the count of three, sliding bombs into rack
s, clamping them down, moving missiles suspended by thick chains along a pulley system.

  “One team I trained,” Murphy says. “Finished here and two days later I saw them on CNN, on a carrier, loading the real thing to drop over there. One of them wrote, ‘This Bomb’s For You’ on the missile. That’s the kind of group we are, Samuel. We don’t take shit from anybody.”

  Samuel doesn’t say anything, watches the sailors working on loading the bombs. A senior ordnance officer watches, pushes them. Barks orders.

  Christ, he thinks. Why did he ever put down an interest in weapons when he first joined up? Samuel thinks about it. Has memories of his mother dying when he was in high school. The foster home he went to where they openly despised him but loved the paycheck that social services sent them for his expenses.

  “…points…”

  “Sorry, sir?” Samuel sees Murphy watching him.

  “Nip points,” he says, pointing at the pulley system surrounded by an ordnance team of three. “I was telling you that one of the biggest dangers of working in ordnance is nip points. Places where two moving parts come together. They can pinch off fingers, hands, even limbs. Nip points. You’ve got to be careful.”

  Careful, Samuel thinks.

  I can be careful.

  Twenty

  The dream is in sepia tones; warm browns, burnished golds, rich shadows. It’s late autumn, late in the day and Beth is a young girl. She’s sitting on her father’s shoulders. A basketball is in her hands. Beth is just strong enough to lift the ball. Beneath her, her father maneuvers the two of them closer to the basket. When they’re right under it, he reaches up and lifts her as high as he can. The rim is just a foot away. Beth tries to push the ball up, but she loses control and the ball falls from her hands. Her father laughs and sets her down. He chases after the ball and brings it back. He’s about to scoop her up into his arms but he steps back, his face full of mute horror.