Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “What’s wrong?” Beth says.

  She looks down at her left leg and it’s bent backwards, all twisted and mangled. She’s wearing Barbie tennis shoes and her left one is pointed backwards. Blood is on it. Her father starts screaming and she turns to him, to tell him to stop screaming, that he’s scaring her. But her father is dead. The blotchy skin on his face hugs his bones. Now Beth starts screaming and he smiles at her, a gruesome baring of his teeth.

  Beth is still screaming when the sepia tones begin to blaze, turning the whole picture smoky, leaving the images in a heap of charred remains.

  Beth awakes in her hospital room. Her mouth is dry and she’s crying. Her tongue feels thick and wooden. She’s awake but everything seems unreal and disconnected.

  “Drugs,” she says. “I’m on drugs.”

  A sound reaches her ears. It’s not a pleasant sound. But it’s familiar. She takes a certain comfort in that. But not much.

  “Water,” she says. A vague shape crosses in front of her and a moment later, it looms over her. Something is held to her lips and she instinctively drinks. The water is cool but not cold. It slides down her throat, her parched tissues soak it up instantly.

  “Beth?” The voice is even more familiar to her. Mom. Her Mom? The thought works its way through Beth’s highly medicated consciousness.

  “Mom?”

  A gasp at the sound. Then the voice calling out: Nurse! Nurse!

  “Mom.”

  “Shh. Everything’s all right. Nurse!”

  “Where am I? Oh, you’re calling a nurse. Duh.”

  “The hospital. Beaumont Hospital, Beth. I’m here, too.”

  The sepia colors come back. They wash over Beth like the first stages of deep sleep. She succumbs to them for several minutes. Then she opens her eyes again. This time, there are no shadows. No vague shapes. She sees her mother sitting in a chair, wringing her hands. Next to her is a giant bulletin board tacked with cards and balloons. A door is to the left. It’s open and Beth can see a small room with a toilet inside.

  Beth looks at the television bolted to a shelf suspended from the ceiling. The screen is blank. She wonders where the remote control is. Beth looks down at her body. It’s hidden beneath the blankets. Her pajama top is white with blue stripes.

  I can’t feel my leg.

  The images start ricocheting through her mind. The basketball game. The Tank. The end where she steals the ball and races down the court.

  The collision.

  The screaming.

  Beth remembers looking down at her leg. Her strong, smooth, beautiful leg. How it was mangled and bent and…destroyed. Like in the dream with her father.

  “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 he 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 fucking 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 overhead 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.

  Twenty-One

  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 the floor Beth is on. 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? It’s just one thing after another. God shits on her. But no, she corrects herself. There is no God. No God would have put Vince through the Hell he did.

  It’s like the world wants to piss on Anna Fischer. That’s what it is. 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. The fucking scholarship. What’s going to happen now? Will the scouts, the coaches, will they all wait until next season when Beth will be better? How does it work? Anna has no idea. Vince would have known. Anna silently curses herself. If she had a dime for every time she’d had that thought, she wouldn’t be in the rotten position she’s in.

  Fuck you, world. She wants to scream it out loud.

  Instead, 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?

  Twenty-Two

  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 is going to send them, but decides it’s a chickenshit move so he comes to the hospital in person. 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, is tempted to stroke her hair and kiss her, but doesn’t. Doctor’s orders.

  Instead, he 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. She was the only scout who was interested in Beth, from the only school who was considering Beth for a scholarship: Northern Illinois University. Without that scholarship, Beth would be devastated. Peter knows Beth’s mother is a drunk and that any money brought into the household is spent immediately. Except for whatever Beth can hide.

  Without a scholarship, Beth would have to stay home, and struggle to pay for community college. If she could afford it at all.

  The scout, her name is Monica Davies, walks into the lounge area, recognizes Peter and walks over.
/>
  “Peter.”

  He stands. “Hi. It’s…”

  “Monica. Monica Davies, Assistant Coach from Northern Illinois?” She offers her hand, which Peter takes. They’d met when Monica had made a recruiting visit to Beth’s house. Beth had asked Peter to sit in on it.

  “That’s right. Hi Monica.”

  The scout takes a seat next to Peter. “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 Lake Orion. To move on to bigger and better things.

  “You’re taking away her scholarship, aren’t you?”

  “The injury took away her scholarship.”

  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 didn’t want to give it to Beth. Couldn’t imagine it. But how could he refuse?

  On top of everything else?

  The scout stands.

  “Thanks. And good luck. You’re going to Marquette, right?”

  Peter nods. How had she known? Probably his coach. They all talked like grandmothers at a Bingo hall.

  The scout 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.

  Peter 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.

  Chickenshit.

  The word sounds 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 Forbes 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 tucks the letter into his jacket pocket and leaves.

  Twenty-Three

  “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, “It’s bad.”

  “I don’t like to put things in terms of good or bad,” Dr. Cunningham answers. “Like I said, the damage is extensive.”

  “Oh, Beth,” Anna says.

  “When can I play again?” she says, ignoring her mother.

  “Play?”

  “Basketball.”

  “Basketball.”

  “Yeah. When can I play basketball again,” Beth says, her words slow and overly enunciated

  “Beth,” her mother warns her.

  “Why don’t I first detail what has happened,” Dr. Cunningham says.

  “Yes,” Beth says. She keeps her voice steady, but it is a struggle. Tears threaten to come into her eyes, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to cry in front of her mother. That’ll just set her off, too. Or make her take another drink from the cup on the table next to her. Like she’s fooling anyone, Beth thinks. For a moment, Beth looks at her mother and thinks, why don’t you hold me? But then the thought is gone, replaced by Dr. Cunningham’s voice.

  “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, is able to 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 of a thousand knee injuries. Again, unfortunately, the patella also shattered, severing the tendon and damaging the nerve endings. A lot of damage.”

  Through the tears in her eyes, Beth can see her mother put her head in her hands. Beth wants someone to touch 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 coming unglued she thinks, just like my knee.

  “You’re facing a lot of therapy. You will play basketball again. You most likely won’t play at the level you’re playing now.”

  “How long? 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. Six weeks. She looks at Dr. Cunningham. Wills him to say ‘six weeks.’

  “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 Lake Orion. College.

  It’s all gone.

  The shot went in.

  They won the game.

  But it’s all gone.

  Everything.

  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, more than she’s ever needed anyone or anything.

  When she finally lifts her head, she looks around the room.

  It’s empty.

  Twenty-Four

  “What the fuck are you doing, Ackerman?”

  “Loading ordnance, sir,” Samuel says.

  “Ackerman.” Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins is a lanky black man from Alabama. His voice is like a rusty saw. His huge nostrils are flared.

  “Yes, sir.�
� The four sailors surrounding the bomb rack fall silent.

  “No, you’re not. You are definitely not loading ordnance. You are fucking 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.

  Petty Officer Wilkins looks at Samuel in wonderment. “A very dangerous situation. You see this here clasp? You gotta lock that down, Seaman.” 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, sir.” 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.

  Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins turns back to him. “What did you say?”

  “I said dummy. Good thing the bomb is a dummy. Not the real thing. Sir.” 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 sir.”

  “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 Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins.

  “Sit down, Ackerman.”

  “Yes, sir.” 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.