Every Time I Think of You

by Jim Provenzano

  “So, what’s your address?” Holly asked me, oddly changing the topic from Everett’s accident.

  “Why?”

  “The photos? The ones I took of you two?”

  I had forgotten about them. Between the talk of visits and calming each other, hopes and panic, the unspoken thought between us was that I might be the last person to ever make love with Everett, and those photos were the testament.

  Chapter 19

  What I had initially considered a less than perfect romantic night with Everett –that night at his sister’s apartment– would become my salvation over the next several weeks. Holly became my telephone informant, a go-between for updates on Everett’s condition.

  I didn’t have the temerity to ask if, in the middle of it all, he’d mentioned me. But somewhere in her second or third call, after her work and hospital visits, she said, “He wanted to know if you got the tape he sent.” I told her to tell him I did, and I loved it.

  My mention of the newspaper article didn’t surprise her, at first. The Greensburg Tribune featured a photo of an ambulance parked next to the school playing field, taken by some ambitious Pinecrest student photographer, and beside it, the smiling senior portrait of Everett. The headline read, ‘Forrestville Teen in Sports Accident.’

  “On the front page?” Holly said in disbelief.

  “Well, not much happens around here, as you may recall.”

  “Damn. Slow news day,” she added caustically.

  Not knowing whether to suggest sending her the clipping, I also didn’t say that I’d snuck out of the house to buy two more copies. Each night, I stared at the newspaper photos.

  School became a ghost walk. Coasting on my eleven and a half years of good grades, I almost forgot about the senior college placement exams, until mimeographed pages of reminder schedules were doled out in class. Study? Why? Track practice continued. Training? Why bother?

  Forcing myself through the habits of high school, for the next week I shifted books and objects from one place to another; cleats on, cleats off, pencils dulled, clothes discarded or not, as my body sat, walked, ran, then collapsed.

  “Reid?”

  A parent, I forget which one, wanted to have a talk.

  “We know you’re upset, but there’s nothing you can do. We just have to hope for the best.”

  Platitudes over plates of food, consumed, digested and excreted. Flower arrangements and Get Well cards chosen, delivered. Television, records and silence, heard and ignored.

  “Reid?”

  And then, I got another call from Holly, late at night. She sounded a little drunk.

  “They’re going to do another operation, but he’s probably paralyzed for life.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s, they said it’s in the lumbar region, his lower back.”

  “That means he might–”

  “They’re not making any promises. He’s probably… oh, Reid, it’s so awful. He’s gonna be on his stomach, just laying there, with stitches on his back for a few weeks. And they keep dragging him off for more X-rays, and he’s got all these fucking tubes in his–”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can he talk?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s just slow-going right now.”

  “Okay.”

  She sounded exhausted. I stopped asking questions.

  “But we’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “He didn’t break his neck,” Holly said. “It’s what they call an incomplete injury. That means he might get some sensation below the injury. Because it was so low–”

  “Lumbar,” I recalled, like some strange new mantra.

  “Right.”

  A pause, and Holly sighed, overwhelmed. I wanted to be strong. But instead, out it came, pleading, “I need to see him.”

  “I know. But you have to wait.”

  “I know.” I didn’t, actually.

  Between sniffles and swears, Holly updated me on every detail she could think of. I listened to each aspect of his accident, tying and untying a corner of my T-shirt into and out of knots.

  While my own parents would come to be clear in their defenses over the ensuing weeks, other people would prove to be barriers, and opposition sprang up from the least likely places.

  Chapter 20

  Why I Need New Glasses;

  A Mandatory Essay Composed in My First,

  and Hopefully Last, Detention Period

  by Reid Conniff

  Testosterone, a steroid hormone from the androgen group, is found in mammals, reptiles, birds and most vertebrates. In mammals, it is secreted in the testes of males and the ovaries of females. The male mammal produces ten times the amount of testosterone as females of the same species.

  Testosterone in males plays a key role in the development of muscle mass, bones and body hair. Although, contrary to images portrayed in popular culture, when produced in excess, it can result in the loss of body hair, particularly on the head. Inconclusive studies have presumed that excess testosterone production, and possibly excessive masturbation, may lead to premature balding. This is contrary to anecdotal folklore regarding hair on palms, which is scientifically impossible, as the flesh of the palms of homo sapiens do not normally include hair follicles.

  This essay will focus on male mammals, and show, by recent example, the hazards of its secretion in excess or conditions of stress.

  Confrontation between male homo sapiens can often lead to a sudden production of adrenaline.

  Adrenaline is a hormone secreted by the adrenal medulla after stimulation in the central nervous system in response to stress, anger, or fear.

  It is my conjecture that the events which led to my detention are marked by excess production of a combination of testosterone and adrenaline on the part of one homo sapiens named Wendell Graff.

  Following the news of the traumatic accident and subsequent hospitalization of a close friend, my performance as a member of our high school’s track and field team’s long distance individual event competitions became what can objectively be called sub-par.

  This generally decreased the quality of my running form and my concluding time results. But at no time did our adult supervisor, the team coach of both Mr. Graff and myself, ever imply by word or action that I might consider removing myself from the competition roster.

  Yet Mr. Graff, whose verbiage and remarks are regularly tinged with racist, homophobic and generally inane comments both on and off the field of competition, saw fit to make himself a representative, without consent, for the entire team, via negative critique of my performance. This occurred on several occasions, mostly at tournaments, but also in training sessions.

  Mr. Graff, whose body type can accurately be described as an endomorph, or in the vernacular, husky, portly, or in crude form, fat, possesses limited experience in the athletic events to which I am more experienced, specifically, long endurance aerobic activity through running.

  Mr. Graff, who is limited in his expertise in the field area of throwing objects, took it upon himself to share, aloud, in the company of fellow teammates, misinformed and inexperienced comments about my decrease in competitive skills. Graphic and monosyllabic terms used for female genitalia and homosexuals were the most common terms uttered.

  It was upon the day in question when Mr. Graff offered up a puzzling conundrum.

  Diverting his unsolicited critiques away from athletic skills, Mr. Graff called into question a previous private event involving myself and another person –not a student at this school– to which his opinion was neither relevant nor requested. I later learned that his information was gathered from a gossiping cousin of Mr. Graff who worked at the place where he had seen myself and the other person.

  As an odd and irrelevant comparison, Mr. Graff noted my infrequency in the school’s locker room and shower facility after training sessions as being worth questioning my masculinity.

  It was at that point that I queried
Mr. Graff, and I quote, “So, not wanting to see you naked makes me a fag?”

  At that point, Mr. Graff, apparently at a loss for words, took to fisticuffs. My glasses were strewn from their place on my person and fell aside. Mr. Graff then hit me again, inducing my bloody nose, a mild non-concussive wound, which healed soon afterward.

  It was then that our fellow teammates, specifically fellow senior Kevin Muir, intervened, and the physical aspects of the argument were halted, while loud words continued to be exchanged until our supervising coach intervened.

  By using this incident as a personal example of a possible chemical imbalance of testosterone and adrenaline at the stressful moments described, it is my layman’s opinion that Mr. Graff be asked to undergo drug testing, psychological counseling, and if needs be, expulsion from our fine learning institution.

  Formal legal proceedings are unnecessary. However, financial compensation for a pair of replacement prescription glasses, amounting in the sum of $43, seems only fair.

  Chapter 21

  Packing a few things for my visit to Everett, I felt a change in my thoughts about him. My fear of him dissolved. My worries about his reckless nature, the way he used his charm, and my jealousy of it and his friends, all became pointless.

  While both my parents had expressed an interest in joining me on my first visit to see Everett, they backed off when a flush of emotion overcame me. With few words, they understood the importance of my seeing Everett alone, and my insistence on taking the train to Pittsburgh. I didn’t think I could manage driving.

  Any visitor to Greensburg is quick to notice the

  Clock Tower. It’s a point of pride for the locals, one of the many old-fashioned buildings that give the town its folksy charm. Less than charmed by having missed the train, I waited another half hour after Dad dropped me off.

  In a gesture that I had hoped would lift Everett’s spirits, I had purchased a small baby evergreen tree in a plastic pot and placed a tiny ribbon around the top branch.

  The plant got more than a few glances from other passengers during the wait and through the hour on the train. I set it on the empty seat beside me while I tried to read one of my textbooks.

  Distracted, I gazed out the window as Greensburg gradually changed to the outlying industrial areas, then a green blur of hundreds, then thousands, of trees. That so many of them continued to thrive despite development and wildfires gave me hope.

  I asked a station attendant for the best route to the hospital. The city’s convoluted bus route map confused me at first. But I figured out the one transfer, and finally found myself before an immense grey cement complex of buildings. Weaving around hospital workers, hallways and elevators, it took another twenty minutes to find the ward where Everett’s room was.

  Anxious to finally see him, to present my thoughtful gift to him, I ignored the low laughter I heard as I approached his room, thinking it was from some other patient’s friend.

  But seated with his feet up and crossed at the foot of Everett’s bed was my track teammate and recent helpful defender, Kevin Muir.

  “Hey, Conniff, my man!” Kevin greeted me as if I had merely strolled into a bar like a regular. “How’s that left hook?”

  Everett appeared relaxed, or gave the impression of nonchalance, as easily as an immobile hospital patient could. He looked pale and gaunt.

  Stunned by this pairing, I stood still, the evergreen plant quivering in my hand.

  “Aw, you brought me a little tree,” Everett smiled, sharing what I hoped would be a secret gesture. His look assured me he understood.

  “You just missed his mom a while back,” Kevin said. “She probably would of chased you out with the broom she rode in on.”

  I stood in the doorway, completely flummoxed.

  “We were just talking about you,” Kevin said, casually.

  Yes, casual was apparently the attitude I was expected to assume, despite the fact that I was perplexed by Kevin’s presence, overwhelmed to see Everett, and fighting off the urge to clutch him in my arms and break down sobbing.

  “Givin’ Evey the blow by blow,” Kevin grinned.

  “I told Kev you were gonna stop by,” Everett said, again, casually. But his glance revealed a silent command. Be cool.

  “Huh.”

  “Come here.”

  I leaned in, gave Everett an awkward hug as he stole a brief kiss. I had hoped that his parents’ having paid extra for a private room might provide a more intimate greeting.

  “Ooh, shiner,” Everett reached up. I shivered as his fingers grazed my face.

  “Defending your honor, sir.” I bowed ceremoniously.

  “Thank you for that, and this,” Everett said, holding the plant appreciatively, before he tried to place it on a side table. I took it from him and set it down.

  I started to move back, but Everett’s hand grabbed my arm, so I stood close. “So, how do you–”

  “We been neighbors since we were kids,” Kevin explained. “Used to play together all the time.”

  “Oh, right.” I remembered my mentioning Kevin on our drive to Pittsburgh. Everett’s dismissive tone at the time made me question their connection.

  And then I understood more clearly. Despite Everett’s private school years, they both lived in the wealthy neighborhood on the other side of the forest. Kevin had been his playmate. He got there first.

  “Hey, innit a lil late for a Christmas tree?” Kevin asked.

  “It’s kind of a private joke,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s a silver fir. Actually, most conifers retain their needles through the winter, thus the evergreen name.” I was rambling, Kevin was oblivious, but Everett grinned.

  With my anticipation of a private confession of love and devotion halted by Kevin’s presence, I found a second chair and sat down by Everett’s side. We shared some aimless talk about the track season and Kevin’s slightly boastful tales of accomplishment with pole vault and ‘the ladies.’

  I kept my resentment mostly undetectable, repeating, “So, you guys know each other from when you were kids?”

  “Yeah, for a while.” Kevin’s knowing nod and Everett’s grin betrayed some secret shared history.

  “Until…” Everett hinted.

  “Until,” Kevin echoed. “One Christmas, we were about twelve. I got Evey a BB gun. We weren’t gonna kill anything with it, just shoot at tree trunks. We were always playing in the woods. Anyway, his mom came marching over, bangin’ on our door, and she chewed out my parents like they were criminals, and shoved that gun into their hands. She officially declared us ‘not friends’ after that.”

  Actually, Kevin was somewhat entertaining, and Everett, still weakened by what he was enduring, listened amiably, though his dopey grin may have had more to do with his pain medications.

  In the middle of an awkward pause where we had collectively run out of things to talk about, other than the obvious –Everett’s probably being unable to walk for the rest of his life– and the unspoken –that Everett and I were somewhat secretly boyfriends– Kevin got up, saying he had to “hit the road.”

  “Hey, Kev, do me a favor,” Everett said.

  “Sure, Evey.”

  “Take my bro here out and get him high. Holly says ever since all this, he’s been miserable.”

  For a few moments, they both laughed at me, I thought. But when I falsely joined in as some kind of defense mechanism, the embarrassment passed.

  “Listen, I’m gonna head out.” Kevin leaned over the bed, gave Everett a friendly hug, as much as was possible.

  “Take care,” he said to Everett. Then, as if a date had already been set, Kevin approached me with a manly pat on the shoulder. “Gimme a call tonight. You doin’ anything?”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back home.”

  “Cool. Come on by any time. It’s the white house, down the street from Evey’s.”

  And with that, I was finally alone with Everett. I stood, exaggeratingly stunn
ed.

  “‘Evey?’ Did you call him Kevey?”

  Everett shrugged it off. “I told you. We’re old friends. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “You don’t need to explain.” The joyous tearful reunion I’d anticipated had been derailed.

  “I want to explain,” Everett argued. “You know him from school. I knew him when we were kids, and a little bit after that.”