The Banks of Certain Rivers

by Harrison, Jon

  “I love you, Neil,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze as I hold a branch out of our way. “I really do. You make me so happy.”

  I take a breath to answer, and she stops me.

  “I wasn’t just saying it so you’d say it back, either.”

  “Why do you think I was going to say it back?” I say, and I hope there’s enough moonlight for her to see how I’m grinning. “You’re assuming I was going to say it.” I hope she can hear the wink in my voice. I’m floating on the fine evening, and I want her to know it.

  “Meanie,” she says, but I see she’s smiling too.

  “I love you,” I say. “I love you. Lauren. I love you.”

  We walk along silently, holding hands.

  “I know you do. I know you have a hard time saying it. All this stuff, everything, I know it’s—”

  “I talked to someone,” I say. I’d been waiting to tell Lauren this, waiting to be absolutely sure. I really should wait, but once it starts tumbling out of my mouth I can’t stop it. “A guy my brother knows. Last week. There’s a thing I can do where I basically become her guardian. Our marriage is annulled, but she stays on my insurance. It’s pretty straightforward.”

  We walk, and our shadows are framed by sparkling dew. The air is chilly and I puff out my breath to test if I can see it.

  “Do you really want to?” Lauren asks. “Maybe now isn’t the best time to discuss this. You’re in a state. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I do want to do it. I do. I need to consider how Chris will take it, but I love you, and I want to do this. We should get married, I think.”

  I hear her draw a little breath. “Later, later, later, Neil.”

  “You’re saying you don’t want to?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she says in a small voice, still gripping my hand. “I didn’t say that at all. Just walk with me. Let’s go to your house. I need to warm up before I go. I love you.”

  We come through the pines and into the field, and the moonlight illuminates a low mist floating over the open space. My house is dark from afar, sharply shadowed by the moon, and Christopher’s car is not there. Lauren and I enter through the side door and start to kiss in the kitchen without turning on the light. There’s breathing and the sound of clothes, the sound of me pulling her shirt up to run my hands up her sides to her breasts, the thudding sound of something knocked over on the counter. We move without speaking to the couch, she is undressed, I am undressed, clumsily, laughingly, she is seated and I am kneeling before her. Lauren drapes a blanket over my shoulders.

  “You must be cold,” she whispers. “Come here. I’m cold. Cover me up too.”

  Still kneeling, I come forward, I’m so hard now and her hand goes down to guide me easily inside her. I bring myself forward and her legs go around me, and our breathing lifts to growls and sighs, whimpers and moaning. I am floating, and her body is firm and warm and perfect below me. Faster, faster, her legs up on my shoulders now and she tells me don’t pull out.

  “Don’t, Neil.” Her voice is whispery, nearly a cry. “Don’t pull out. It’s safe now. Come inside me. Now, Neil. Now!”

  Shuddering, collapsing, it’s over. My face against her neck and her pulse throbbing on my lips and it’s over. Together, her arms and legs around me, she whispers “oh, oh, oh” and our breathing returns to us. All over.

  I love you, Lauren. I really do. And this isn’t the only time I want to say it.

  From: xc.coach.kaz@gmail.com

  To:w.kazenzakis@gmail.com

  Sent: September 9, 2:37 am

  Subject:

  _____________________________

  its kind of hard to typ on these screens sometims i kind of think the screen is bright in the dark especiallly its dark here in the bathroom you probably never even got to see a phone like this ever did you?

  alan watches out for me, you know. he doesnt let me go to far.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I blink my eyes open to full daylight in my bedroom and stretch; the sound of Chris opening and closing the front door has awakened me. I stretch again, thankful that my regimen of running and frequent hydration has granted me a sort of immunity to hangovers. If I do feel crummy later today, I’ll just go and run it out of me. As it is, I’m feeling pretty fresh. I roll to my side to check the time on my alarm and freeze: Lauren is staring back at me—here, naked, in my bed, with my son just returning home—fearfully wide-eyed with her hand covering her mouth. In the instant it takes me to blink and process this information, I feel the expression on my face changing to a similar look of terror.

  “Oh shit,” Lauren whispers.

  “Get out, get out!” I hiss, pushing her out of the bed. “Into the bathroom. Start the shower!”

  “The shower?” She frantically gathers her clothes from the floor and holds them wadded against her bare front.

  “Get in the shower! Say…say you spilled something on yourself at Carol’s!” I push her along into the bathroom, throw her shoes in behind her and yank the door shut. I find some shorts and a running shirt and pull them on, and straighten the duvet over my bed as the sound of running water starts. The bathroom door opens and Lauren peeks out.

  “My bra, Neil, where is my bra?” I look around my feet in a panic, imagining Chris finding it out on the couch. Lauren points at my bed. “There, right next to the pillow,” she whispers, waving her finger. I grab it by a black strap and fling it across the room; Lauren snatches it from the air and disappears again.

  I find Christopher out in the kitchen mixing one of his sports drinks in a tall glass. The spoon makes the glass clang like a bell as he stirs, but the sound doesn’t cover the rumble of the shower coming through the pipes.

  “Hey,” I say. “Fun night?” I get a glass of water for myself, and the shower still howls.

  “Yeah, sweet. Full house. Thirty kids. They were great.” He looks at the glass in my hand, and holds up his own. “You want some of this? It’s a recovery drink.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I could use a little recovery right now.”

  Chris takes my glass and scoops some of his powder into it, and as he stirs—clink, clink, clink—I peek into the living room to check for anything out of order. Sure enough, one of Lauren’s socks is right there in the center of the floor, and I manage to scurry over and kick it under the couch just as Chris brings out my drink.

  “Thanks,” I say, and the sound of the shower only seems louder. “Thank you.”

  “The taste is kind of crappy, but it’s good stuff.”

  “You’re probably wondering why you can hear the shower running,” I say. Better for me to bring it up, I’m thinking, than him.

  “Huh?”

  “Lauren Downey is in there. Your Grandma’s nurse. Something spilled on her over at the farmhouse and she needed a shower.”

  “Grandma’s shower isn’t working?”

  “Something’s up with her hot water. I’ll take a look at it.”

  “Uh, okay?”

  “I’m tired,” I say, just to say anything. “Had some rocky sleep last night.”

  “Oh, man, don’t even get me started. The seventh graders stayed up ‘til almost two. I am so tired. I kept telling them they needed to settle down. I felt all like an old guy. I felt like you!”

  “Ha!” I say, too loud. I hear my bathroom door open, and Lauren enters the living room from the hall. Her hair is wet, and I see she’s not wearing any socks with her shoes.

  “All cleaned up?” I ask.

  “Yes. Thank you so much. Hi, Chris!”

  “Hi, Ms. Downey.”

  “I knocked over a can of something in the laundry room and it got—” She raises her arm up to her nose and sniffs the sleeve of her shirt, then holds it out to Christopher. “Can you smell it? It’s like paint thinner or something.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not at all.”

  “Oh, good. How’s senior year going? Classes all okay?”

  “It’s been awes
ome so far.”

  “You’re in my friend Ashley’s American History class, I heard.”

  “Ashley?” he asks. “Oh, you mean Ms. Burns. She’s cool.”

  “She is cool. Don’t mess with her, though. You don’t want to see her angry. Just kidding. Hey, I’m going to get back over to Carol. There’s a mess in the laundry room. Thanks again, you guys.”

  “I’ll come with you and take a look at that water heater,” I say.

  Lauren nods so convincingly I could almost buy this thing myself. “Good idea,” she says. “Bye Chris!”

  “I’ll be right back, Chris.”

  We’re halfway between my house and Carol’s before I can speak.

  “Holy shit,” I say.

  “Holy shit is right.” Lauren shakes her head. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Way too close.”

  “Some performance, there. Paint thinner?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? I’m missing a sock. Could you see my hand shaking when I had him smell my shirt?”

  “No,” I pause, and stop in my tracks. My stomach feels close to turning. “I just totally bullshitted my son.”

  “It’s okay.” Lauren touches her hand to my upper arm.

  I twist myself away from her and start walking again. “It’s not okay. I feel like shit. I feel like I need to puke.”

  “No, no. Come on. Don’t, please. That’s not the way you want him to find out. Right? You need to tell him at the right time. That’s what you’ve said. When you’re ready. He didn’t need to find us that way. God, I’m sorry. We did the right thing.”

  “I still feel like shit. Hiding things from him. I can’t believe I just…how did we end up like that, anyway?” We’re outside Carol’s garage now, and I keep glancing back at my house.

  “You fell asleep on the couch. I wanted to get you to bed. We kind of, we just cuddled for a little while. We never get to do that. I fell asleep. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I should have been…fuck.”

  “Please don’t beat yourself up about it. Please, Neil. We did the right thing.”

  “Right,” I say. “Yes. Right.” I turn to the door. “You’re right. I suppose I’d better make a token check on the water heater.”

  We go inside and greet Carol. She’s out of bed and sitting in her big chair with her walker in front of her, but she seems groggy this morning.

  “Are you checking it?” Lauren asks me back in the kitchen, raising an eyebrow. “It’s in the basement, right?”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I say. And even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know the risk, the memory of last night on the couch fills my head and I let Lauren follow me downstairs.

  A short run helps dissipate my guilt in the early afternoon even though Chris joins me. He runs like a puppy at my side, silently, all floppy limbs and big feet. I gave up a long time ago on trying to correct his form. Anyway, it’s not like he’s trying to go fast; he really doesn’t care. There’s something reassuring about him galloping along at my side.

  Back home, we get cleaned up before heading down to go for a sail in Peggy Mackie’s boat. The towel Lauren used this morning hangs from the doorknob in my bathroom, still a little damp, a small reminder that makes me cringe. I toss it in the hamper and shut the lid.

  Christopher drives us down to Port Manitou and the Municipal Marina. I run over to let old Ollie at the gas dock know we’re taking Peggy’s boat; he’s heard we’re coming and sends me off with a wave. Chris, meanwhile, has opened up the cabin and is pulling off dark green canvas covers and organizing lines when I get there. It’s a handsome boat, about 27 feet long with brass ports and fittings and the sturdy feel of something that could safely carry you across an entire ocean. Peggy and her long-term partner Lisa had planned to sail down the eastern seaboard after they retired, but then Lisa developed lupus-like symptoms a few years ago and the plan was put on hold while Lisa gets her health back in order. Meanwhile, their boat remains tied up at the marina with a more or less open invitation for my son and me to take it out on weekend afternoons. Peggy likes to know it’s being used and taken care of. It’s an awfully pretty, with the name “Tabby,” with “Port Manitou, MI” underneath painted in dark green letters on the stern.

  “You want to take us out today?” I ask.

  “You’re the skipper,” he says. “But sure, I’ll take us out.” Christopher has his own little library in his room of books about sailing; technical books, charts and tales of solo voyages around the world. He uses nautical jargon with a total lack of self-consciousness, and bellows things like “Ready about!” and “Hard a-lee!” when we’re aboard as if he grew up on some schooner two hundred years ago.

  Wendy used to sail. She had a little daysailer growing up, and she raced while we were in college. We made a deal during those high school summers where, if she went running with me, I had to go sailing with her. Seeing as she ran already, and I knew nothing about sailing, I’d say she got the better side of the bargain. It wasn’t like I minded. I had fun on the boat, and I never got seasick. Most of all, I liked being with her. We’d go out as often as we could when my family was up on vacation, and she taught me how to do it. Wendy was a patient teacher and I caught on pretty quickly.

  She taught Chris too, years later, starting early with him on the same little dinghy we’d sailed when we were kids. I got rid of that boat the summer after everything happened; in hindsight I really wish I hadn’t. There are all sorts of small regrets.

  Chris starts up Tabby’s engine and asks me to cast us off. I undo the dock lines and toss them to the deck, and I jump aboard as Chris pushes the throttle and sends us puttering away. My son stands at the wheel, peering intently toward the lake; it’s a gorgeous, cloudless day and there’s just enough wind coming from the south to work up some whitecaps beyond the breakwater. He steers us past the Port Manitou Light, and Tabby starts to gently roll as we head into the swells. I lean back and stretch my arm out along the cockpit coaming and watch my son steady himself against the motion of the waves like an old salt.

  “Why don’t you get the main, Dad,” he says. “I’ll head her up into the wind.”

  I grab a winch handle and scramble up onto the cabintop to raise the mainsail with a ratcheting effort. Once it’s up Chris turns the boat across the wind and cuts the engine, the sail fills with a pregnant belly of air, and we’re left with only the sound of the breeze and the rhythmic swoosh swoosh of waves passing under the hull. We let out the foresail, a big striped genoa, and Chris whoops as boat takes the wind and lunges along through the water.

  “We’re really moving!” he shouts, as if I hadn’t noticed it myself. The boat heels over in the wind, far enough that I can reach over the lee side and touch my fingers to the cool water.

  “We’re hauling the mail,” I say.

  Chris has donned sunglasses, and he can’t seem to stop grinning. “You know it,” he says. He has so many friends with motorboats, jet skis, fast things like that, and I have plenty of friends whom I could borrow those things from if we wanted. But Tabby on a weekend here and there seems to be all he needs. He is, for sure, his mother’s son.

  “So, Dad,” Chris says, after we’ve gone along for a bit, “did you talk to Mrs. Mackie about me taking her overnight?”

  “I brought it up,” I say. Chris has inquired about taking Tabby out—solo—for an overnight stay. He used to take Jill Swart out once in a while for a quick afternoon trip, but now that she’s away I don’t think I need to worry about him using the boat as a hook-up palace. If it were up to me I’d probably let him do the overnight, but Peggy is hesitant.

  “I won’t take her far,” Chris tells me, even though he knows I could recite his talking points verbatim. “Just out to South Manitou and back the next morning.”

  “I know,” I say. “I know you can handle the boat just fine. I don’t think it’s the trip Mrs. Mackie is worried about so much, it’s the anchorage over there. Ma
ybe she’d feel better it if she came out with us sometime to see how well you take care of the boat.”

  “Maybe. Did you read about that girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The one who sailed around the world alone. She set a record for being the youngest, I think. Man, I’d love to do that.”

  I might be ready to let Chris sail to an island I can see from my house, but a trip around the world is another thing entirely. Even if he is almost eighteen. “That’s ah, a pretty big trip,” I say. “And expensive. Even before provisions. Just getting a boat would be an awful lot of money.”

  “You could do it on a boat like this, I bet.”

  “With the right gear, maybe. I think that kid had a ton of corporate sponsorships.”

  “Maybe I’ll talk to Mrs. Mackie.”

  I laugh, not in a discouraging way. “Mrs. Mackie might be a little reluctant to let you take her boat around the world.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. We sail Tabby more than she does. She could be a sponsor too.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You go to school for a year, a full year, and if it isn’t your thing we can talk about you doing a trip like that.” My logic here is that, if he tries one year, he’ll just keep going and I won’t have to worry about it.

  “Are you serious? No joke?”

  “I am serious. But a year.”

  Chris is quiet for a while.

  I trim the sheets to pull the sails tight as Chris points the boat a little higher into the wind, and spray carries up and hits our faces as the boat lunges forward.

  “Porter James is going to drive out to Colorado after graduation,” Chris says out of nowhere. “He’s going to get a job at a resort and be a ski bum.”

  “Does Bill James know his son is planning to do this?”

  “Porter says he’s fine with it. He asked me to come with him.”