The Banks of Certain Rivers

by Harrison, Jon

  “There’s no way in hell you are driving to Colorado after graduation.”

  Chris frowns. “What’s wrong with it? What’s wrong with going to be a ski bum?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a ski bum, as long as you’re a college-educated ski bum. Look, this may sound harsh, but absolutely not. You go out there right after high school, and you’ll lose all your momentum. But like the other stuff, if you do one year at school, and I mean really applying yourself, you can go do whatever you want. Colorado, sailing, whatever. I’ll help you out with it, even.”

  Chris doesn’t speak for a long time. He lets the boat fall off the wind and we ease out the sails; the sun is at our backs now and the motion of the boat calms as we run with the breeze.

  “What about culinary school?” he asks after a while.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, do you define it as something cool and fun that I can only do after a year of college? Or does it count as college?”

  I smile at this. “That, I think, would count as formal education. Don’t tell your Uncle Mike that I ever said that, though.”

  “Would you help me out with that too? It’s expensive.”

  “Of course I would help you out with it. If it’s really what you want to do, we can figure something out. There are loans and things like that. Financial aid we can look for. Mike would help you too.”

  “It’s in Chicago….”

  “Are you worried about that? It’s not right in the city, but it’s close. It’s a pretty good place. And you’ve got your uncles there, so that would make everything easier.”

  “Should I do it?”

  “I cannot say, Christopher. This one’s totally up to you.”

  “If I could just take a break and go somewhere,” he says, “to figure things out.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “One year. You have to make a plan and give it a shot. It’s not so long.”

  Tabby rides along with the wind for a long time, creeping up the backs of waves, and rushing down the fronts. Aside from minor communications regarding the trim of the boat, my son and I don’t speak to each other for nearly an hour. My son at the helm: a tall young man with strong arms and big hands gripping the broad chromed wheel. How do you tell someone what you’re feeling, how do you explain to him that sometimes “No” has a place in the bigger picture, that “No” has a place in the greater compartments of your heart?

  “You know, Chris,” I say, pausing to search for the right words. “Tabby’s got a pretty fine crew today.”

  I think he understands, but my son looks away, out over the water.

  We sail a while more, saying little to each other. The wind fades in strength as the sun eases down in the west, and when Chris finally turns the boat toward home the sails curve above us, filled with golden autumn light.

  How do you say it, really?

  From: xc.coach.kaz@gmail.com

  To:w.kazenzakis@gmail.com

  Sent: September 9, 8:50 pm

  Subject:Rudderless

  _____________________________

  Chris and I took Peggy and Lisa Mackie’s boat way north today. It was an easy run, the wind was coming out of the southwest which makes sense because it’s supposed to start raining this week, so I think low pressure is coming.

  Going so far north made me think of that time you took me out (summer between sophomore and junior year? Or the year before that?) and I talked you into letting us beach your boat up the Little Jib River. I think I sold it to you as a picnic or something (I didn’t even bring any food), but really I wanted to make out. More than anything I wanted to sneak my hand up your shirt, I desperately wished to unhook your bra and touch my fingers to your bare breasts, but you stopped me again and again and again. Soon, you told me. Soon, Neil. You said it wouldn’t be much longer, you said you wanted to be ready, you wanted to be sure. *I* was ready, though, I was impatient, and I said (not so sincerely) fine, I understand, it’s okay, let’s get going. Then back underway with me at helm and the rudder broke off, cosmic punishment for me being a jerk, for me being an impatient teen boy, and we were helplessly blown about a zillion miles up the lake before we finally limped it over to the beach to stop ourselves. I think you’d forgiven me by then. I think you even felt a little bad.

  Remember that guy who towed us back down to PM with his trawler? Funny thing: I actually met him a few years ago, he owns the car lot where I bought my truck. I looked at the guy for about an hour wondering “How do I know you??” before it clicked. When I told him he totally remembered, and we had a good laugh about it. Of course, he didn’t know anything about what happened before he rescued us.

  Chris looks so much like you in his face. Especially when he’s sailing.

  -N

  CHAPTER TEN

  The nameplate on our mailbox is crooked when Chris and I drive past on our way to school Monday morning; I tell him to stop for a second, and I hop out of the car try to straighten it out. Long and weighted with so many letters, the thing won’t stay level, so I jump back in and ask Chris to remind me to fix it that evening in case I forget.

  So many letters: Kazenzakis. It’s a substantial name; clumsy in the mouth and almost too big for things like mailboxes and school ID badges. There have been plenty of nicknames to replace it through my life—as a kid, as a teacher, as a coach. I can’t blame people for wanting a shortcut. Kaz, Mr. Kaz, Mr. K., Coach K., Coach Kaz. In middle school I was Special K. Who among my friends ever called me Neil back then? Christopher gets them too, the same ones I had and more: C-Kaz, Kazenizzle, K-Zak, K-Hole (yes, I’m aware of the meaning of the last one; yes, I discouraged him and his peers from using it).

  This was not my name by birth. I was well into my childhood before learning I’d started my life under a different one: ten years old when my parents told me of my adoption. I guess I’d never considered it odd that Michael was only five months older than me, or if I had, maybe I’d rationalized it by thinking my short gestation was somehow something unique. It was Christmastime when they told me, and I remember my father calling me into his and my mother’s room. Mom couldn’t have more babies after Michael, he explained, but they felt like they had more love to give, and so I was brought into the family just before my first birthday. They understood it was big news for me, a lot to absorb, and if I ever had any questions, they told me, I shouldn’t hesitate to ask. It was normal, they explained, for me to wonder about my birth parents. I shouldn’t feel bad about it; they’d love me just the same.

  The thing was, I wasn’t really troubled by it at all. At least not then. I was pretty happy in the family, I looked like my siblings with their vaguely olive complexions (so much that sometimes I wondered if they’d somehow adopted a Greek baby to make things easy). I revered my older brother, respected my sister’s advice, shared my every thought with Mike. I had no real reason to want anything else.

  There was that mouthful of a name, however. Some nights, lying awake while Mike snored in our room, I’d wonder about the couple who’d produced me. Not what they looked like, or where they lived, or why they’d had to give me up, but what their last names could have been. Was it something simple like Smith or Clark or Miller? Brown or Jones or anything containing two syllables or less?

  I chewed on this curiosity for a couple of years, and finally, at the age of twelve, told my mother I’d like to view my birth certificate. She took the request easily, almost happily, as if she’d been waiting for the day I’d ask, and set to work finding out how we’d track down the document. She never asked me why I wanted to see it, and I never offered.

  She determined we’d need to go to the State Bureau of Records, and pulled me out of school one day to do it. I gave my name, signed a form, and while my mom waited out front I was led back into a cool, vast room with low ceilings and row upon row upon row of gray shelving units. I felt like I was floating as I watched the woman flip with incredible speed through a drawer, her hands a blur, and suddenly—fwap
!—present with a quick flourish the coveted document. And there it was, typed all caps beneath the embossed and gilded seal of The Great State of Michigan:

  NBM VAN LEEUWENHOEK

  “Van Leeuwenhoek?” I said. At least I tried to say it; I didn’t have the first clue how to go about pronouncing it. After that shock wore off, I scanned over the document. My mother’s name was Crystal Many Lightnings, age 16, ethnicity given as Sioux. My father’s name was Marty. A white male aged 17. I looked it all over again and nothing changed; that was where I came from.

  “You all right, honey?” the clerk asked. This was obviously not her first time dealing with a dumbstruck child. “You want to me to go grab your mom?”

  “I’m…I’m fine,” I said. “What does ‘NBM’ mean?”

  “New Born Male. Your birth mama and your daddy hadn’t picked a name yet. Maybe you came along a little faster then they were expecting.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Why don’t we go get a copy of this made for you.”

  “I don’t think I need one.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. She returned it to its place in the file drawer and I followed her back to the lobby, and I’ve never seen the thing since.

  Van Leeuwenhoek. Another mouthful. Years later, while getting my teaching certificate in physics, I learned that a Dutchman named Antonie van Leeuwenhoek perfected the microscope in the late 1600’s. A renaissance man. A scientist! I smile to myself now when my classes come to the optics unit and I get to teach that fact; maybe I’m somehow descended from the guy. I suppose it would be fitting.

  My first class Monday morning is an exercise in lethargy. While last week the kids seemed energetic, even excited by the new school year, today they’re duds, as if this fine weekend we’ve just had has only served to remind them that summer is really over. I compliment them on their work, return their pages and spend the next fifty-five minutes trying to rouse them from their collective stupor. I’m not so successful, and I won’t have optics or van Leeuwenhoek to perk things up for another six weeks, at least.

  In the halls after my class I pick up some general chatter about Steve Dinks running an interception for a touchdown in Grayling, apparently the single bright spot in the 34-6 drubbing we took last Friday night. I have an open period before I have to teach algebra, so I visit the teacher’s lounge to check my quaint (and still frequently used) mail slot. There’s a guy I don’t recognize reading a flyer and he greets me like I know him.

  “Hey Coach,” he says.

  “Hey?”

  The guy laughs and strokes his chin. “It’s Kevin Hammil. Shaved the beard.”

  “Kevin! Jeez, you look…you’re like a different person.” Walt Binger stops by, Port Manitou High’s special education teacher, nordic ski team coach and general comedian, and he gives me a raised-eyebrow look as he points at Kevin’s face.

  “Didn’t recognize the dude, did you?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Walt has a weird hyena laugh, and he lets it loose right now. “Bet you were tired of being called ‘the mammal,’ heh heh heh!”

  “Naw, listen, I’ll tell you why I did it. You ready? Saturday night I asked my girl if she wanted to get married.” Walt breaks in with a “Hey!” and slaps Kevin on the back. Our young colleague smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve been dating almost three years, I got here, got the job, figured it was about time. She said sure, but the beard would have to go if she was going to say yes. And I really like her, so—”

  “Congratulations,” I say, shaking his hand. “Wait, she said yes, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, I shaved, didn’t I?” Kevin strokes his chin, grinning. “I did okay, had the ring ready, got down on my knee and the whole bit.”

  Walt pats him on the shoulder. “You did it the right way, there, Kev. Way to go. Remind her of the proposal whenever she’s pissed at you. That always works with my wife.” Beth Coolidge comes in, and I turn subtly away from her in fear she’s going to say something to me about her homecoming float. She doesn’t have a chance, though, because Walt is on a roll.

  “Hey, Cougar-lidge!”

  “Goddammit, Walter, you know I hate it when you call me that—”

  “Yeah, anyway, Cougar-lidge, did you hear Kevin asked his girlfriend to marry him? And she said yes? You didn’t even have a chance to ask him out!” Since her divorce a few years ago, Beth has gained a reputation for pursuing our single (and sometimes not-so-single) male colleagues, especially the new ones.

  Beth’s eyes narrow. “Go fuck yourself, Walt.” She storms off and Walt follows her, continuing to egg her on. Kevin looks horrified by the exchange, but I just laugh.

  “The kids can’t, uh, hear us back here, can they?” Kevin asks.

  “No, no, they soundproofed it years ago.” The look on Kevin Hammil’s face suggests he completely believes me. “I’m kidding,” I say. “I doubt they can hear anything. Even Beth Coolidge screaming.”

  “Hey, Coach, I have a question for you, sometime….” Kevin turns the barest shade of red, especially apparent with his newly shaven face. “You’re a good guy, I’ve liked hanging out with you and everything. You’re married and all that, your son’s a great kid, so like…how exactly do you do that? I mean, how do you stay married all those years, keep it going, and raise such a great kid? You really seem like you have your act together, is what I’m saying.”

  I waver for a moment over whether or not I should tell Kevin the whole story, or, in the spirit of Walt Binger, string him along with a tale of fidelity and marital bliss. Walt himself solves this dilemma for me by hollering from the office:

  “Hey, Kev, come here, you gotta check this video out.”

  “I’ll talk to you about it this afternoon,” I say, and Kevin leaves to another burst of hyena laughter.

  Peggy Mackie breezes by, probably on her way to some disciplinary meeting, seemingly her greatest function in the district.

  “Good time on Tabby?” she asks, barely slowing as she passes.

  “Great time, thanks. Fuel’s topped off.”

  “Call me whenever you want her,” she says, leaving with a wave. She halts, remembering something, and turns back. “Actually, do you have a second, Neil? Come with me.”

  I follow Peggy to her office. She’s narrow-shouldered and tall, taller than me, with curly graying hair, and she walks with a purposeful stride. “Shut the door,” she says. She takes a seat at her desk, and flips a paper face down before I can see it. “I think I asked you a week ago if you knew Denise Masterson.” I nod. “You had her—”

  “Last year,” I say. “Sophomore. Good kid. Is something up?”

  “Sexting.”

  “No.” My stomach drops. “You’re kidding me.” I’ve known Denise since she was a baby; her mother Jo was one of Wendy’s closest friends. She’s a dedicated student, a nice, polite, and quiet girl. Her dream is to attend the Coast Guard Academy after graduation, and last fall she shyly asked me for a letter of recommendation for her application to join the JROTC. So much for that, I’m thinking. This news is a shock, and I know her parents won’t take it very well at all.

  “Not one hundred percent sure yet. A couple boys got pictures from her ex. Typical breakup revenge thing. No face, but the police computer people downstate are taking a look. I guess there’s a chance it’s not her, but for now I’m assuming that it is. We’ll confront the boyfriend when we know either way. Next day or two. I know you know the girl’s family, so will you help if and when we need to talk to them?”

  “Of course I will. I know them well. Do I know the boyfriend?”

  “Did you ever have Cody Tate in any of your classes?”

  This name does not ring a bell. “Nope. Does anyone on staff know yet?”

  “Only a couple. It doesn’t seem to be out in the student population yet either. The boys who got the photos have kept themselves quiet. It will probably get around like wildfire eventually, but keep it to yourself for now.”
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  “I can’t believe Denise Masterson would do that. Her parents are going to be—”

  “No one ever believes a kid would do that, Neil. But they do. Please don’t say anything to her family until I ask you to.” Peggy slides the face-down paper to the edge of her desk. “Anyway, you and Chris had a good day on the boat?”

  “Perfect day. I’m supposed to ask you again if Chris can do an overnight.”

  Peggy laughs. “He already cornered me about it this morning in study hall. Someday, Neil. Not yet.”

  “I’m in no rush,” I say. “How’s Lisa doing?”

  “She’s in Sedona for two more weeks,” Peggy says, rolling her eyes. “Some new age healing thing. I believe crystals are involved. I’m scared she’s going to want us to buy a house there if she stays any longer. But she wants you and Chris to come over for dinner when she’s back.”

  “I’d like that too,” I say.

  “I’ll let you know.” She glances up at the clock above her whiteboard. “And I’ll keep you posted about the Masterson kid.”

  I say goodbye, and head back toward my room. In the science wing hallway, a few minutes before the bell ending second period, I see Steve Dinks at his locker. We normally don’t interact so much, but he looks at me—stares at me, really—with an expression so puzzled I can’t help but say something.

  “What’s up, Steve? You okay?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, how’s it going, Mr. K?”

  “Not too bad. Thought I’d see you in AP Physics this year.”

  “I had to choose between that and calculus. Sorry.”

  “Come on, no big deal. Sounds like you had a pretty good game in Grayling?”

  “I tried, Mr. K. It was a crappy night.”

  The bell rings and the hall floods with kids, and I don’t even have a chance to say goodbye to Steve before he’s washed away in the crowd. He’s popular, smart like his dad, really smart, and most likely going to Northwestern next fall. I’m sincerely glad he’s having a good last year before college. It’s hard to hold a grudge against a kid for too long.