The Banks of Certain Rivers (13 page)

“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: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

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 awesome 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.