The Banks of Certain Rivers (29 page)

“It is a big fight,” I say. I consider telling him about
Leland’s visit, but I don’t.

“I feel like a prizefighter myself sometimes. A sexual
prizefighter.”

“God, Al, come on.”

“I’m being serious. Kristin would back up my assessment,
I believe.”

“I don’t need to picture this.”

“You’re almost forty, Neil. I’ll be fifty in two
more years. Can you believe it? Fifty. I feel like a newlywed,
though, when it comes to my sexual prowess.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I imagine you might be edging me out in frequency, however.
Maybe not quality, but you and Lauren, quantity! Putting up big
numbers. Like a pair of bunnies.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Not at all. But I’m happy for you, young man. You two.
You should marry her, you know.”

“I think I’ve got a little more on my plate to worry
about right now. And Lauren isn’t so happy about the whole
thing. I mean, she’s really unhappy.”

“It will all pass, Neil. And remember, you’re telling
Christopher tonight. The hardest part will be behind you.”

Alan stands up to work his heavy bike to the crest of a hill ahead of
me. He stops and slides his poncho off over his head, and I realize
for the first time this morning that it’s stopped raining. Alan
rolls up his poncho and drops it into his handlebar basket. I give
him my jacket and he rolls it up too before lifting his head toward
the maybe brighter clouds.

“Listen,” he says, and I hear the faint rumble of a
far-away jet. “United two-twenty-three, out of Chicago bound
for Copenhagen.”

“You know them all, don’t you?” I say, bending to
touch my toes.

Alan nods. “Pretty much. Yes, I do.”

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Sent: September 12, 2:45 pm

Subject: dune orchard

_____________________________

If the orchard was preserved as
something like, say, a park, do you think your dad would have been
okay with it?

Especially if it meant you could stay
there and we could send Chris wherever he wanted to go for college?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Back home from my run, I see
on
my cell that I’ve missed a call from Uncle Art.

“Hey there, Neil, saw the uh, paper, you want to give me a call
when you have a chance?” I start to hit reply, but I stop
myself; I’m still in my running clothes, and after a glass of
water and an apple I go back outside and run over to the beach house.
Arthur’s out on the deck when I get there, fighting to keep a
winter shutter in place as he tries to screw it down with a cordless
drill. I grab the splintery thing from beneath and hold it still, and
Art takes a screw from his teeth, mates it to the drill bit, and
drives it tight.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling at the shutter to test how
firmly it’s anchored. “Not sure how many more holes this
old trim is going to take.” Art is a fit man, in his
mid-sixties with large, work-worn hands. Over his shoulder, the lake
is a storm-driven gray like the clouds.

“All these windows really need to be replaced,” I say.

“No kidding,” Art says, sending another screw home. “So
what in the heck is going on with you?”

“You saw the paper,” I say, and he nods. “Did you
see the video?” Art smirks.

“Sending email to my kids marks the extent of my computer
ability. Penny does the Facebook, she tried to show me all that….”
He chuckles. “No, I haven’t watched the video.”

“You don’t need to,” I say. “I haven’t
even seen at the article yet, to be honest.”

Art waves me into the house and points to the chipped Formica kitchen
counter. The paper is there, but I spend a moment looking over the
interior of the place, the leak-spotted ceiling and worn carpet,
trying to recall if it was this shabby when my family was renting it.

“I know,” Art says, reading my mind. “Pretty run
down. But it still has its charms.”

I grab the paper and sit on a wobbly barstool. The article is about
what I’d expected: unbalanced, poorly sourced and just a little
mean. Neil Kazenzakis declined to comment for this story, it says, as
did senior school administration officials. Gracie Adams was happy to
talk, however. She wants to get beyond this and back to the great
work of educating kids and preparing them for careers or higher
education. The family comes across as less generous. Though it’s
not the policy of the paper to report the names of minor victims of
crime, it says, it’s widely known that Cody Tate was involved,
and the Tate family is pursuing all legal avenues against the
district and Mr. Kazenzakis.

The Port Manitou Police Department, the article concludes, is
continuing its investigation.

“Great,” I say. “Terrific.”

“How in the world did this happen?” Art asks.

“I thought I was breaking up a fight,” I say. “I
thought I was doing the right thing. I guess I wasn’t. And I
tell you, I watch the video sometimes, and I almost believe that’s
the way it really happened. Not like the way I remember it.”

“Memory is a funny thing,” Art says. “Just have a
conversation with my sister for proof.” He smiles sadly as he
says it.

I look around the interior of the house again. “How much do you
think it would take to spruce this place up?” I ask.

“Oh, golly, I…” Art taps his finger on his chin.
“You mean really do it right? You’d have to gut the
place, I’m sure. This main part of the structure is nearly
sixty years old, the wiring isn’t up to code, and who knows
what else you’d find once you really dug into it. And whoever
did the addition shouldn’t have been allowed to swing a hammer,
so that would need a load of work, if not torn down and built back up
from scratch. You’d have a crew on this job for the better part
of a year, I’d guess. Why are you asking?”

“Just a thought,” I say.

In my memory, the
beach
house was never so dilapidated. And of all the times I stayed there,
there is one visit, one night that stands out in my head above the
rest. The autumn of my junior year in high school I qualified for the
Michigan State Cross Country Championships in Ann Arbor. Simply
competing would have been exciting enough, but even better was the
fact that Wendy and Carol drove down from Port Manitou to attend the
event and cheer me on. I didn’t have a very good race (I
finished in eleventh place), but seeing Wendy waiting at the finish
made me feel like I was flying. After, we sneaked off into the woods
and made out against a tree; my body, skin flushed and raging with
teen want, was pressed against hers and I almost had her shorts
unbuttoned before we were nearly caught by one of my coaches.

“Later,” she said, giggling as we walked back to her
mom’s car. “Be patient.”

We wrote letters through the winter, we hinted at desire and
obliquely referred to our “almosts” by the tree. In the
spring we both ran track, and while Wendy did not qualify for state
that year, she did suggest I ask my mom and dad if I could drive up
to see her run at a district invitational in the early spring.
Astonishingly, my parents said yes, maybe persuaded by my argument
that it was only fair after Wendy had come to watch me.

My mom let me take her old Honda Accord, and I left early that
Saturday morning. Michael had talked about joining me, but thankfully
bailed out at the last minute. My plan was to watch Wendy run, join
the Olssons for an early dinner, and make the nearly four-hour drive
to be home by midnight.

The day was cold, unusually cold, and windy, and I wished I’d
brought something other than a light jacket while I watched Wendy
compete. She only made it to the semifinals in the four hundred
meter, fifth place in that heat (disappointing because that was her
best event), and an unexpected third in the finals of the eight
hundred. Seeing her get her little medal while I stood with Carol and
Dick made me forget about the cold. She smiled with pure joy on the
podium, even with her third place finish.

Dinner at Wendy’s house was a fine time. The Olssons laughed at
the table, which surprised me, as I’d always imagined Dick
would be dour and imposing in their home. He doted on his daughter,
and teased me about how close I was sitting to her. I don’t
know how his demeanor would have changed had he known that, beneath
the table, she’d slipped her foot out of her shoe to rub her
toes against my ankle.

Wendy’s parents asked me the expected questions: how’s
your family, how is school, have you given much thought to college?
When I told them I was seriously considering Michigan State, Dick
looked very pleased.

“Oh, a great school, your dad there and all, and did you know
Wendy was planning to apply?”

I acted surprised but of course I knew; we’d been plotting it
through the mail since the fall. Destined to be together forever, as
all young lovers know they are. Wendy’s toes pressed harder and
she smiled.

Raindrops streaked the dining room window as we ate. The phone rang,
and Carol rose to answer it. She wore a bemused expression on her
face when she returned to the table.

“Well,” she said. “We may just have ourselves an
overnight guest. They’re supposed to be getting an ice storm
downstate tonight, and your parents aren’t too comfortable with
the thought of you driving home in it, Neil.”

Wendy’s foot froze against my leg.

“We could probably put him on the fold-out, Dick—”

“I did just open up the beach house. I think he’d be more
comfortable in a bed over there.” He gave me a look that even
my seventeen year-old self could not miss; it was one thing for me to
sit close to his daughter at the dinner table, but to be in such
proximity under cover of darkness was not acceptable at all.

“I think the beach house would be great,” I said meekly.

I called my parents back to confirm I’d be staying. Dick made
like he was going to drive me over to the cottage right then, but
Carol laughed at him.

“For goodness sake,” she said. “It’s only six
o’clock. Let the kids hang out for a while. They can have a
little date.”

Alone in the Olssons’ living room, Wendy and I watched TV and
held hands under a pillow, and grabbed kisses from each other when we
could. Wendy was more forward in this pursuit; I couldn’t shake
the vision of Dick catching us and tearing me limb from limb.

“I can try to sneak over,” Wendy whispered, pulling back
from my lips after a particularly aggressive kiss. “It will be
late, though.”

“Are you insane? Your dad will kill you if he catches you.
He’ll kill both of us.”

“He sleeps like a rock. I do it a ton.” I gave her a look
and she added, “Only for parties! He deadbolts the door but I
just go out the window.”

Dick took me to the beach house just before ten. I offered to drive
myself there, but he insisted; I think the idea of my complete
isolation and immobilization appealed to him. He walked me up the wet
gravel path to the back door with a flashlight, and inside the old
light switch in the hall came up with a loud
snap!
It was so
cold inside I could see my breath.

“You already know your way around,” he said. “I
don’t think you’ll need anything.” He took me to
the room where Teddy always stayed and pulled some sheets and
blankets from the closet; wordlessly we made the bed together.

“There are more blankets at the end of the hall if you get
cold,” he said. “I’ll come and get you for
breakfast in the morning.” He stopped at the bedroom door to
turn up the thermostat, and the baseboard heater creaked and popped.
“You and Wendy…” he started, trailing off. I
braced myself for a talking to, but he just gave a small nod. “You’re
very nice to her,” he said, and left.

The sound of Dick’s truck faded as he drove away, and I went to
the bathroom and washed my face. I stripped to my underwear, snapped
out the lights and jumped into the cold bed, left only with the rush
of waves out on the beach and an occasional
ping!
from the
heater. It was very hard to sleep. At some point it rained. The sound
of it on the roof made me drowsy, and I managed to doze off.

I woke later to one of the heater sounds, and gasped when I saw a
silhouette standing over me.

“Holy shit!” I said, springing upright.

“It’s just me,” Wendy said. “Relax. It’s
okay.” She undressed next to the bed, leaving her underwear on.
“Move over. I’m
freezing
.” I shuffled over
and she got in next to me. She pressed her little breasts into my
side, and I was surprised by how firm and cold they felt. Very
quickly I got an erection, and I tried to angle my hips away from her
so she wouldn’t notice.

“You’re so warm in here. Are you hard?” she asked
me, almost casually. I couldn’t answer.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Can I feel it?”

“Okay.” I lay still, almost trembling, while she slid her
hand beneath the band of my underwear and hesitantly touched my
penis. I tried to reach between her legs, but she quickly let go of
me to stop my hand.

“You can’t,” she said. “I’m on my
period. Sorry.”

“Oh,” I said, and her grasp returned, more confidently
now.

“What do you call it?” she asked into my shoulder.

“What, you mean like a name? I don’t have a name for it.
That’s kind of stupid.”

“No, I mean when it’s hard. Do you call it a boner?”

“That’s kind of stupid too. I just call it hard, I
guess.”

“Do you jack off?” The clumsy way she said it sounded
almost like a taunt, and I didn’t answer. Wendy rose up and
rested her chin in her palm.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Do you think about me while you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Masturbate is a weird word.”