Free The Banks of Certain Rivers by Jon Harrison

last name, the
funny one with a couple restaurants who cooks once in a while on Good
Morning America and does a guest judge bit on that chef reality show.
Chris adores him, and every time he comes up on one of his frequent
visits Michael teaches my son some new technique in the kitchen. The
seeds of culinary art have taken root in my home.
    Fueled by this expanding base of knowledge, Chris cooks for us at
least one night a week now, and usually he makes something
surprisingly good. I’ve never been too inventive in the kitchen
myself, but I do all right, and I’d like to think I’ve
done an okay job nourishing my son over the past few years. His
height—six feet six and counting—would suggest I’ve
nourished him pretty well.
    He won’t let me come with him to the market. It’s
something he would have done with his mom, and I don’t want to
intrude on that. I imagine him there, my lone teenaged boy, sniffing
produce and thumping melons, coming up with some idea for dinner, or
thinking how he’d impress Wendy or Michael just by being there.
    On our kitchen table there are a couple brown paper bags. A peek
inside reveals fresh tomatoes, some herbs, and what looks like a
chunk of some sort of plastic-wrapped cheese. There’s also a
long bundle of hydrangea stalks lying on the table, covered in a riot
of deep blue blossoms. He got these, I’m sure, for his mother.
    Chris roars past outside the kitchen window on the riding mower, and
I take a look in the fridge to see what else he might have picked up.
Staring me in the face from the center shelf is a six-pack-minus-one
of Budweiser beer. I glance behind it for anything else, and lift it
by the empty loop just as Chris barges in through the door from the
garage.
    “Chris,” I say. He stops when he sees what I’m
holding, composes himself, and smiles.
    “Dad.”
    “Is this yours?”
    “Well…yeah.”
    I drop the cans with a thunk to the table and look up at my
son. As Christopher is in full inheritance of the Olsson height gene,
I do my best to create an effect of being eye to eye with him during
disciplinary moments like these.
    “Where did those come from?” I ask, crossing my arms and
raising my chin to speak with him. I rise up on my toes a little bit
too.
    “Does it matter?”
    “If you’re bringing them into my house, then yes,
it matters a lot.” There’s an interesting distinction
here: when we’re working on a project together, it’s our
house. When I’m enforcing rules, it’s mine. Right now,
it’s my house all the way.
    “Dad, I’m almost eighteen, I should be able—”
    I hold up my hand. “Two things. First, you’re not
eighteen yet. Second, even when you are eighteen, it still won’t
be legal for you to—”
    “Will you just let me finish?” Chris slouches a little as
he says it, making my job of appearing taller that much easier.
    “Fine. Go ahead and finish. But can you dispute those two
things?”
    “No….”
    “Okay. Finish, then. What were you going to say?”
    “I was responsible about it. I waited until I was home,
I just had one. I sat by the fire pit and had one. One . I just
needed to think about some stuff. Okay? Don’t you think if I’m
responsible about it I should be able to—”
    “Chris, what I think doesn’t matter here. What does
matter here is the law, whether I agree with it or not. And if you
got busted for minor in possession, what would happen with
basketball?”
    His shoulders fall, and he stares at the floor. “I know.”
    “And how would it look for me? My job?”
    “Okay, I know .”
    “Be smart, Chris.”
    “Okay.”
    “Now,” I say, working to keep my serious expression, “get
them out of here. I don’t want to see them in the fridge, or
anywhere else.”
    My son furrows his brow. “Wait, you aren’t like dumping
them out or anything?”
    “I’m going to trust you to take appropriate action
with that beer. I don’t want to see them. I’m sure”—I
clear my throat