Free The Banks of Certain Rivers by Jon Harrison Page A

here—“you’ll do the right thing. So
take care of them, and then we’ll go see Mom.”
    Christopher’s face brightens and he rises up to his full
height. “Yeah, um, I’m…I’ll get rid of these
right now!” He grabs the cans and trots off down to our
basement. When he comes back upstairs he dusts his hands together,
holds them up empty, and with a wide-eyed, completely earnest
expression says: “They’re all gone, Dad. See that? All
gone .”

    We take Christopher’s
car , an older Volvo wagon that he saved up to buy from Alan
and Kris, over to see Wendy. I’m planning on running the seven
miles back home, so I’ve got clothes to change into in a bag in
back. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive over rolling hills
lined with woods and farms, and Chris seems distracted.
    “So,” I ask, “what stuff did you need to think
about last night?”
    “Nothing really. Just stuff.”
    “Stuff like…Jill?” Christopher’s old
girlfriend left a few weeks ago to start her freshman year at
Cornell, and my son has been in a minor funk ever since.
    “Nah.”
    Jill Swart was great—smart, a middle-distance runner and
lacrosse player—and she graduated in the spring. She and my son
dated for almost two solid years, and I know they talked about trying
to keep things going after she left for school, but Chris has been
surprisingly realistic about the situation. Even though he’s
pretty reluctant to discuss it I’ve managed to put together
though various conversations with him that he’s told Jill he’s
okay if she starts dating other people at college. I’m proud of
him for being so mature, but I also know how much it hurts him.
    “Is it school?” I venture again. “Are you worried
about next fall?”
    A pause.
    “I dunno.”
    I take this response as an affirmative, but I’m not going to
push it. Chris has been offered a basketball scholarship at Western
Michigan, and he’s having second thoughts. The scholarship is a
good deal, and Chris knows it, but Western isn’t his first
choice in schools, and now the cooking bug has got him too. Michael
has offered not only to write Chris a letter of recommendation for
culinary school, but to grant him a coveted internship at his
flagship restaurant as well. I know my son is tempted. What I don’t
know, however, is whether or not he’s genuinely serious about
cooking, or if this is a passing phase. I’ll probe more later,
and I know just the time and place to do it.
    “Hey, I talked to Mrs. Mackie last week,” I say. “She
told me we can take her boat out tomorrow if we want.”
    “I’d be into that,” Chris says, his expression
brightening. After cooking, his other love is sailing, and the
Assistant Superintendent of our school district, Peggy Mackie, has
been letting us take her boat out on the weekends. Aside from just
being a good time, I’ve found that sailing with Chris is one of
the best ways to get him to talk about things.
    “I’ll call her tomorrow and set it up,” I say.
Tomorrow we can talk more.

    We’re quiet for the rest of the ride to Wendy’s. It’s pretty nice, as these
places go; the buildings are new and well landscaped, and the staff
seems happy and motivated to do good work. There are three wings,
each with its own parking lot: The “Living Center” (for
the Alzheimer’s people), “Hospice & Palliative Care”
(for the dying people), and “Long Term Care” (for the
vegetables). We park at Long Term. Chris brings his things from the
farmers’ market, and I have the pack with my running clothes
over my shoulder. Inside, I’m happy to see the head nurse,
Shanice, seated at the main station. Of everyone I ever met working
here, Shanice is my favorite.
    “Hi, Mister K.,” she says with a broad smile. “Hey
there, Christopher.” She peers over her glasses at him. “Looks
like you brought some things for your mom. You bring those gorgeous
flowers for your mom?”
    Chris grins, saying nothing, and reaches over the desk for a