The Banks of Certain Rivers (14 page)

“We’re really moving!” he shouts, as if I hadn’t
noticed it myself. The boat heels over in the wind, far enough that I
can reach over the lee side and touch my fingers to the cool water.

“We’re hauling the mail,” I say.

Chris has donned sunglasses, and he can’t seem to stop
grinning. “You know it,” he says. He has so many friends
with motorboats, jet skis, fast things like that, and I have plenty
of friends whom I could borrow those things from if we wanted. But
Tabby on a weekend here and there seems to be all he needs. He is,
for sure, his mother’s son.

“So, Dad,” Chris says, after we’ve gone along for a
bit, “did you talk to Mrs. Mackie about me taking her
overnight?”

“I brought it up,” I say. Chris has inquired about taking
Tabby out—solo—for an overnight stay. He used to take
Jill Swart out once in a while for a quick afternoon trip, but now
that she’s away I don’t think I need to worry about him
using the boat as a hook-up palace. If it were up to me I’d
probably let him do the overnight, but Peggy is hesitant.

“I won’t take her far,” Chris tells me, even though
he knows I could recite his talking points verbatim. “Just out
to South Manitou and back the next morning.”

“I know,” I say. “I know you can handle the boat
just fine. I don’t think it’s the trip Mrs. Mackie is
worried about so much, it’s the anchorage over there. Maybe
she’d feel better it if she came out with us sometime to see
how well you take care of the boat.”

“Maybe. Did you read about that girl?”

“What girl?”

“The one who sailed around the world alone. She set a record
for being the youngest, I think. Man, I’d love to do that.”

I might be ready to let Chris sail to an island I can see from my
house, but a trip around the world is another thing entirely. Even if
he is almost eighteen. “That’s ah, a pretty big trip,”
I say. “And expensive. Even before provisions. Just getting a
boat would be an awful lot of money.”

“You could do it on a boat like this, I bet.”

“With the right gear, maybe. I think that kid had a ton of
corporate sponsorships.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to Mrs. Mackie.”

I laugh, not in a discouraging way. “Mrs. Mackie might be a
little reluctant to let you take her boat around the world.”

“I don’t know, Dad. We sail Tabby more than she does. She
could be a sponsor too.”

“I’ll tell you what. You go to school for a year, a full
year, and if it isn’t your thing we can talk about you doing a
trip like that.” My logic here is that, if he tries one year,
he’ll just keep going and I won’t have to worry about it.

“Are you serious? No joke?”

“I am serious. But a year.”

Chris is quiet for a while.

I trim the sheets to pull the sails tight as Chris points the boat a
little higher into the wind, and spray carries up and hits our faces
as the boat lunges forward.

“Porter James is going to drive out to Colorado after
graduation,” Chris says out of nowhere. “He’s going
to get a job at a resort and be a ski bum.”

“Does Bill James know his son is planning to do this?”

“Porter says he’s fine with it. He asked me to come with
him.”

“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: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

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.