Read The Banks of Certain Rivers for Free Online Page B

it. Over
the course of this unspoken but seemingly real pairing, some
standards have evolved. During surprise blocks of mutually free time,
carryout is usually ordered and, if we’re meeting at my house,
films are often viewed. Lauren has a strange affinity for the brat
pack movies of the eighties; they carry a sort of novelty for her,
and this novelty seems to be increased by the knowledge that more
likely than not my brother and I saw these films in the theater upon
their original release. Viewing Pretty In Pink once in 1986
was enough for me, but since Lauren seems to love it so, I’ll
tolerate repeated showings.
    If we’re at Lauren’s, where there’s no TV, we’ll
usually end up eating and talking, and, almost always, reading
together on her college-era futon with our feet twined together under
a tangle of blankets. She’ll have a couple nursing textbooks
stacked in her lap along with a highlighter clenched between her
teeth, and I’ll have some novel propped up on my chest: one of
Teddy’s suggestions, or one of my own corny genre
adventure-on-the-high-seas tomes. The Titanic will be raised, the
world will be saved.
    In either place, if time permits after reading and eating and movies
and wine, our clothes are often shed and our bodies come together.
The tone of the meeting becomes something more serious. Sometimes (at
my house) the act is conducted noisily, and other times (her condo
has thin walls) it is a more silent congress of bare skin. Recently
this has become more frequent. More and more frequent.
    In my truck, I cut through town to the new pizza place we discovered
a couple weeks ago. I phoned in our standard order before I left
home: a small cheese and olive for me and Greek salad for her (though
history suggests I’ll sneak bites of the salad and Lauren will
end up eating nearly half of the pizza).
    Lauren lives in an older condominium next to the Big Jib River
spillway where it flows into Lake Michigan, just south of Port
Manitou’s public beach and municipal marina. I cross the bridge
over the spillway into her complex and pull in behind the Prius
parked in Lauren’s open garage, and as I step out of the truck
with our food balanced on top of my tools I’m heralded by the
sound of sailboat rigging pinging against masts in the still-strong
wind. Up the stairs to Lauren’s living room, and I manage to
not drop our meal.
    The room is a mess of torn-open boxes and broken slabs of packing
foam. Instruction sheets and cream-colored shelving boards are spread
over the floor, and Lauren, in a sweatshirt and torn jeans, is seated
cross-legged on her futon.
    “I tried to get started,” she says, smiling. “But I
realized I should probably wait for you.”
    “This….” I look around the room. “Is kind of
a disaster. Do you know what goes with what?”
    “Not really.” Another smile. “But the pieces are
all labeled. We’ll sort it all out. How’s your mouth?
Your lip’s still pretty swollen.”
    “It feels a little better. How did you get everything up here?”
    “Malcolm and his new boyfriend. They were leaving just as I got
home.” Malcolm Rice, Lauren’s next-door neighbor, is a
former student of mine, and was the first out-and-proud gay high
school kid I ever knew. You see that more frequently now—it’s
not such a big deal anymore, at least not at the high school—but
ten years ago it was pretty impressive.
    “They insisted,” she says. “Really, they had
everything upstairs before I could say no.”
    “That sounds like Malcolm.” I set the food on the coffee
table and use my foot to clear a space on the floor to sit. “New
boyfriend is a good guy?”
    “Very good guy.” Lauren goes to the kitchen to get plates
and paper towels for napkins. “Quiet guy. He’s going to
tune up my bike.”
    “Uh huh,” I murmur. I’m looking over one of the
instruction sheets, and as I scan the debris around for something
matching Part “A” on the diagram before me, I see one
flat,