The Banks of Certain Rivers (37 page)

Where the barn had
stood, a hard dirt perimeter framed the concrete slab. The week after
the demolished structure had been carted away, Christopher and I
loosened the earth around the site with rakes and scattered grass
seed over the freshly turned soil. We chalked out the lines for a
basketball court on the slab, filling in and defining the boundaries
with a dark blue enamel. Posts were set into concrete at either end
and regulation backboards were erected.

The following summer, platoons of children ran back and forth over
the slab. Two-on-two, three-on-three, and so on. Christopher’s
friends, mostly boys, sometimes a girl or two, would play.

Through the summer they played there, hollering and laughing.
Sometimes they’d argue, contesting a foul or pointing out some
perceived sleight. It never lasted long, and they’d go back to
playing, running back and forth. Toward the end of the summer, I
erected lights around the court so they could play into the night.

Sometimes while they played, I’d go out for a run.

After we finish eating
at the Massies’ house, I realize I’ve left my cell phone
charger back at my own home. I start to put on my shoes to run over
and get it.

“I can take you,” Lauren says. “Or you can tell me
where it is and I can just grab it.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

A gibbous moon is rising over the trees as I dash off to my house;
it’s cool and pleasant outside, and my crisply defined shadow
chases me over the ground.

Christopher’s parking space remains empty.

Michael calls at ten
with an update as Lauren and I are getting ready for bed in the
Massies’ guest room.

“I talked to him about twenty minutes ago,” Mike tells
me. “The connection was shitty, but he’s fine. He sounded
sad more than anything.”

I feel this news as a squeeze in the chest.

“I think...I don’t know, I think he’s feeling bad,
and homesick, wherever he is. Maybe you’ll find him home in bed
tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I’m steering clear of my
house right now.” I tell him the news of my impending arrest.

“Seriously?” Mike says. “Your shit keeps piling
up.” I’m sitting at the foot of the bed, and behind me
Lauren climbs in and pulls the covers up under her chin.

“It is piling up,” I say. “Higher and higher.”

“You know what, dude?” Mike says. “It’s going
to be okay. Do you really have a problem with him going to cook
school?”

“No. I don’t know where anyone got this idea I didn’t
want him going to culinary school. He can go anywhere he wants, Mike.
I really just want him to come home.”

We hang up and I slip into bed. I lie there silently for who knows
how long, staring at the ceiling until Lauren turns out the light and
rolls over to me. She runs her hand over my chest and, in spite of
myself, I slide my hand up under the front of Lauren’s shirt
and down her underwear; she’s perfectly warm and soft and
surprisingly wet.

“Really?” she says, teasing me with a warm, breathy
voice. “Now?”

“Maybe this not the best time,” I say, but I keep my hand
there. I slide my finger against her, and she sighs as she lifts her
knee and rolls her hips upward to facilitate the motion.

“You have a lot on your mind,” she murmurs, throwing an
arm around my neck. “Will you even be able to?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”

“We could give it a try.” I can hear her smiling in the
dark.

We give it a try. Somehow, even with everything going on, I manage.

I also manage to
sleep,
in fits and starts through the night. Sometimes I wake confused,
unsure of where I am. Other times I wake with total clarity, along
with frustration that I can’t check to see if Chris is home.
Every time I wake I reach for my phone to see if he’s called.
He hasn’t.

Lauren drives over to check if Chris has returned and check on Carol.
She’s probably the last person my son wants to see, but we
can’t ignore Carol. Alan insists I play Mega-Putt with him
while Lauren is away.

“You can’t throw any clubs this time,” he tells me.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said you ruined that putter.”

“I won’t throw any clubs.”

We’ve made our way into the back nine holes, this time
featuring the Natural Wonders of the World, when Lauren returns. I’m
just about to putt into the Grand Canyon when she stops her car in
the drive and rolls down the window.

“Nothing going on,” she shouts. “No Chris.”

“Any sign of the police?” Alan asks.

“No police either.” The window goes back up, and the
Prius continues onward to the house.

Alan and I have reached Mount Everest when Lauren hollers to us
again, this time from the front porch.

“You just missed a call from Peggy Mackie. Your phone says
there’s a voicemail.”

Any news from Peggy is probably news I don’t need to hear, and
I don’t want to give her any clues to my whereabouts, so I’m
not too worried about missing the call.

“I’ll listen to it in a bit,” I say. “We’re
just about done here.” Lauren nods and goes back inside.

“You played much more calmly this time,” Alan says. “I
still beat you, though.”

Back inside, in the
spare room with my phone still plugged into its charger, I listen to
Peggy’s message.

“Come on, Neil, you guys really had to take Tabby out today?
With everything going on? And without calling me? I have to say I’m
not very happy about this. Fine, whatever, bring her back in later,
but call me when you’re back. I need to talk to you. It’s
important.”

I nearly drop the phone. The instant I hear her say the name of the
boat, I know.

I know exactly where Chris has gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“He took the boat!”
I shout as I
run to the front of the house. “He took the
boat!”

“Who took what?” Alan asks as I clatter into the kitchen.

“Get a map,” I say. “Chris took Peggy Mackie’s
sailboat. He’s sailing to Chicago, I know it.”

“What kind of map?” Kristin asks, rifling through a
drawer.

“Any type. Anything that shows the coast.”

Kris produces a AAA road map, which we unfold and spread over the
kitchen table.

“How fast can that boat go?” Alan asks. He’s
thinking exactly the same thing I am. “I don’t have
anything to plot this out. Kris, sweetie, can you grab a ruler for
me?”

“We’ve hit seven knots on an unusually fast day. Six,
six-and-a-half if we’re doing really well. Maybe a little lower
than that if you were averaging it.”

“Let’s say he does six miles an hour,” Alan says. I
shake my head. “Okay, let’s say…five?” I
shake my head again. “Four and a half.” He runs his
finger over the map’s legend. “So, what’s the
earliest he could have left?”

“I told him everything Friday after school. He stayed home that
night, and I saw him in the morning when he left. But he never ended
up on campus, so I guess he could have gone straight to the...no,
wait, he went to see Wendy too. So the earliest he could have left
would have been maybe noon Saturday. Maybe more like one.” Alan
and I lean over the map with Kristin and Lauren pressed in at our
sides.

“So, that puts us...maybe forty hours out? Which would give him
a max range of, what, a hundred-and-eighty miles or so.” Alan
traces a rough circle out over Lake Michigan on the map with Port
Manitou at the center. “That’s a pretty huge area he
could be in. He could be all the way over in Wisconsin.”

Lauren shakes her head. “That’s assuming he went nonstop.
Would he have stopped, Neil?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “He might have worried
about getting caught or something. We’re also assuming he made
perfect time. I don’t think he would have gone across the lake.
He’d stay close to the coast. God, he’s got to be
exhausted if he’s been underway the whole time.”

Alan traces another circle, a little smaller this time. “Even
if he wasn’t going as fast as he could, that’s still a
huge area.”

“My brother talked to him last night,” I say. “So
even if he was under way, he had to be close enough to shore to get a
signal on his phone. Wouldn’t that narrow it down?” Alan
shrugs, and we all lean back, as if by some silent command, from
crowding in over the map.

“How are you going to find him in an area that size?”
Kristin asks. “It’s big.”

“I know a guy with a speedboat we could borrow,” I say.
“We could head down the coast and try to catch up with him.”

“I know a guy,” Alan says. “With a plane.”

We scramble out to
the
Prius, Alan, Lauren and I, and tear off up the road toward Leland’s
resort. Kristin has stayed behind, promising to make regular checks
at my house to see if Christopher has returned. We find the resort
office empty, so we jump back into the car and head back toward the
town, where Leland lives.

“So,” I ask, “do people really just loan their
planes out like this?”

“Oh, sure. It happens all the time. You need to get somewhere,
you borrow your buddy’s plane if you—”

“I wouldn’t exactly call you guys buddies.”

“He’ll recognize the need.”

“Does Leland even have a license to fly?”

“I understand he’s working on getting his ticket. But,”
Alan says, “Leland’s not going to fly the plane.”

We tear into Leland’s drive, an incongruously funny maneuver
considering the lack of noise made by the hybrid car. Lauren stays
behind while Alan and I run up to the house. Sherry Dinks answers our
knock at the door.

“Neil Kazenzakis!” she says. “How are you? I’m
so sorry, I heard what’s going on. But it sure is nice to see
you.”

“Hi, Sherry. Is Leland here?”

“He’s working on something out back. Go right around.
You’ll see him.”

We run around the garage and find Leland bent over the open engine
compartment of a riding mower. He’s holding a rag and a
dipstick, and seems startled by our sudden appearance.

“What in the world are you two doing here?”

“Leland, my son ran away in a stolen boat. He’s sailing
it to Chicago and we need your plane to go find him.”

“He what?”

“We need to borrow your plane, Leland,” Alan says.

“Well…I…I mean, sure, you can use the plane, I
don’t even know if Curtis is around to fly the thing…let
me give him a call. He might be teaching a lesson this morning.”

Alan shakes his head. “Don’t call him. I can fly the
plane.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Please, Leland,” I say. “Anything, I mean it. Help
us. We can talk about selling my place, whatever. Please just let us
use the plane.”

“Whoa, hold up here. Let me get this straight. Your son ran
away, stole a boat, and now you’re going to borrow my plane so
an epileptic man can fly it so you two can go look for the kid and
the boat.”

“That’s it,” Alan says. “That’s pretty
much it. Oh, and his girlfriend is coming with us.”

“Christopher’s girlfriend?”

Alan shakes his head. “Neil’s girlfriend,” he says.
“She’s pregnant with his child.” Leland stares at
me, his mouth slightly agape.

“It’s a long story,” I say.

Leland blinks, regaining his composure. “Well,” he says,
wiping his hands and tossing the rag onto the mower’s engine.
“Let’s go, then.”

I drive the four
of us
back up to the resort, back past the main guest areas and toward a
less-finished area with heavy equipment parked about. Leland points
for me to stop next to a trailer; his white and blue airplane is
parked just beyond that. As Leland runs into the trailer, Alan goes
to the plane and starts to undo a set of webbing straps stretching
from the undersides of the wings to some concrete anchors in the
ground.

“Give me a hand here, Neil.”

I go over and help him with the tie-downs, and as I coil up the last
one, Leland joins us with five big headsets looped over his arm.

“Are you coming with us?” Alan asks, nodding to the
headsets.

“Of course I am. You think I’m going to let you trash
this plane?”

“What’s the fifth headset for?” I ask.

“We’ll keep this one onboard,” Leland says,
matter-of-factly. “Chris will need one for the ride home, won’t
he?”

Alan, I can tell,
is
trying not to grin as he taxis the plane out to the end of the mowed
strip. He and Leland sit up front, Alan in the left seat, Leland in
the right. I’m sitting behind Leland with Lauren next to me
clutching my hand. Her eyes are wide with apprehension as we bounce
over the field to the end of the runway, but she doesn’t say a
word.

“You’re really okay to fly this thing?” Leland asks
over the headset.

“Sure am. I know this machine inside and out. I actually got my
instrument rating in a Two-Ten, you know? Love this plane—”

“No, I am talking about your health! You’re not going to
slump over in mid-air, are you?”

“I’m fine,” he says as he gathers a book of charts
and a notepad from between the front seats and places them in his
lap. “I mean it. All right, gang, here we go.” He pulls
at a knob in the panel and the engine revs up; I feel the brakes
release with a jolt and the plane starts to gently lurch as it rolls
forward and gathers speed down the grass airstrip. Al pulls back on
the control yoke and the plane takes one last bounce before lifting
smoothly into the air; the ground seems to drop away.

“And we’re up,” Alan says.

We rise over the dunes to see Lake Michigan, the vast landlocked sea
stretching blue to a hazy line at the edge of the earth. Alan climbs
straight until the trees seem small below us, and banks the plane to
turn us out over the shimmering water. We’re all craning
forward to scan out the windows. I look back as we turn and see the
orchard, the rows of trees, the farmhouse and my own home.