Read Online Swimming Across the Hudson by Joshua Henkin - Free Book Online

worried there was something there. She checked the pockets of her blazer to make sure the flaps weren’t stuck inside. “They don’t use utensils here, do they?”
    â€œDo you want to go somewhere else?”
    She hesitated. “We don’t really know each other.”
    â€œThat’s true.”
    â€œMaybe next week.”
    â€œMaybe next week what?”
    â€œMaybe next week we can eat here.”
    â€œNext week?”
    â€œOr the week after.”
    How long was she staying in town? Part of me hoped that she planned to stay forever, that she was uprooting her life for me. But if she told me that, I’d panic and bolt. It would be like a first date. You had just met, and the girl was already saying that she wanted you to meet her parents.
    â€œThere’s a Chinese place across the street,” I told her.
    Before I could say anything else, she was out the door and crossing Telegraph Avenue, weaving through the traffic.
    But when we reached the Chinese restaurant, she changed her mind. The place was too dark, and the menu had pictures of all the items. “It’s like Denny’s,” she said. “It’s the first time we’ve met, and I don’t want to feel like we’re eating at a Denny’s.”
    We walked up the street toward campus. We passed salad bars, taquerías, sandwich shops, and pizza joints. We stopped in front ofthe restaurants and glanced at the menus, but at each place something else seemed slightly wrong. We were dancing around each other: You choose; no, you choose. We really must have looked as if we were on a first date, all elbows and knees as we walked up the street, unable to find the right distance between us, several times almost colliding with each other.
    Finally we settled on a combination restaurant and music store across the street from campus. We sat on the landing, where the menu offered sandwiches, quiche, and fresh-squeezed juices. On the floor below us compact discs were for sale. Classical music came from the speakers.
    â€œDo you feel comfortable here?” my birth mother asked.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said. In truth I was nervous.
    She closed her eyes. She was concentrating on the music, a plaintive strain of cello and violin. “Do you like classical music?”
    â€œIt’s okay. My parents played it all the time when I was a kid, but I never really was interested in it.”
    â€œI like classical music.” She paused for a few seconds. “What do you like?”
    â€œIn general?” I tried to think of a good example, but I couldn’t come up with anything. I was uncomfortable with the conversation. It felt like an interview, my birth mother asking me lots of questions, trying too hard to learn who I was. “What do you like?”
    â€œI like the beach,” she said. “I like a good meal. I like Italian food. I like getting the chance to meet you, Ben. That’s what I like most right now.”
    â€œI’m glad to meet you too,” I said.
    â€œYou don’t have to be polite.”
    â€œI’m not being polite. I really am glad to meet you.”
    She smiled at me, then took a sip of water. “I like to read. I like to open a good novel before I go to bed.”
    â€œWhat do you read?”
    She thought for a while. “Danielle Steel and Rosamunde Pilcher.I like the kind of book you can take to the beach.” She smiled tentatively, as if seeking my approval. “I like James Michener too.”
    Danielle Steel. Rosamunde Pilcher. James Michener. I also love to read, I always have; on the way home from school, I often stop at the public library. I make sure to read at least a novel a week. I wished my birth mother had mentioned an author who surprised me—André Gide, Paul Bowles, even someone as popular as Jane Austen—anything to suggest we had more in common than I thought.
    â€œI like Marcel Proust,” I said. Proust was a