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Authors: Jon Harrison
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it
every week. You’re like a new guy.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But,” Alan say, raising his eyebrows, “we’re
getting tired of being the only ones in Port Manitou in on the
secret.”
“It’s not…it isn’t going to be that much
longer.”
“Fine then. Get it out there. Tell Christopher.”
“I’m going to tell him. Really. I am.”
“When, though?”
“After graduation. Okay? When Chris is done. That’s
when.”
“Is that really fair to him? Or Lauren, for that matter? This
isn’t as big a deal as you’re making it out to be. Your
son is going to know about this, somehow. Why not get it out there on
your terms?”
I throw my head back and groan. “Leave it, Alan. Please?”
He is right, and it’s infuriating.
“Okay. I’ll leave it for now.” We turn into Alan’s
drive, and he points over to the left, toward Mega-Putt. “Take
us right over the grass.” I drive across his lawn and park next
to a hole featuring something like an Aztec pyramid in miniature, and
help Alan unload the posts. Then I start off without saying
goodbye—maybe I’m just a little miffed at him still, or
flustered—but Alan waves me to a stop and jumps back in,
reminding me he’s left his bicycle at my house. I don’t
say anything about it. Coming up my drive we see Christopher buzzing
around Carol’s yard on our riding mower, his ears encased in
massive headphones and his head bobbing away to some music. He grins
when he notices us and waves as we go by.
“Tell him he can mow my yard whenever,” Alan says.
“I’m sure he’ll get right on that,” I say.
“He’ll get free passes to Mega-Putt.”
We park, and I head out back to check if he’s made it to the
field yet. Alan follows as far as the fire pit, picks up a stick, and
pokes around in the barely smoking ashes. Chris must have made a fire
last night.
The field is still not mowed.
“Your son needs to do a better job at destroying his evidence,”
Alan calls. He hoists aloft a charred beer can dangling from the end
of his impromptu spear right as Chris rolls by on the mower. Alan
wags the can at him, and my son pretends not to see.
“What is that?” I shout, knowing he can’t hear me.
“Chris? Where did that come from?” He can’t hear me
as he bounces past, but I’m sure he knows exactly what
I’m saying, and I see him smile as he rumbles off toward the
tall grass of the field.
“He needed a hotter fire,” Alan says, dropping the can
back into the ashes. “Aluminum won’t melt until it gets
up to about twelve hundred degrees.”
“Jesus, Alan,” I start to say, but I can’t come up
with anything else.
From: [email protected]
To:[email protected]
Sent: September 8, 10:23 am
Subject:slam dunk
_____________________________
One other thing: remember the
overnight basketball camp Chris and Steve Dinks used to do on
Saturday nights in seventh grade? Christopher is actually on the
staff there now, a “camp counselor” I guess you could
call him, and I think he’s genuinely enjoying it. He’s
certainly not doing it for the money; Parks & Rec hardly pays him
anything, but he keeps going back to coach the games and chaperone
the sleepovers. I suppose there is a sort of compensation for him in
the form of free pizza. Our son’s appetite is a force of
nature.
Seriously though, I bumped into the
guy who runs the program last week, and he told me how much the kids
love Chris. He’s a natural with them. And they’re in awe
of his ability to dunk a basketball. I know he loves the job. It’s
fun to see him so into something (besides cooking).
See you in a bit.
CHAPTER SIX
In the kitchen, after Alan has
gone, I find signs that Chris has been to our local farmers’
market this morning. It’s a new thing of his, an interest in
cooking and locally grown produce, encouraged by my Celebrity Chef
brother Michael. You’d recognize Michael; he’s that bald
chef from Chicago with the hoop earring and the weird
every week. You’re like a new guy.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But,” Alan say, raising his eyebrows, “we’re
getting tired of being the only ones in Port Manitou in on the
secret.”
“It’s not…it isn’t going to be that much
longer.”
“Fine then. Get it out there. Tell Christopher.”
“I’m going to tell him. Really. I am.”
“When, though?”
“After graduation. Okay? When Chris is done. That’s
when.”
“Is that really fair to him? Or Lauren, for that matter? This
isn’t as big a deal as you’re making it out to be. Your
son is going to know about this, somehow. Why not get it out there on
your terms?”
I throw my head back and groan. “Leave it, Alan. Please?”
He is right, and it’s infuriating.
“Okay. I’ll leave it for now.” We turn into Alan’s
drive, and he points over to the left, toward Mega-Putt. “Take
us right over the grass.” I drive across his lawn and park next
to a hole featuring something like an Aztec pyramid in miniature, and
help Alan unload the posts. Then I start off without saying
goodbye—maybe I’m just a little miffed at him still, or
flustered—but Alan waves me to a stop and jumps back in,
reminding me he’s left his bicycle at my house. I don’t
say anything about it. Coming up my drive we see Christopher buzzing
around Carol’s yard on our riding mower, his ears encased in
massive headphones and his head bobbing away to some music. He grins
when he notices us and waves as we go by.
“Tell him he can mow my yard whenever,” Alan says.
“I’m sure he’ll get right on that,” I say.
“He’ll get free passes to Mega-Putt.”
We park, and I head out back to check if he’s made it to the
field yet. Alan follows as far as the fire pit, picks up a stick, and
pokes around in the barely smoking ashes. Chris must have made a fire
last night.
The field is still not mowed.
“Your son needs to do a better job at destroying his evidence,”
Alan calls. He hoists aloft a charred beer can dangling from the end
of his impromptu spear right as Chris rolls by on the mower. Alan
wags the can at him, and my son pretends not to see.
“What is that?” I shout, knowing he can’t hear me.
“Chris? Where did that come from?” He can’t hear me
as he bounces past, but I’m sure he knows exactly what
I’m saying, and I see him smile as he rumbles off toward the
tall grass of the field.
“He needed a hotter fire,” Alan says, dropping the can
back into the ashes. “Aluminum won’t melt until it gets
up to about twelve hundred degrees.”
“Jesus, Alan,” I start to say, but I can’t come up
with anything else.
From: [email protected]
To:[email protected]
Sent: September 8, 10:23 am
Subject:slam dunk
_____________________________
One other thing: remember the
overnight basketball camp Chris and Steve Dinks used to do on
Saturday nights in seventh grade? Christopher is actually on the
staff there now, a “camp counselor” I guess you could
call him, and I think he’s genuinely enjoying it. He’s
certainly not doing it for the money; Parks & Rec hardly pays him
anything, but he keeps going back to coach the games and chaperone
the sleepovers. I suppose there is a sort of compensation for him in
the form of free pizza. Our son’s appetite is a force of
nature.
Seriously though, I bumped into the
guy who runs the program last week, and he told me how much the kids
love Chris. He’s a natural with them. And they’re in awe
of his ability to dunk a basketball. I know he loves the job. It’s
fun to see him so into something (besides cooking).
See you in a bit.
CHAPTER SIX
In the kitchen, after Alan has
gone, I find signs that Chris has been to our local farmers’
market this morning. It’s a new thing of his, an interest in
cooking and locally grown produce, encouraged by my Celebrity Chef
brother Michael. You’d recognize Michael; he’s that bald
chef from Chicago with the hoop earring and the weird
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