Page 97 of What Boys Learn

“She got an emergency protective order. That’s the first step. No questions asked. But when we’re expected in front of the judge, she doesn’t even show up to present her so-called evidence. Too busy off on some pleasure trip with another man, sailing on Lake Michigan. No protective order was granted. End of story.”

We crossed the street. Ahead of us was the parking lot, with Curtis’s orange Jag in sight.

“You’re there,” I said, pointing, “but I’m going this way. On foot.”

We both stopped, awkwardly looking at each other.

“Thanks for lunch,” he said, smoothing down his hair. “I’m sorry it got a little . . . dramatic at the end.”

I had the feeling he was talking about the standoff with Robert and the rapid-fire interrogation about his ex-wife, but in truth I was more upset about the earlier part. He’d questioned my abilities as a mother. Made strange references to my family and its multigenerational problems. Compared Benjamin to an incarcerated psychopath who needed to be kept away from other . . . I wasn’t imagining it . . . otherpsychopaths.

Curtis said, “I don’t mind sharing details of my divorce, if you have concerns.”

“Why would I have concerns?”

He nodded, satisfied. “We still need to wrap things up with Benjamin, one way or another. The summer offer is still on the table.”

I pictured it literally: a gleaming, very expensive-looking chafing dish—one I had no plans to touch. Local therapy sessions were one thing. An entire summer away was another. Still, I thanked him.

“You’re welcome. Please bring Benjamin by, tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“It may be one of my last chances to see him for any substantial period of time.”

“Yes. I’m aware.”

“And Abby, it’s time for you to read that transcript. Don’t put it off.”

35

The suburbs closest to the Wisconsin border were where I spent the most normal years of my childhood, back when my mom was alive and we lived in Winthrop Harbor, close to where Willa lived now. I didn’t take Benjamin there often, and yet there was easier access to Lake Michigan from places like Zion. The public beaches weren’t especially beautiful, but the swimming was free and by late afternoon—tipsiness from the wine at Ray’s converted into a dull headache—it seemed a much better place to be than our stuffy apartment. Benjamin always preferred the pool, whereas I preferred this, an escape from the judgmental eyes of our Pleasant Park neighbors, even if the coarse yellow sand was spoiled by cigarette butts.

When we arrived with our towels, Benjamin nodded to the squat concrete building visible at the shoreline, just to the north. “Is that really a nuclear reactor?”

“Sure is.”

“Does that mean there’s radiation in the water?”

“Makes it a little warmer.”

Benjamin’s eyebrows went up.

“Kidding. You think the fine communities of northern Illinois would let us swim here if there was anything wrong with the water?”

I chose not to tell him about the long history of toxic pollution precisely where I—and he—had grown up. Even my father, who’d enjoyed fishing for coho off Waukegan piers knew to release every fish he caught.

Benjamin pulled off his T-shirt. “No point waiting.”

“Hold on,” I said. “I need to ask you something.”

I reminded him about Curtis’s offer to take him away to his father’s place, where Benjamin could do chores and help out.

“Yeah, so?” Benjamin asked.

“Would you like to do that?”

“No, I’d like to do what other Summit kids are doing. Go to California for screenwriting summer school. Go to Italy for mountaineering.”