The Huron's Bend

Part 2

Encounter at Earl Moore

"Welcome back to the world, Grasshopper," said Riley.

I broke away from my thoughts and shook my head hard. The world still remained, but my world might as well have ended. Three empty pitchers sat on the tiny round table tucked away at our favorite corner in Brown Jug. The Munich-born Riley lifted her tankard with an unsteady hand, a coat of beer foam covering her philtrum. In the next chair, Aaron snickered at his inebriated girlfriend. The tipsy gene, he said, had apparently successfully fended off an onslaught by its alcoholic cousin in at least one Bavarian household.

I'd just come from the chairman's office in the Department of Computational Intelligence and Robotics without finding out if I'd passed the qual. The rational part of my brain said to wait it out; they weren't done grading the mostly breadth-based questions where a correct answer in the eyes of picky professors could run into half a dozen pages. But when the news cast even the faintest of shadows, my natural instinct was to reach for the nearest drink. I waved to the waitress for another pitcher.

"Not that I'm going to stop you, but don't you think it would make sense to keep a clearer head when they call you back?" Aaron said.

"Call me? I think they're getting ready to dump me from the student roll." At this point it would be an act of self-flagellation to raise my hope only to see it crash and burn. Last semester, Riley and Aaron had had both run their respective gauntlets—hers in computer science and his in microbiology—and survived. The hairs on my neck bristled. I could sense, perhaps unjustly, my esteemed friends sitting in judgment of my worth to be included in their rarefied social circle of doctoral candidates.

Aaron sighed and went back to picking from a plate of limp waffle fries.

Riley and Aaron were a couple—or so they said—and we were the best of friends. Just last weekend, they had been in a two-man kayak, racing against Wren and me in the Huron, a river that bisects the city into north and south. Two against two. Maize and Blue vs. Fighting Illini. What could have been better time spent in the dog days of summer? And it was exhilarating up to the moment when Wren turned to scowl at me, as Riley and Aaron sped past us, the wake of their boat an efficient V as straight as an arrow.

"So this is how it's going to be? Here and now? Whatever happened to all those things you used to say about us weathering nasty elements and overcoming rough seas?" I recalled Wren saying, without a hint of irony. To which I'd replied in my usual off-the-wall retort, "Don't be silly. We're smack in the middle of sunshine and calm waters."

"I see your understanding of metaphors is on fast descent to Cocytus." Theatrical sarcasm was Wren's specialty, and it would only get sharper as she got angrier. Sometimes it was funny as hell—sometimes it squeezed all the breath out of me and made me re-think the price that came along with the love—and the rest of time, as it was at that moment, I was so thoroughly lost in her convoluted scoff that I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. It was one of many reasons for our up-and-down relationship.

"We've been through this before," I'd said, hoping logic would allay her anger. "I flunked the qual at U of I, remember?"

"You have two chances before they ditch you for good. You can at least try again."

"I grew up in these parts. My folks are an hour drive away. I like it here."

I remembered the way she studiously avoided my eyes and instead gazed into the horizon where water met the orange globe of the setting sun. We'd known for a while that a long-distance affair would not work for us. She'd offered to visit me in Ann Arbor, and I'd taken for granted that we'd both understood the significance of saying goodbye face to face. But as soon as I'd picked her up at the airport, I'd suddenly suspected she might have changed her mind. And I was right. For the next three days, outside of meals, errands, and awkward attempts at sex as though it was the panacea for all the malaise that had long nibbled away at the foundation of our relationship, we'd reverted to our modus operandi—by now perversely comfortable—of rehashing old gripes and needling each other's future plans. Then out of desperation I'd invited her to go kayaking on the Huron, not so much a Hail Mary at reconciliation but recognition that parting on good terms would be a worthwhile effort given our time together.