Off Season

Chapter 1: Arrival at Holly Kill Cottage Lake Erie Pennesco Island, Pennsylvania Holly Kill Cottage 4:21 P.M. Brett Gardner steers the flat-bottomed fishing boat to the thirty-foot long pier, butts its starboard side against the pier’s weathered wood, and tells me that it’s safe to step out of the boat. He’s a somewhat mature young man for eighteen with his curly brown hair, broad shoulders, and massive n*****s. Today he sports a yellow pair of Nike running shorts, white bootie socks, and a pair of Reeboks. There’s nothing unsexy about the youth except for his naiveté. His aqua blue and intoxicating eyes sparkle in the glistening summer sun. He wants to kiss me or do things with my body that he can brag about with his queer friends. My days of sleeping with very young men are long over and I simply smile at him, still find him attractive. “I’ll carry your two bags up to the cottage, Mr. Falcon,” Brett says, securing the fishing boat to the pier, providing me with an escape from our one-point-seven mile trip from Erie City to Pennesco Island. I’ve paid the young man in advance for his services and thank him again. As the boat wobbles to and fro on Lake Erie’s choppy surface, I climb out of the boat, and step onto the wooden pier, arriving at Holly Kill Cottage after two long years without Thaddeus Force at my side. It’s the same island and cottage that I have always remembered. Nothing seems to have changed in the past twenty-four months since seeing it last. Not the sloping green backyard that leads up to the cottage, not the back deck with its wooden steps and picnic tables, and not the two-person swing hanging from the one hundred-year-old oak to the far left. The place is exactly how Thad and I had left it: sleepy looking, at peace, and without any hardships connecting to the abode whatsoever. I see the utility shed to the far left where the banana-shaped canoe, inflatable rafts, two Schwinn bicycles, and inner tubes are kept for summertime fun along the lake. Beyond the shed is the Pennesco State Forest, which is no longer a part of the Holly Kill property. And near the lake, approximately twenty feet from me, is Thad’s handmade stone fire pit with a set of freshly painted Adirondack chairs in a blinding white hue. The two-floor red-boarded cottage is spectacular, I deem. Everything about it is perfect, and missed. The salt block structure is nothing fancy, but quite enchanting the same. Three massive windows on the second floor stare down at me. The first floor showcases eight windows, four of which look into the living room. The other four reveal the kitchen and downstairs bedroom. On the far left side of the cottage is a sky reaching chimney, which Brett had hired someone to clean. To the far right is a shade garden where Thad sometimes labored, enjoying his green thumb tasks. “You’ve done well, my friend,” I say to Brett, walking toward Holly Kill. “I can’t thank you enough for everything that you’ve done.” The young man has worked hard for his twelve hundred dollars during the last month. The grass is cut, the navy shutters and windows are open on the cottage, and the surrounding Pennsylvania trees have all been trimmed. He’s even put Thad’s ceramic and colorful gnomes throughout the yard. Everything looks storybook perfect, just as Thad and I had kept Holly Kill when visiting here before his death. The island is fifteen miles in diameter and resembles a woodsy peek. Three inhabitants visit the island during the summer months: the Glossner Family from Baltimore have a two-bedroom abode opposite Holly Kill Cottage; the retired marine, Victor Monroe and his twenty-six-year-old trophy wife, Tiffany, stay in a bungalow to Holly Kill’s right; and two lawyers (I only know their first names, minding my own business), Malinda and Dixie, from Columbus, Ohio, have a five-bedroom place to Holly Kill’s left. There are no grocery stores, tiny coffee shops, or small businesses to trap mainlanders. The island is secluded and private, and most of its property is owned by the state and is unused. One dirt road connects the four properties on the island, which is called Round Road, and skirts the edge of the island. Branching off this rocky main road are numerous bisecting walking and biking trails. Some are wide enough for an ATV or golf cart. Others are narrow and lined with reaching and dangerous blackberry bushes. There’s also a smallish outbuilding on the island where Brett stays when summer people visit Pennesco. The building has a bed, a toilet, sink, but no electric, gas, or running water. It’s a rustic little shack in the woods that sits approximately seven hundred yards north of Holly Kill. The door to the place is always unlocked because there’s nothing for a trespasser to steal. Brett has a battery-operated generator there to operate a light and microwave, which he cooks with, or boils water to drink. He fetches water from Austere Spring, a nature aqueduct near his outbuilding. And next to his shack is an oak swing that hangs between two trees; a place where he sometimes sits and reads battered paperbacks. * * * * It was agreed two years ago—a mere three days following the death of my lover, Thad Force—among Gillian Shank, Saul Mellow, and myself to meet at the island and Holly Kill Cottage to establish a five-day wake for Thad over this extended weekend. None of the chosen group opposed the idea. Instead, we shook on the agreement, and committed ourselves to the weekend getaway. From what I understand both Gillian and Saul will be arriving, and two other guests of interest, which should spark some excitement on the island. As intended, I am the first to arrive, since I own the cottage, want to settle in early, and review Brett’s detailed work with proficiency. Brett carries my two bags and follows me to the cottage. He’s a strong young man and can handle such a task without complaints. He says, “I’ve cleaned the entire cottage from top to bottom, Mr. Falcon, just as you have requested. There isn’t a spiderweb or spot of dust anywhere.” “Thank you,” I tell him, delighted with his intense labor. “You can place my bags in the kitchen if you don’t mind. Then you can head back to the mainland and fetch my friends.” “Just as you have already told me,” he says, seeming happy to help me. I slow down, sidle up to his right side, stop him from walking, and slip a hundred dollar bill into his short’s front pocket. He doesn’t jump away from my contact, realizing that he is receiving a healthy tip for his services. Instead, the young man grins from ear to ear and says, “Thank you, Mr. Falcon.” “No, Brett, thank you. Once all the guests arrive, will you be staying in your outbuilding?” I ask, watching him pass in front of me, continuing his trek up to Holly Kill Cottage with my bags. “I will. Unless you’d rather I not.” “Oh no,” I said, waving a hand. “Feel free to come and go as you please this weekend. You’re part of this island. There’s no reason to keep you at bay.” “Thank you,” he says again, thrilled with my news, the mysteriousness of the weekend ahead.