Off Season

Chapter 2: A Toast to the Beloved

Chapter 2: A Toast to the Beloved

Brett rows back to the mainland to fetch Gillian Shank, Saul Mellow, Tom Klayson, and Bernie Cavanaugh. I doubt that all five people will be able to fit in the flat-bottomed fishing boat with baggage, but Brett will know what to do, perhaps toting the people to the island first, and their belongings thereafter.

I become settled in at Holly Kill Cottage. Just as Brett has said, the place is spotless. The pantry off the kitchen is loaded with provisions, bottles of water, and other necessary supplies. The beds within the small trio of bedrooms are all tightly made and smell like fresh lake water and wind. The miniscule bathroom on the second floor sparkles and is decorated with brown towels, two bars of Dove, and tissues galore. And a small pile of chopped wood sits next to the fireplace in the living room, ready for use during a chilled evening. I note that even the dishes and flatware are dust-free in the kitchen, which tells me that my money was well spent on Brett’s tasks, which he has carried out.

There is also a stockpile of alcohol in the kitchen (bleached oak floor, brown walls, and a low ceiling), scattered over the quartz countertop: a variety of wines, hard liquors, and imported and local beer. I wonder how Brett has obtained such illegal matter at his young age. Perhaps his father has taken the four hundred extra dollars I had provided Brett with and purchased the alcohol for the holiday weekend. Not that it really matters, since the deed is done and I don’t have to worry about any of the weekenders staying sober.

I carry my bags upstairs, taking one of the two rooms next to the only bathroom in the cottage. It is the largest bedroom with a queen-size bed, dresser, reading chair, and two windows that overlook the lake. The floor is oak and the walls are paneled in faux redwood, which gives the room a rustic and outdoorsy feel or staying in Big Sur, California or rustic Oklahoma. I spend a few minutes and unpack, become thirsty, and decide to have something strong to drink thereafter.

Thad Force liked to drink. Any of his friends that will soon arrive know such a fact. Gillian, Thad’s best girlfriend, or who he called his hag, still believes that Thad was an alcoholic, but Gillian’s a b***h and always likes to cause trouble. Thad did like to consume his whiskey, finding the brownish gold liquid soothing after one of his football games or a jockish run around the island. This is why I open a bottle of Wild Turkey, pour myself a shot, and make a toast to the picture of my dead husband on the fireplace’s mantle.

Thad was a handsome man at thirty-nine when he died. He had a rugged frame, dark crew cut, thick eyebrows, and a sturdy jaw. There wasn’t anything twinkish about his six-four frame and two hundred and forty pounds. He was like a tank of armor, but still soft around his emotional edges. No wonder the man was a wide receiver for the Eastern States Football League (ESFL) for nine years. No one ever questioned that he was one of the best players for the Vanmer Vipers because of his intimidating size, toothy grin, strong attitude, soft side, and deeply set blue eyes. If they ever did, there would be hell to pay, which Thad wasn’t afraid of dishing out, but only when necessary.

“I miss you, guy,” I say, raising my shot glass to his smiling face, wishing I can run fingers around every dragon tattoo on his upper body and hold the man against my bare structure again. How I long for his bare and tight bottom to collide with my private parts, and enjoy an afternoon delight together with him, just the two of us, sinning wildly without any inhibitions whatsoever.

I swallow the shot down, decide to fetch a second one from the kitchen for the hell of it, and ask the photograph, “Are we ready for this long weekend, Thad? Your friends are being boated over here and God knows what will happen.”

Thad answers my mind in his baritone voice, All’s good. This weekend will bring the five of you together. Don’t worry, Jay, and keep your chin high. Power up.

Power up. I laugh out loud at this because it used to be one of Thad’s favorite things to say. It was like one of his strong handshakes or aggressive nods, which proved that he was an aggressive man who could face anything head-on. The statement suggests that nothing could beat him down, except maybe for a heart attack on the beach two years ago, which had taken his life.

“Power up,” I whisper, smile, and imagine his hulking frame wrapped around my smaller one, squeezing me against him, suffocating my face in his wide chest, and protecting me from all the bad in the world, including this weekend with his reunited friends and other guests.

* * * *

Vanmer, Pennsylvania bumps against the southernmost part of Erie City. I have a small house there without pets. My neighbor is a retired Marine who constantly yells out his window, “Ooh-rah!” in search of other Marines. I drive a light green Fiesta, sit on the rear cobblestone patio and read, and love the city and its Vipers. Few call the town queer, but I don’t take offense since it has a high population of men who seek men. It’s a hip little town with museums, Talon Park, and coffee shops. There are quite a few gay bars, which I sometimes frequent, enjoying one in particular called the Rowdy Inn.

Thad loved the house in Vanmer, and its gay bars. He never seemed to mind the ex-Marine next door, either. Thad always said he wanted to work at the Rowdy Inn, but football took over his life. Maybe that’s why we spent a lot of time together there, enjoying the bar’s limited lights, jocks, and house rock.

Things in my life are missed, this is what I’m trying to say. The visits to the Rowdy Inn, touring the museums, and spending valuable time with Thad. Those events are gone now. And Thad is gone. Life blows. Yes it does.