Men of All Seasons Box Set

by R. W. Clinger

  He laughed, squeezing me next to him. “That’s bullshit. She’s probably just forgetful. I’m sure she misplaces things all the time. Ghosts and their strange activities are just figments of her imagination.”

  The night was stunning. Silver-white stars illuminated the sky and the moon glistened with a bluish-golden ring of light that looked sleepy. Our talk soon ended of ghosts, Halloween, and of dark spirits when we decided to kiss on the beach, seated and relaxed. The kissing was heavy and heated, unstoppable. When he eventually pulled away from me, he said, “It’s still warm out. I’m enjoying the warm temperature we’re having.”

  “It’s going to be cold tomorrow. The temperature is dropping to thirty.”

  He stood, stripped out of his clothes, and said, “What you say you go skinny dipping with me, Micah?”

  “Right now?”

  “Now or never,” he said, grinning in the shadowy night, wanting to celebrate Halloween with me in the lake’s ripping water.

  I laughed, disbelieving his antics, but glad to have him in my life. I stood and admitted, “I’m in.”

  He helped me out of my clothes, kissing me in the process. My T-shirt was removed, then my shorts, and my socks and shoes. Before I knew it, we stood together on his small strip of autumn beach, naked, and kissed. And then we walked into the lake, hand in hand, where we swam for the next twenty minutes, under the stars and moon while the ghosts and boogeymen played in the city streets and caused havoc.

  Chapter 37: The Great Planner

  August 21 , 2014

  The Kick Martini: 6 Parts Cinnamon Vodka, 1 Part Sweet Vermouth, 1 Part Orange Liqueur, 1 Cinnamon Stick.

  “I have to go home for two days. It was planned before we met,” Tuck said, brushing a palm through my hair, looking me in the eyes. “I would take you with me, but this relationship with you is so fresh. Next time you can come.”

  We were taking a walk from Miss Kitty’s Tudor to the Swirl Cafe, a small and hip coffee shop on Yone Street, next to the lake. Traffic buzzed by on Wenton Avenue and we were stalled, waiting for the pedestrian crossing light to flash green.

  The day was bright and sunny, which seemed typical for August, but desired. I wasn’t at all unpleased with his decision to leave me behind in Erie while he flew to Cincinnati. He had his life and I had mine. Besides, I had some work to do and could probably use some time alone, reading and critiquing books, and working on my mystery. There was also Frankie Marchetti, my best gal, who I had neglected in the last three weeks. I wanted to catch up with her and talk about my affections for the pianist, her dating, life, and all the numerous in-between-things that I was sure were happening.

  Truth was I really needed to pay attention to Frankie. Tucker Martini had distracted me from her, keeping my full attention. My texts were limited, my calls to her were next to none, and we hadn’t had an evening on the town for drinks and chatter in nineteen days. Quality time with the young woman was overdue.

  But Frankie was a trooper, I knew. The best of best friends anyone could ever have in their lives. I missed her, just as I should have, and I was dying to catch up with her. Gossip, drinks, and nonsensical banter was something I needed, and planned on gaining during Tuck’s short trip to visit.

  A few cars passed in front of us and Tuck added, “I’ll be back on Sunday, sometime after seven. Maybe you can pick me up at the county airport.”

  “Of course. I’d love to do that. No problem.”

  He started talking about his family, but my mind drifted to renting an apartment with him, settling into a long-term relationship, and starting a life together. I wanted to wake up next to him every morning and eat breakfast. I wanted to go grocery shopping with him, read the Sunday newspaper together, and so many other mundane, but important, things with the man. I was ready for a serious relationship and felt matched to the guy. There was so much I liked about him, and knew that I could love him for years in the future.

  * * * *

  A driver inside a Frontier cut off someone in a Quest and the person behind the wheel of the Quest wouldn’t let up on their horn. Three pedestrians were on the other side of Wenton Avenue, preparing to cross, just as Tuck and I were.

  “When I get back we can maybe go out for dinner and talk about our weekends, and you can spend the night in my room instead of the attic. What do you say?”

  “I think you have this all thought out.”

  “It’s what I do. I’m a great planner.”

  “It’s going to be a long weekend without you.”

  “Think of that old cliché. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Old but true,” I replied, unable to butter it up with pleasant thoughts. Even if I had the weekend jam-packed with things to accomplish, and tasks to complete, it was still going to be dull and uneventful without his presence. Tuck had more than my time, I realized. He had a part of my heart, and had obtained it so quickly. Did he know that? I thought so. But that wasn’t stopping him from flying to Cincinnati to visit his family, was it?

  “It’s such a short period of time that you won’t even miss me.”

  “That’s not true. You have me and don’t even realize it.”

  “I realize it,” he said, reached for my hand, provided it with a gentle squeeze, and started to walk me across Wenton Avenue because the pedestrian crossing light had finally turned green.

  Chapter 38: Fireside

  November 17, 2015

  “Is this even legal?” I asked, observing the small fire for us to enjoy on the beach that he had built out of scrap lumber. There were two Adirondack chairs by the fire and an upright log that was the size of a fire hydrant positioned between them, which he was using as a table. On the log table was a bag of marshmallows, chocolate bars, and a box of graham crackers; s’mores in the making. To the right of the fire was a two-man tent; the place where he and I would be spending the night together, or what I conceived as half the night, until we started to freeze to death because of the ferocious wind, completing our camping adventure inside his garage behind us.

  “I hope it’s legal. If not, we’re having a threesome with a sexy ass bald and muscular cop in a tight uniform.”

  I laughed at his comment and said, “Who says I’m putting out tonight? You just can’t assume that.”

  He gave me a wink, added wood to his fire, and called out to me, through the wind, “After I wine and dine you out here, sing a few camp songs to you about Davey Crocket, and recite some romantic poetry, you and the cop will be mine all night long.”

  “Try me, Carl. Let this game begin. See if you can woo me to sleep with you in your tent, minus the cop.”

  * * * *

  The wind was fierce and tundra-cold on the beach. We lasted about an hour by the fire, enjoying the s’mores and plastic flutes of champagne. There were no campfire songs or romantic poetry, though. After shivering during some heated kissing by the whipping and snapping blaze, he gave in and said, “Let’s take this into the garage. There’s no reason for us to be out here freezing our balls off. What do you say?”

  “I’ll help you clean up and then I can warm your balls up inside.”

  He chuckled. “You’re so forward. I rather like that about you, Micah.”

  “Just imagine what else I can warm up on you.”

  We spent the next fifteen minutes putting out the fire, gathering all the supplies, and ended up in his garage. And before we knew it, hot for companionship, ready to have an evening of sex together, we were naked, making out, and indulging in each other’s warming bodies.

  Chapter 39: But You Already Know That

  August 22 , 2014

  The Slinky Martini: 6 Parts Berry Vodka, 1 Part Dry Vermouth, 1 Dash Sweet Vermouth, 1 Dash Cointreau.

  I drove to Prescott Airport, a small airfield next to Lake Erie for privately owned Cessnas, Pipers, and Beechcrafts. On the drive to the airport, Tuck told me that he didn’t have a fear of flying. Rather, he said, “I love to be in the clouds, up in the blue. It b
rings out the man in me.”

  I told him, “Trust me I can bring out the man in you. You just have to give me forty-five minutes to show you.”

  He lightly and playfully punched me in a shoulder. “I’m going to miss you, guy.”

  “You won’t. You’ll be with your family having loads of fun.”

  “I doubt that. I think I’d have more fun staying here with you.”

  Maybe he was right. I wasn’t sure. What I did know was rather elementary: his family had missed him and wanted him to come home. His mother had paid for his short flight, which was under an hour long. Perhaps his father, Joel, had even missed him, but I wasn’t sure.

  On his short plane ride he would read the first three chapters I had given him of the mystery I was working on. He said he would try to critique the forty pages the same way I wrote up my book reviews—without bias, exploitive, with logic, and tentativeness. I also told him to underline what he thought was important, discuss the work’s pros and cons by using the elements of writing, and whatever else he spotted that he thought would be of an interest to me regarding the work in progress. He agreed, of course, telling me, “I’ll do the best job I can. Don’t expect miracles, though. I’m a piano man.”

  Yes, he was a piano man.

  Mine.

  * * * *

  His flight was leaving at eleven o’clock in the morning and he was expected to arrive by noon in Cincinnati. His Aunt Kimberly was picking him up at the Chettawah Airport, outside of the city’s downtown area , and was going to drive him the eleven miles to his home on Adler Street in a middle class neighborhood called Ridington.

  We pulled into the airport on time. It was approximately a quarter to eleven. There was a Piper and Cessna on the airstrip. Two men were talking near the grounded planes and drinking what smelled like coffee. He and I stayed in Frankie’s borrowed Fusion and talked for the next few minutes.

  He reached out for one of my hands, gripped it within his own, and supplied it with a gentle squeeze. Maybe he knew I was nervous about letting him go. I wasn’t sure. Then he said, “I’ll see you in three days. It’s just a short trip, Micah.”

  “We have the symphony to attend. I’m looking forward to doing that with you.” I had tears at the corners of my eyes, having fallen head over heels in love with the guy, wanting him to stay with me in Erie instead of traveling to see his family.

  “As well as you should. I make a hell of a date. Plus, I look good at your side.”

  “Text me. Keep me posted about your trip. Send me some pics.”

  “I’m only going to agree to that because I love you,” he said, squeezing my hand a second time.

  “You love me?” Why did I sound so surprised? I knew that. The guy had fallen hard for me, adoring everything about me. I didn’t want to have a swollen head about the topic, but Tuck was pretty goo-goo over me, which I had no reason to question.

  “I love you. But you already know that.”

  We kissed then, which was long and heated, hidden in the Ford Fusion, keeping our embrace discreet from the two men on the airstrip. The kiss was warm and pleasant, and everything I thought it would be, just as we had kissed numerous times before.

  * * * *

  Ten minutes later he was on a white and blue Jetprop Piper, sealed inside its plastic and metal cylinder for the next hour with my three chapters on his lap, and a green pen that I had given him to make his critical notes. And before I knew it, the propeller on the front of the charter plane was spinning, the pilot was settled behind its levers, dials, computer monitors, and my boyfriend/lover was waving goodbye at me, smiling from ear to ear, leaving me behind.

  He was the most handsome man in the world. Have I said that yet? I think at some point I have, but I’m really not sure. And I was in love, more than anyone ever knew, all in a matter of twenty days. Only twenty days.

  * * * *

  I didn’t know I wouldn’t see him again.

  Twenty days of Tuck.

  Gone. In an instant.

  Gone.

  Chapter 40: Dreaming That Night

  November 18, 2015

  Dreaming that night…

  I observed a white and blue plane as it drifted across the heavens, slowly crawling through the sky. I imagined Tuck inside the plane, flying to Cincinnati, reading my chapters. I blinked and peered into the heavens again. The plane was gone.

  * * * *

  After a night spent with Carl, waking before he did, I stood at one of the three windows inside his garage/studio and peered out at the red-orange morning and the sandy beach. In the distance, to the far right, I thought I saw Tuck walking on the beach, dragging a long stick behind him. But he really wasn’t really there. The figure was just my imagination.

  * * * *

  There was piano music inside Miss Kitty’s house, which drew me away from my critiquing. It was Bach, his French Suites. Curious, half-frightened, and bewildered, I exited the attic room, climbed down the stairs, walked around to the front of Miss Kitty’s Tudor, and entered her house. Once inside, the music stopped. Silence. Nothingness. How strange…

  * * * *

  I passed Bar 88, looked inside its span of front, glass window, and saw someone who resembled Tuck playing his baby grand, which was still being housed there. I entered the bar, nervous and unassuming, and I moved up to the performer. From behind he was Tuck: broad-shouldered, red haired, and muscular. But upon further inspection, standing at his side, peering at him playing, striking the ivory keys with his elongated fingers, it was someone who just happened to look like him. A stranger. A different pianist. Not Tucker Martini.

  * * * *

  Tuck stood at the bottom of the stairs that Carl had built. He looked up at me, waved, and said, “You’re in good hands, Micah. Carl’s going to take care of you now. You’re safe. Remember that.” Before I could respond, wanting and needing to ask him more questions, he vanished in a split second. Gone again. Vanished. Lost.

  Chapter 41: Gone

  August 22, 2014

  1:24 P.M.

  The Lemon Dance Martini: 6 Parts Lemon Rum, 1 Part Dry Vermouth, 1 Lemon Twist.

  Vagueness: The call from Tuck’s Aunt Kimberly was haunting. She told me words that really weren’t words, and her mumbling made no sense to me whatsoever. She cried while she told me, “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry, Micah. He’s gone. Tucker is gone.” And she cried and cried and cried. And I cried. And…

  Vagueness: It wasn’t true. Aunt Kimberly was lying to me. Aunt Kimberly was a snake and venomous, one of the devil’s worker bees. Aunt Kimberly was crazy, neurotic, and off her meds. Tuck couldn’t have been gone. Aunt Kimberly was…

  Vagueness: Aunt Kimberly said things like, “…the plane went down near Cincinnati…The pilot and Tuck both died upon impact…I was told an hour ago…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

  Vagueness: Aunt Kimberly wasn’t sorry. Aunt Kimberly was a chronic liar and Tuck would be back in Erie in three days. He would. I knew he would. We had things to do. We had a symphony to attend. Our relationship was just getting started, beginning. It had only been twenty days old. Twenty. Fucking twenty days.

  Vagueness: Tuck Martini had left my side. It wasn’t true. But it was. It was. He was gone. Gone.

  * * * *

  The Jetprop Piper went down three miles outside of Cincinnati, Ohio. The crash was weather-related because of a circling thunderstorm, turbulent winds, and the pilot’s poor judgment. Pilot, Joshua Hanning, had thirty years of flying under his belt, he attempted to glide the Piper around the storm, but the plane was clipped by a horrendous microburst, which pushed it down, into the earth, and smashed it to smithereens.

  A million little pieces of the plane were scattered over a nameless cornfield: strut fairings, gear fairings, brake cover fairings, dorsal fin, door panels, wheel fender, the console, the rudder tip, a tailcone, a wing tip, and stabilizer tips. ABS plastic littered the ground, as well as Hanning and Tuck. The tragedy was one of the worst that Cincinn
ati had ever seen in its history.

  Tuck shouldn’t have been up there, just below the clouds, I knew. Hanning should have steered clear of the storm, landing in Columbus or somewhere near Cincinnati. Better judgment on Hanning’s part should have been executed, but it wasn’t. Had the flight been cancelled or landed elsewhere, I wouldn’t have lost Tuck; anyone would have agreed with me concerning that issue. It was too late to change anything about the plane crash, though. Mother Nature mixed with bad decision making had taken the guy away from me.

  Tucker was gone.

  Gone…

  * * * *

  The accident was all over the media:

  “…Jetprop Piper plane falls to the earth over Cincinnati, Ohio. Two men killed. Pilot error and weather conditions are believed to be the cause.”

  “A six-seat Jetprop Piper plummeted to…”

  “Two men die in a plane crash just outside Cincinnati, Ohio…”

  “…passenger, Tucker Martini, age twenty-four, was flying to Cincinnati to visit his family over the weekend and…”

  “…pilot, Joshua Hanning, age fifty-six, was said to have the cleanest record in flying, always making the smartest decisions and…”

  “Property owner and Cincinnati farmer, Frank Card, told Channel 9 that he didn’t see the plane or hear it. He claimed the storm a ‘doozey’ and…”

  “…Hanning leaves a wife and two daughters behind. He was a good husband and…”

  “Devastated by the accident, the Martini family, Joel and Miranda, Tucker’s parents, will not be speaking to the media anytime soon because of…”

  * * * *

  I was numb and wordless. Reading was out of the question. Drafting a critique of someone’s book wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Truth was I locked myself inside the upstairs attic for three days, settled in front of a fan, crying.

  It felt like some kind of unworldly monster had reached inside my chest with its elongated claws and squeezed the life out of my beating heart. It felt as if an anvil the size of a range was placed over my chest, slowly murdering me. The pain felt remorseless and suffocating and malicious and…