“I’ve heard the word squid used a lot,” Brad says. “It’s bullshit. Local color. Old wives’ tales.”
Blake rolls her eyes. “Great. Should make for interesting fishing.”
Brad laughs, and Tom, apparently feeling the gag has run its course, turns back around to stare at the highway.
“Don’t worry, we fish off the dock,” Brad says. “There’s nothing there but an old rowboat, and there’s no way you’d want to fish off that thing.”
“Why not?” Jessie asks.
“Well, for one thing, it’s pretty small. Only room for one person.” Brad thumbs his blinker, changes lanes, and begins to slow down for an upcoming exit.
“That’s okay,” Jessie says. “I don’t mind fishing alone. How small is it?”
Brad catches her eyes in the rearview mirror once more, then looks forward.
“Smaller than the raft we built,” he says.
AFTER A COUPLE MORE HOURS of twisting two-lane highway through the wilderness of rolling forest surrounding the Catskill mountains, they finally turn off the paved road and onto a narrow gravel ribbon that curls and dips through thick, overhanging trees, marshy groundcover, and heartbeat flashes of blue sky high above.
After what feels like an eternity, the gravel turns into two dirt tracks creased into weed-strewn grass.
“Jesus,” Blake mumbles. “Your folks never considered paving the driveway?”
“You done complaining?” Brad snaps, and though Tom smiles gamely, Jessie and Blake exchange a comically wide-eyed glance.
The SUV bumps and shakes over the rutted, makeshift road, and Jessie can’t help staring out the window with mounting claustrophobia as the trees around them grow closer, denser.
Wouldn’t want to drive through this in the dark.
Suddenly, Jessie feels Blake’s hand clutching her own, as if wanting to share a Thelma and Louise moment of female bonding before shooting off the edge of a cliff. Jessie turns toward her friend with a questioning expression, but her face is rigid, unreadable, her eyes focused forward.
Jessie squeezes her hand, takes comfort in the fact she isn’t alone, that she’s not the only one feeling the distant, dinner-bell ding ding ding of budding unease.
Just as she’s ready to ask the proverbial question—how much longer?—the trees thin … then fall away. The sky opens above them, a bright canvas of blue, vast as outer space. Before them lies a broad swath of green grass—a clearing—in the center of which stands a gorgeous two-story farmhouse with clean white siding and a massive wraparound porch. Its windows and doors offer an anthropomorphic expression of welcome so serene it soothes any of Jessie’s lingering anxieties.
“Wow,” she says.
“There she is,” Brad says cheerfully. “Ain’t she a beauty?”
She really is, Jessie thinks, wondering if she’s ever seen such an idyllic home.
She unclips her seatbelt and leans forward, wanting to see every inch of their destination as they approach. Beyond the massive house—which she figures must have at least ten rooms based on the array of windows along the top and bottom floors—she sees a hem of green lake, its edges furred with wild sprouts of grass and shallow-water pockets of moss; she imagines beaver homes and lily pads, leaping frogs and small fish with percolating round mouths, ardently searching for bugs floating on the surface.
They park atop a patch of gravel on the far side of the massive house. The truck faces the lake, giving them a partial view of the expanse behind the structure. Brad points through the windshield. “You can just make out the trailhead on the other side, right where that old bench is sitting.”
Jessie spots the bench across the lake, but from this distance can’t make out a trailhead or anything else, other than a wall of trees standing guard behind it.
She opens her door and hops out, takes a moment to stretch her legs and back. Next to the car, beneath a small overhang, sit two muddy, well-used ATVs. The others get out as well, and Tom groans as he twists his torso side to side. Jessie walks to the 4-wheel ATVs, studies them. “Can we use these?”
Brad lifts the hatch at the back of the truck, begins to unload the boxes of supplies they’d bought at the (surprisingly well-stocked) local grocery store. He looks over to see what Jessie’s referring to, then nods. “Sure, sure. As long as you wear a helmet.” He puts down a box, huffs out a breath, and points. “There’s a wide trail that runs the circumference of the lake, then twists up into the hills a ways. You can’t see it all from here because it goes behind some of the trees, but it starts just behind the house and runs either direction. My folks don’t want the ATVs used too often, afraid it will kill the aesthetics of the place, so I only take them out once or twice when I come up here.”
Despite the groceries needing to be unloaded, Jessie can’t help wandering toward the lakefront. As she clears the side of the house, the full body of water and its surroundings come into view.
The lake, she notices right away, is smaller than anticipated. She doesn’t know how deep it is (according to legend, deep enough to harbor monsters), but from end to end it’s certainly swimmable. Jessie turns back toward the others, still pulling their supplies from the truck. “Hey!” she yells. “You sure this is a lake? Looks more like a pond to me.”
Brad takes a few steps toward her, eyes traveling the water and the land beyond. “First of all, the definition of a lake, or pond, has to do with depth, not length or circumference. Second of all ….” He throws up his hands with a smile. “Okay, I guess it is more pond-size.” He gestures to the far side. “But that’s a couple hundred yards from shore to shore, no matter where you enter, assuming you swim in a straight line. And I’ve caught fish big enough to make a meal, right there off that dock. Believe me, that water’s deceptive. There’s more to it than meets the eye.”
Jessie nods, hoping he didn’t take offense at her jibe. “Well, regardless, it’s very pretty,” she says, noting the small wooden dock extending from the near shore, the worn-out, ten-foot rowboat settled beside it, attached to the dock post by a frayed rope, like a weary toddler holding a parent’s hand at the end of a long walk. She takes a couple steps to inspect the boat more closely.
The exterior appears to have been painted white at one time, but the elements have stripped it of any vibrancy, the pale patches against mud-colored wood are now smudges, like sunspots on old, weathered skin. She notices, however, two sturdy-looking oars resting beneath the boat’s lone bench. “Mind if I take that out later?”
But Brad has already turned away, seemingly intent on getting the supplies and luggage inside. Likely anxious for one of the cold beers we picked up at the market, she thinks, feeling the itch for a drink herself after the long drive.
“Mi casa es su casa,” he says, carelessly waving a hand, then disappears around the side of the house.
AFTER GROCERIES ARE PUT AWAY, they each take their time settling into their respective bedrooms. Since there are a total of eight assorted—fully furnished and freshly laundered—rooms to choose from, all of which are on the second floor, a game is made of it: each picks a favorite, then explains why they’ve selected that particular room as their favorite. For Jessie, it’s the lakeside view. For Blake, the queen-sized bed and heavy curtains (“I love to sleep,” she exclaims giddily, rolling onto the thick comforter with an audible sigh of happiness). Brad takes what he stoically refers to as “his room,” the one he’s occupied since coming to the Catskills as a child. Tom settles for the one closest to the stairs. “No offense,” he says, “but this place will go up like a box of matches if it catches fire, and I want easy access to an escape route.” To which Brad rolls his eyes but protests no further, causing Jessie to check the drop from her bedroom window. Just in case.
Once settled, the small group breaks out snacks and beers. Brad and Blake begin to shape and season a pile of ground beef in preparation for a sunset barbeque, while Tom and Jessie explore the rest of the house, with Tom enjoying the role of tour guide.
“This is technically the den, but Brad always refers to it as the bar, for obvious reasons.”
Jessie steps into the dark-paneled room just off the foyer, opposite the kitchen and dining room. There is, quite literally, an actual bar running along one side of the room; an old mahogany number she assumes had been picked up at some barn sale over the last five or ten decades. Behind it is a large wall mirror and two shelves lined with bottles—whiskey and rum, scotch, vodka, gin, and assorted mixers—all looking as if they’ve been suffering there for years, untouched and partially empty. “Classy,” Jessie says, with only moderate irony, running a hand along the smooth, glossy bar top.
Reaching the end, she saunters behind the mahogany monstrosity, finds a rag spotted with mystery stains, and begins to clean a random spot. Tom, happy to play along, plops his ass on a stool, hands folded, and pretends to study his options.
