Page 15 of Blue Umbrella Sky
“Noted.” Milt laughed again.
“Was that what woke you up?”
“What? Your flatulence? No.” Milt rolled over on his side. He scooted toward the edge of the bed, where he could see Billy lying on the floor. Billy had thrown back the top of the sleeping bag and lay, legs apart, arms behind head, clad only in a pair of tighty-whities. The view, Milt had to admit, was breathtaking, enhanced rather than obscured by the rays of silver moonlight bathing him. He went on, “I had a weird dream. Well, not so much weird as….” Milt’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right word. “Memorable,” he came up with at last.
“Oh?” Billy asked. He rolled over on his stomach, with his chin propped up by his hands.
That view is too much!Milt turned over on his back, debating whether he should share this very personal dream—and his interpretation of it—with someone, really, he barely knew, despite being in his bed.Why not? It’s not like he’s going to judge. And talking about it might help cement it in my mind.
Milt began, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at Billy. “My late husband, Corky, and I were driving.” And he went on to describe the details of the dream, particularly the odd sensation of flying in a vehicle high above the ground and the fact that he felt no fear.
“You felt safe,” Billy said from the floor.
“Exactly. Not just safe, but shepherded in a way.”
“Shepherded?”
“Yeah, like I was being led, being taken care of, like the reins, or the steering wheel in this case, were out of my hands, but I had no worries because I could trust Corky. He was taking care of me—from beyond.” Uttering those words was a tremendous comfort for Milt, making him feel wrapped in something warm and fleecy.
Billy didn’t say anything for a long time, so long that Milt began to wonder if he’d fallen back asleep.
“He really loved you,” Billy said, voice soft as velvet, from out of the dark.
“He did. I spent pretty much my whole adult life with him.”
“He must have. To visit you like that, to let you know he was keeping an eye on you, on things, making sure everything was safe.”
Milt had his mouth open to respond and then shut it. One word Billy had said sunk in—“visit.”No, it was only a dream, a way for my subconscious to conjure up some comfort from my own tragedy.
And yet, with a heart-certainty, Milt felt Billy was right. Itwasa visit. He could still see Corky in the car beside him—his alert eyes and his smile, things that had gone missing over his horrible decline. In a weird way, Milt still felt him, right next to him. There was a sense of both endings and beginnings.
If it truly was a visit, Milt was certain this experience, this winged drive, would never fade as dreams do.
“Thanks for that,” he whispered, his breath stolen by emotion.
But Billy had already fallen asleep. Or at least he didn’t answer.
Chapter 6
MYRON’S CAFÉin Cathedral City was a misnamed little diner in a strip mall. God only knew why it wasn’t called Marilyn’s, or maybe Some Like It Hot, or even Norma Jean’s. The reason? The place wasn’t just decorated, it wasfestoonedwith portraits of Marilyn Monroe throughout her life—big black-and-white framed posters, movie stills, even a shelf that ran just below the ceiling around almost the whole diner displaying Franklin Mint plates bearing images of the star. Billy always felt this restaurant could only happen in the Palm Springs area, where streets were named for movie stars. Bob Hope, Dinah Shore, Frank Sinatra, Kirk Douglas, and others had become more than stars to Billy—these days he thought of them more often as ways to get someplace.
After they got to the hostess desk, Billy turned to gauge Milt’s reaction. “Don’t tell me you’ve already been?”
“No, no. I think I’d remember.” Milt grinned, his gaze roving over all the iconic images. “I’ve never seen a place like this. Sure didn’t have anything like it back home. It’s like stepping into a Marilyn Monroe museum. Is the food any good? Don’t tell me they have cutesy names for the dishes. Gentlemen Prefer Pancakes, maybe?”
Billy shook his head as Milt snickered. Before he could respond, the hostess, a seventy-something woman who could have been Marilyn herself, with her upsweep of platinum hair and heavy eyeliner, welcomed them. Her name tag read Trixie. She led them to a booth in the back and handed them each a menu.
After they had their coffee and were waiting for their breakfasts (which didnothave cutesy names)—corned beef hash and poached eggs for Milt, blueberry pancakes and bacon for Billy—Billy asked Milt, “So why don’t you ever talk to anybody? Not to be confrontational, but most folks make alittleeffort to meet their neighbors.”
Billy wanted to pause and hit rewind on the words. He watched as Milt’s face reddened and his smile vanished. Milt looked down at the Plexiglas tabletop, beneath which were ads for local businesses, as though he were searching desperately for a plumber or new nightclub hangout.
“Ah, damn it, man. I’m sorry. I have a way about me that often ends with my foot in my mouth. Too blunt by half. Never mind. Let’s talk about something else.”
Milt didn’t say anything for a long while. Long enough, in fact, that Billy began to be worried that this would be like one of those painful first dates, where pulling a word out of your partner was almost impossible. Long enough that Billy began to fear an offended Milt might simply get up from the table and walk home. It was a bit of a hike, but still only three miles or so, so the trek wouldn’t be out of the question.
And Billy wouldn’t blame him.
But then Trixie arrived, balancing their plates artfully. She set them down correctly, refilled coffee mugs. “Everything look okay? Get you anything else? Hot sauce?”
