Page 19 of Blue Umbrella Sky
Milt shrugged.Where’s the harm? We’re both up and awake now. What law says we have to lie sleepless in our beds for another couple of hours?“You hungry?”
“Oh yes. I’m starving. I want a tall stack, with sausageandbacon.” Corky licked his lips.
“That sounds really good. Coffee?”
“A gallon. Or, no, no, wait, how about hot chocolate? We have any of those little marshmallows?”
Milt nodded. The lump in his throat seemed to be growing in time with the knot in his gut. Yet he forced himself to say, “I can make all that happen.” Milt stood. He knew it was no good to ask Corky why he was in the garage, why he’d shed his clothes and headed outside when the temperature hovered around the freezing mark. There were no answers, none that would make sense, anyway.
Milt started toward the door with Corky behind. Corky grabbed his hand, intertwining his fingers with Milt’s. Milt paused for a moment, closing his eyes and savoring. He shut out the nagging, logic-based voice that told him Corky had no idea who he was. For all Milt knew, Corky could be grasping the hand of some old lover who’d been way before Milt’s time. Or even his father or mother.
The point was, he was holding Milt’s hand.
And that was enough.
In the kitchen he got Corky settled into one of the worn chairs around the maple table. This was after two quick stops—the bathroom and then Corky’s room, to get him back into his pajamas.
Milt pulled the cast-iron griddle from the cupboard and set it on the stove to preheat. They’d used it so much there was no need for oil or butter. He could feel confident the pancakes wouldn’t stick. He listened as Corky hummed “I Say a Little Prayer for You.” The song seemed somehow an apt choice. It calmed Milt as he mixed together flour, eggs, milk, baking powder, and melted butter. He was too tired to make the bacon and sausage Corky had requested and knew that once he set a tall stack of pancakes before him, he’d forget about the protein part of the breakfast anyway.
Milt stopped stirring as Corky’s humming morphed into singing. Corky had always had a beautiful and powerful baritone. It could break one’s heart on a spiritual like “Amazing Grace.” Now his voice, still lovely, was little more than a whisper as he sang the Aretha Franklin tune. The lines about staying in one’s heart forever and that was how it must be just about caused Milt to have to leave the room.
He turned and looked at Corky, who seemed lost in the song, eyes closed. Milt wondered where he was… and if he could follow him there.
“You know I’ll love you forever, right?”
Corky stopped singing, and Milt sucked in a breath, sudden. There was clarity for just a moment in those dark brown eyes. It was as though the old Corky had come back. He smiled.
“Yes, I know. Any other way would only mean heartbreak, huh?” He chuckled. “I’ll always love you too. Two hearts, one love, like always.”
Milt nodded, trying to swallow over the lump in his throat.
“Promise me I’m your one and only.” Corky smiled, and damn it to hell, itwasthe old Corky. It was! “Forever….”
“And always,” Milt said. He needed to turn away or he’d start blubbering. He went back to stirring the batter and realized the pancakes would be tough. He’d stirred too long.
But damn it,hewas stirred.
By the time he turned back to Corky, he was gone. Not in a physical sense, but in a much worse way, really. His stare had returned to a kind of vacant glare. When he looked at Milt again, he seemed startled.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” he asked.
Milt shook his head, trying with a tremendous force of will to give Corky his most reassuring smile so he wouldn’t be afraid. “Makin’ pancakes.”
“Well, all right, then.”
Chapter 8
BILLY PAUSEDto take in the panorama.
He breathed in the mountain air, savoring the relentless sun, a golden orb directly above his head, beating down, warming, loosening his muscles.
Below, all of Palm Springs spread out, an urban desert sprawl. The airport, the green spaces, the clusters of homes, the golf courses, the commercial areas. Beyond, the desert displayed its barren ocher beauty, dotted here and there with pale green vegetation strong enough to survive the harsh sun and wind. The windmills, thousands of them, towered like bright white sentinels, some of their propeller blades turning. Billy had always deemed these turbines magical, something out of a science fiction story.
His gaze swept over what now was home. He was the king of the mountain.
Despite feeling like a king, though, Billy realized it would never happen.
Milt would never return the feelings Billy had been harboring for him ever since the very first moment he’d laid eyes on him, struggling alone to move in to his trailer.
