Page 24 of Blue Umbrella Sky
MILT TOOKdown two mugs from the kitchen cabinet.
He ground some beans, poured them into his french press, and then filled the electric kettle with water, plugged it in, and switched it on.
The radio, tuned to the local “nostalgia” station, MOD FM, on this December morning featured Peggy Lee singing “Fever.” The song was seductive, almost bawdy, as it always was. Lee’s smoky voice and the material were a perfect match. But this early in the morning, seductive and bawdy were a bit much, especially at high volume. Milt moved to the living area to turn down the stereo.
While he waited for the electric kettle to heat the water, he stood by the window to see what the day had in store for him. The sun rose in the east, and the colors were glorious, a blend of purple, gray, and orange. Ruby came to stand beside him, tail wagging, belly full of chicken, brown rice, and sweet potato—Milt’s special blend. It was as though she too were observing the splendor of the morning sky.
He looked down at her for a moment and then back out at the just-after-dawn sky. “I made the right move in coming here, didn’t I, girl?”
Ruby glanced up, warm chocolate eyes appraising. He almost expected her to nod, to agree. But other than a double thump of her tail on the floor, she kept her own counsel.
“I wasn’t so sure when I got here last summer. The heat! Those triple-digit temperatures every single day. That storm!” The tile flooring in the trailer was new; so was the dark brown leather recliner. His other furniture had managed to emerge pretty much unscathed from the earlier flood.
In truth, the storm was a blessing because it had forced Milt to get rid of the olive-green scalloped shag carpeting that had been there when he bought the place. His old recliner had had to go too. It was way too similar to the one Frasier’s dad had on the TV show of the same name. It was an old-man piece of furniture, battered, tatty, and on its last legs.
The new chair was stylish—it didn’t even look like a recliner, but more like an elegant overstuffed chair. The flooring, flood-proof, the sales guy had assured him, was a porcelain tile that looked like distressed hickory but was much sturdier. The rising sun was just beginning to fall on it in slats now, which revealed to Milt that he needed to run the Swiffer around the place.
Winter was truly the season of heaven here in the desert. Clear blue skies and temperatures in the seventies during the sun-drenched days and going down to chilly lows of forties and fifties at night.
By the time he turned away from the window, Ruby had taken her place on the couch, curled up and snoring. The electric kettle made its little beep, letting him know he could mix up his morning brew.
He went into the kitchen, looked first at the french press, and then at the two mugs he’d taken down.
Two mugs.
He staggered back a couple of steps and plopped down on one of the stools he had at the kitchen bar. He covered his face with his hands and wept. Just like that, he went from serene, calm, and happy to sobbing so hard his eyes burned and his nose ran like a kid with a bad cold.
He allowed himself to wallow in sorrow for only a couple of minutes. Then he shook his head and stood. A roll of paper towels hung above the kitchen sink. He yanked one off and blew his nose, laughing at himself. “You’re losing it, buddy.”
He closed his eyes, giving himself just a moment or two more to calm and to get back to what passed for normal in these early morning hours. He poured hot water into the press, stirred it into the grounds, then set the plunger lid on top. Finally he set the microwave’s timer for five minutes so the dark-roast beans could steep to perfection.
He moved to the counter and picked up one of the mugs—Corky’s mug, he thought ruefully—and put it back in the cabinet.
When the coffee was ready, Milt poured himself a cup, added some of the french vanilla creamer he liked, and sat at the breakfast bar. “After all this time, man, afterall this time. You’restillthinking of him as being here.” He took a sip and let out a sigh. “And the irony is he wasneverhere. You came to Palm Springs to get away from the memories! To start over….” He laughed at the way he often found himself chatting away to himself these days. But hell, there was a lot he needed to work out. Still. And his rates as a therapist were, by far, the lowest in town, right?
Milt opened his Kindle Fire to check out social media and the daily news. He scanned the screen but couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept drifting back to the two mugs on the counter, side by side. One was bright orange, Corky’s favorite color, and it had a blocky, square handle. Corky had found it at the Goodwill store downtown and just had to have it. Orange was always his favorite color, favorite pop too. He’d found the mug in the store years ago, and its bright color had yet to fade, testimony to the pottery businesses in the area they’d lived in. Milt wondered how he could have set it out without thinking.
Milt turned his own mug in front of him, sending little ripples across the surface of his coffee. It was white, with the words “Palm Springs” in iconic midcentury modern lettering with a couple of bright yellow stars. He liked it because it held a lot of coffee and seemed to keep it warmer than other vessels.
Milt searched his brain for a dream he might have had upon waking. One where Corky might have had a featured role, thus explaining his absentminded yet significant error.
But Corky, sadly, hadn’t appeared in a dream of Milt’s in a very long time. At least not in one he could recall once the cobwebs of sleep were whisked away by his conscious mind. He’d dreamed of Corky a lot right after he transitioned and believed they were visitations.
He loved those dreams. He got to be with Corky again, and not Corky at the end but strong and sane Corky.
But now… it was as though his husband had moved on. Maybe he was up there in heaven, living it up and forgetting all about Milt down on earth, eking out an existence here in paradise.
Or at least what should have been paradise….
“Maybe it’s time formeto move on,” Milt whispered. In response, he shook his head. His lips formed the word no. He’d made a promise. Besides, he was too old to think of starting up a whole new relationship again. Too much bother. He had his dog, the neighbors, a good friend in Billy—and that was enough.
Why expose himself to vulnerability again? Why allow the potential for loss into his life? With Ruby and a simple life, he could be on his own and safe.
Right?
Thinking of Billy caused a pang of guilt to rise up in him. Milt knew the guy carried a torch for him, although he couldn’t understand why. Milt had a good fifteen years on him, and the truth was, Billy was a hot guy.
He could do a lot better than Milt. At least in the looks department.
