Page 41 of Blue Umbrella Sky
“Good. And I’ll say this—when, or if, you want to change from calling it ‘hanging out’ to dating, we can do that.” Billy grinned. “Okay?”
Milt nodded again.My, aren’t I eloquent tonight?
“Good.” Billy stood. “Now I’m gonna leave you alone. Partly because I don’t want to break the spell here. And partly because I want you to have just a little more time by yourself to grieve, to think. I know you need it. And I’ll give you that space.”
Billy moved toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he said, “Two weeks. I’ll come over in the morning two weeks from now to pick you up. We’ll take a hike. Okay?”
“How do we know the weather will be okay for that?”
“Dude, we’re in Palm Springs. The sky’s always blue.”
“You got a point.” Milt grinned. “Okay.”
“Two weeks. Bright and early.”
Milt watched Billy leave.
What had he done to deserve such kindness? And unbidden in his head, Corky’s voice rose up, the one before he was taken ill, and it said, “You really have to ask?”
Chapter 14
IT TOOKforever for two weeks to pass.
Billy kept himself busy, trying not to notice the snaillike passage of time. He went to meetings, of course. He shared. He set up the coffee table. He stacked chairs after. He led one meeting. He did the closing prayer at another.
He worked at Trader Joe’s as usual and even put in for extra shifts, stocking shelves, unloading trucks, or filling in as a cashier when someone couldn’t make his or her regular shift. Extra money was the bonus; the real reward was the filling of time productively.
He meditated. Maybe he did it more than ever during this self-imposed two-week period, where he was trying to show Milt how selfless his feelings were. He also wanted to demonstrate in a very real way his powerlessness over other people. He’d sit on his bed with the morning sun warming his back and let his body relax and his mind go blank, using his favorite mantra, the word “quiet.” During those times, he’d trained himself enough to actually still (well, almost) his monkey mind enough to get some answers, to know he was on the right path with Milt and, more importantly, himself. Sometimes an image would come to him of the two of them together, Milt’s head on his chest as they rested on sun-drenched sheets. Sweet.
He read. Right now he was going through the “big book” of Alcoholics Anonymous. He’d read it more times than he could remember. But like the Bible for some people, each journey through its stories and guidance he’d discover something new to give him hope, to ensure his progress. Within those dog-eared and well-worn pages, there was a connection to his fellow alcoholics and, more importantly, to his higher power, whom Billy saw not as some judgmental figure in the sky, but as a radiant being within his own self, shining and whole, representing his highest and best self. The words on those pages lifted him up and let him know that, no matter what, he wasn’t alone.
His first sponsor, Jon, back in Chicago, had given him the “big book” as a gift at Billy’s second meeting. Then its cover was glossy and its pages pristine. Now it looked old, tattered, its spine in danger of breaking, but Billy could never dream of giving this particular copy up. It had taken on the power of a talisman over the years. He knew he’d miss not only the highlighting and the notes in the margins. He’d long for those coffee stains and the small tears. Most of all, he’d miss the quiet energy the book had given him—as if it embodied Jon McGregor himself, that kind and caring angel who, once upon a time, had saved Billy’s life.
And when he wasn’t meditating, reading, working, or going to yet another meeting, he was dreaming. See, even though he was respected and liked as a Trader Joe’s cashier, he still thought about singing, about sharing his voice. He didn’t think it was vain to say that it was a gift. To say that, for him, was only expressing gratitude. Billy wanted to simplygiveso much, not for himself or for fame and fortune, but so he could touch another’s heart with his voice, with certain lyrics he adored because they were so universal and true.
Singing for him was never a performance. It was never about attention or adulation. It was a collaboration with whatever audience was before him. He broadcast his voice, his message, and if the magic worked, his listeners then took it into their hearts and made it something meaningful—in their own lives.
Oh, how he missed that. It had been a long time since he’d actually sung in public. He was hard-pressed to recall the last time.
He thought if things didn’t work out with Milt, he just might take himself away from Palm Springs. He could be packed up and ready to move within a day. His trailer was only a rental. There was an excitement in thinking he could simply hit the road and head over to LA, or back to Chicago, or even to New York, places where there was lots of competition, for sure, but lots of opportunity as well. Palm Springs had open mics and various cabaret venues, for sure, but Billy knew if he really wanted to get somewhere with his voice, he needed to be in a bigger city, where there was more of a chance for things like recording contracts, concert deals, and the kind of exposure he needed to get in the public’s fickle eye.
He didn’t look at his lack of an owned home or lots of possessions as a disadvantage, but as freedom, the liberty to make of his life what he wanted, when he wanted.
And this bright morning, when the two-week grace period he’d imposed on his and Milt’s relationship—whatever it was or would be—was over, he realized that pursuing his dreams didn’t have to preclude a relationship with Milt. Maybe Milt would simply come with him. Or maybe, if things were good enough with Milt, perhaps Billy would see that there was something waiting for him here, something that had been staring him in the face all along but that he’d never seen.
Perhaps there was a way hecouldhave it all.
Why not? He was only dreaming.
He went through a little mental checklist of all they’d need for their hike today: his CamelBak reservoir, hiking boots, compass, sunscreen, shades, baseball cap, Larabars (in apple pie flavor), and just in case, his trusty snakebite kit. Although he’d only seen one once on a trail, rattlesnakes were always present. It was their turf, not his, and he had to remember that. As long as he did, he believed the two species would get along.
Billy smiled when he had the idea of making up a little hiking package for Milt. He knew Milt, of course, had his own hiking gear, but he threw together a couple of Larabars, an old extra compass he had, a guide to Palm Springs area trails, and a brand-new tube of sunscreen and put them all in a grocery store bag from Ralphs. It was just a gesture, a way of saying he was glad they’d be together today.
He headed out into the morning, hoping to see Milt emerge from his trailer, preceded by Ruby. It was a common enough sight, but it always gave his heart a little lift. Even though he imagined the pair in his mind’s eye, he failed to conjure them up.
The morning was bright and still. In the air was a sweet smell that Billy couldn’t quite identify but was glad of anyway. A hummingbird, gray and iridescent green, swooped down right before his eyes, its beating wings a blur, before soaring upward again.
He came up the little stone path that led to Milt’s back door and paused to look in his window, not to be nosy, but to make sure Milt was actually up and about. It was, after all, only a little after 7:00 a.m. Not everyone in the world shared Billy’s fondness for early mornings.
