Page 29 of Blue Umbrella Sky
He stared at it there for a moment, feeling a hot rush of shame, like he’d just committed a crime, murder maybe, and then decided he was being melodramatic. After a few minutes, he fished it back out and set it on the counter, like a too-bright accusation.
He started to feed Ruby her supper, then put her homemade food back in the fridge when he realized it was only a little after one thirty. Ruby didn’t seem to care that it was too early and let out a frustratedyipof disappointment when she saw Milt putting the food back. She might have been saying “What the hell are youdoing?”
He turned on the TV, watched for a full half hour, then shut it off when he realized he didn’t even know what he was watching.
He tried to read a book (Stephen King’sDoctor Sleep), gave up, and then tried a magazine (Entertainment Weekly), gave up on that, and attempted to surf the web.
He shut down his laptop after a few moments. Maybe if he went outside, into the brilliant sunshine and pleasant warmth, he could relax, feel like he wasn’t running from himself. He remembered back home, as he still thought of it, and realized it was probably below freezing with snow on the ground and flakes of the stuff dancing in the air.
Ruby curled up at his feet, basking in the sun. Oh, to be a dog, with only the worries of where the next nap would take place and where the next meal would come from!
Milt prayed he’d come back in his next life in canine form, preferably looked after by a couple of doting gay men. That would be heaven, truly.
Milt considered heading over to the community pool for a swim, but even that seemed like too much effort, too much distraction.
Maybe he liked being miserable.
Maybe he liked torturing himself.
His rational mind told him that, in all honesty, Corky really wasn’t a factor in his not wanting to simply go out on a date with Billy. Not anymore. Sure, he had promised, in a way, to be forever faithful. But logic told him that death wiped out such vows.
No one would blame him for seeking love, companionship, new happiness. The point was, he, Milt, was alive. And Billy was right—he wasn’tthatold. He shouldn’t be pretending he was, acting as though his life were over.
He still had a lot of good years left here in paradise. Why shouldn’t he, or whycouldn’the, allow himself to make the most of them? Why did he think he needed to figuratively be forever dressed in black, withwidowerwritten in permanent marker across his forehead?
That’s what he didn’t understand.
Maybe he was simply afraid of getting involved again, of allowing himself to feel something, of letting his heart be vulnerable once more. There had simply been too much pain when Corky died. Hell, too much pain with watching him die—its long, slow progression. He’d been like a ghost, fading, fading away.
When he’d upturned his life and memories and moved out to California, he’d thought he was starting anew.
Now he wondered. Was he really beginning fresh? Or was he frozen in time? Had he changed only the geography but not the interior? His soul?
He closed his eyes. The warm sun felt good, relaxing, and it did what Milt wanted—provided deliverance.
CORKY SATat the head of a long rough-hewn table. Gathered around it were a bunch of guys who looked Corky’s age, as much as Milt could tell, because he couldn’t make out their faces. They seemed to shift and flicker in dark shadows that surrounded them like a cloud.
Corky, however, shimmered in brilliant golden light.
He smiled as he played his cards.
Milt watched for a while, saw it was canasta. Corky’s favorite game.
“C’mon, Gabe, it’s your move,” Corky said, seemingly in possession of his mental faculties.
Gabe, at the other end of the table, unfurled wings from his back and levitated off his seat.
Which struck Corky as so hilarious, he pounded a fist on the table, tears of mirth trickling from his eyes.
IT WASdusky when Milt awoke. The featured colors this evening were purple, lavender, and orange.
Ruby’s head lay on his thigh, and she stared up at him with pleading eyes. Love? Well, maybe a little of that, but the more plausible answer was hunger.
“Oh God, kid, you need your supper,” Milt said, still groggy. Rubbing his eyes, he felt disoriented, as if he’d gained two hundred pounds during his nap, the slumber he never intended. It had taken him by surprise. He would have thought he was too keyed up to sleep.
He stretched, arms overhead, and looked around. There was a light on in Billy’s little trailer, a pale yellow glow against the waning winter sky.
Milt wondered what he was doing. Whether he’d truly given up on him. If he’d blown his opportunity. A kind of longing coursed through him.
