Blue Umbrella Sky

by Rick R. Reed

  Seth shook his head, an uncertain smile creasing his face. “When?”

  And Milt, even though he hadn’t thought about it until right this very moment, said, “I’m putting the house on the market this week. Corky and I owned it outright, and even though the real estate market here is shit, I think our river view and our fabulous taste will see it sold quickly.” Milt allowed himself only a moment to get a little choked up at the thought of their home, stripped bare of memories, inhabited by new people ready to put their own stamp on it. He knew that, later, he could grieve. Perhaps in a backyard with a lemon tree in it….

  “And, as soon as I can get a moving truck together and most of the furniture sold, I’ll head on out. Drive across the country. See the USA.” He smiled big, trying to keep the terror at bay. A voice inside his head told him he’d scurry back here within a year, but Milt silenced it.

  “C’mon,” Dane said quietly. “Give yourself some time.”

  Milt knew his suggestion was rational, the sensible thing to do. But Milt had done the sensible thing his whole life. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to shake things up.

  After all, what did he have to lose? He’d already lost the most important thing he had in this life. And, in its own harsh way, that loss allowed him the freedom to take a wild chance.

  Milt put one hand on Seth’s shoulder and the other on Dane’s and leaned in. “The only thing I want to give myself right now is a new horizon.” He smiled through his tears. “A sunny one.”

  Chapter 3

  BILLY REGARDED Milt Grabaur across his dining table—a big round wooden spool he’d managed to salvage from some construction site. It was bleached by the sun and sometimes gave splinters, but it held up, year after year, in home after home, like some stalwart creature—Billy’s constant companion. He’d even taken out his trailer’s built-in dining table just to make room for it. There was something about how weathered it was but still strong.

  It reminded Billy of himself—or maybe the man he longed to meet but could never seem to find.

  They were eating Billy’s homemade carnitas and tortillas. There was pico de gallo and a bowl of sour cream to tame the heat of the pork. The carnitas had a nice crust from being browned first in lard—and a mysterious sweetness from the Mexican Coke Billy used for braising.

  Milt, he thought, was a ghost of a man. A haunted presence, not unlike Boo Radley in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. He’d watched the man ever since he’d moved in just below him last February. At first Billy thought Milt’s standoffishness could be attributed to simply settling in. Billy, who’d moved more times than he could count—which was why his own home was a rental—understood the preoccupation with building a nest for oneself. It took time and effort to take a place from being a house to a home.

  Feeling a bit like a stalker, Billy found he enjoyed watching his new neighbor, even if their paths hadn’t crossed in any significant way. There was something about Milt’s loneliness and inherent sadness that called out to Billy. He wondered, of course, all sorts of things, like where Milt was from, how he managed to be at home every day without a job, what particular story had brought him to the desert—everyone, it seemed, had one. The valley was filled with transplants.

  As time went on, Billy realized simply getting settled and making a home for himself wasn’t the principle reason for his neighbor’s standoffishness. No, Milt wasn’t reaching out for bigger reasons, Billy decided. Ever intuitive, Billy realized this was a man who was mourning. He didn’t know if the loss was of a person or a thing, but Billy picked up on the haunted look in Milt’s eyes when he’d pass him walking his dog or out on his patio, reading. Billy always lofted a cheery “How you doin’?” the other man’s way, hoping he’d get more in return than he did. But the best he ever got was a smile and a nod.

  Billy got it. He really did. The desert was a place people often came to in hopes of starting a new life, of recreating themselves. Billy himself, just a few years ago, was one of those people. He’d come here for the sunshine, the excellent recovery community, and to escape big-city life, which was making him feel increasingly lost and alone.

  Billy had fantasized more than once that Milt would stop in the street to chat, or that he’d invite him onto the patio for some advice on how to best care for the jasmine plant and the little barrel cactuses he had in pots. Billy would advise him on watering and positioning for sun exposure. They’d pause—and stare meaningfully into each other’s eyes—then they’d proceed inside. The dark would be cool and, at first, blinding. The window unit would be whirring, maybe even whining as it struggled to contend with the triple-digit heat. Barely able to see, Billy would at last get a chance to reach out to explore the sharp planes of Milt’s face with his fingertips. Their first touch would be a charged moment, full of electricity, lust, and something else that Billy could only imagine as coming home.

  Yes, Billy had a crush.

  It had developed from perhaps the first moment he spied Milt unloading his little U-Haul truck—by himself. He wore a pair of beat-up camo cargo shorts and a pair of hiking boots. If he’d had a shirt on, he’d wisely gotten rid of it. His body was tight, compact, slick with sweat. He was whiter than the average desert bear. Salt-and-pepper hair graced not only his head and face but also spread out in lovely curls on his broad chest. That hair narrowed down into one of the sexiest treasure trails Billy had ever seen (and he’d seen a few—well, maybe more than a few), which finally disappeared into the dark, sweat-stained waistband of his shorts. He’d even gone over and offered to help, but Milt had merely wiped the sweat off his brow, saying only, “Thanks. But I got it.” Milt made his dismissal obvious when he turned his back on Billy to get back to his work.

  Before turning away himself, Billy allowed himself a tiny moment to savor the progress of a bead of sweat between Milt’s shoulder blades as it ran, quicker, quicker, down his back and disappeared into the wonderland concealed by those damn camo shorts.

  Billy worried that maybe Milt was one of the straight ones, a breeder—there were a few around, and Billy bore them no ill will. They did serve a purpose, after all.

  But still, he couldn’t help but admire his older neighbor, with his amazing pale gray eyes, his taut build, the way his buzzed hair clung close and thick to his perfectly formed head. Billy could imagine how all that stubble would feel between his thighs….

  His bud, Kyle, back in LA, had told him, just before Billy moved out to Palm Springs, “Dude—your daddy fetish will come alive out there. Slim pickings it’s not!”

  Billy had to sort of mentally shake himself when he realized Milt was actually speaking. “This is delicious. Where did a Nordic type like yourself learn to cook like this?”

  “Mexican boyfriend, back in Chicago. Hector. He taught me all about flavors this ‘Nordic type’ had no idea existed—things like cumin, oregano, bay, cilantro. Mexican food isn’t about heat—it’s about layers of flavor. Although I do like the shock a good habanero can bring to your tongue.” Billy smiled.

  Milt nodded. He looked back down at his food and picked at it.

  Billy read the sadness in Milt’s face. Knew it took real effort for Milt to open his mouth and compliment the food, especially when he was worried, maybe a little in shock over the events that had transpired only this afternoon.

  “We’re gonna find her.”

  “Hmm?” Milt looked up. He’d just torn off a piece of warm tortilla. Like Billy, Milt seemed to like them plain—hot with only butter and a little sprinkle of sea salt.

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about, Milt. Your little girl, Ruby. You’ll get her back.” He smiled. “I’m a little psychic. Don’t scoff. I’m serious. And I’m one hundred percent certain she’ll be back in your arms before the night is through.”

  Billy got up and looked out one of the big windows at the side of his own trailer, a silver Airstream. It was early evening, but the sky remained bright, ruthless—a dome of electric blue, showing no evidence of the clou
ds that had earlier brought down the storm. The little thermometer he’d mounted outside told him it was 110 degrees. Cooler than yesterday, when it got up to 120. He worried about the dog, wandering outside in the heat, with perhaps no source of water.

  The rushing river that had come through their streets was now gone. If you didn’t look down at the ground, Billy thought, you wouldn’t even know it had rained today.

  But the mud lying across the roads of the trailer park left evidence of the storm. Evidence that would take a lot of work to clean up.

  It was true that Billy had always been very intuitive and maybe even a bit of an empath. But he wasn’t as sure about Ruby as he let on. He didn’t want Milt to worry too much, yet he couldn’t help but wonder if his reassurance was a cruel thing. He hoped fate would help him out on this prediction.

  He barely felt Milt come up behind him.

  “I should go back.”

  Billy turned.

  “In case she comes home,” Milt added.

  “You don’t have to be alone. Let me clear the table and we can go out and beat the bushes for her. Okay?” Billy had to resist the urge to reach over and touch Milt’s grizzled face. He still didn’t know but dared to hope, anyway, what team the guy played for. Selfishly, and for only a moment, he allowed himself to regard Milt’s lips, which were full, almost bow-shaped, and, Billy was certain, delectable when kissed.

  “Ruby,” Milt urged.

  “Sure.” Billy glanced back at their half-eaten meal on the table. “I’ll clean this shit up later.” He crossed to the fridge and grabbed a couple bottles of water. He lobbed one to Milt. “Never go out without hydration.”

  They started out, stepping down the rickety little steps that led down from the Airstream. Milt said, “The meal you made? That was delicious. I wish we could have finished, but all I could think about was Ruby—out there in this heat. She may be a pit bull, but she’s far from tough. She’s the sweetest thing.” He looked away, and Billy picked up on the extra brightness in Milt’s gray eyes. “I just couldn’t eat, not with thinking about her out there.” Milt’s gaze went to the scrubland at the mountain’s base.

  “Let’s go round her up, okay?” Billy headed out to the muddy street.

  “I hope your optimism isn’t unfounded.”

  And Billy, for the second time, felt a little shiver of doubt, even with the heat, but refused to let Milt see it. “It’s not.”

  They searched for two hours, until the sun finally set behind the mountains. They went up and down the grid-like streets of the trailer park, asking anyone out if they’d seen her. Because of the heat, there was hardly anyone to ask. The few that were outside were busy trying to salvage their homes from flood damage and, understandably, weren’t all that invested in Milt’s canine crisis.

  At least, Billy thought, it gave him a chance to introduce Milt to some of the neighbors, like the Maggios, a pair of Sicilian sisters from Milwaukee who’d never married and never lived apart. Theresa, whom everyone called Tootsie, was seventy-six, and her younger sister, Ethel, was seventy-four. They looked like twins and loved nothing more than each other and bingo. Tootsie promised to keep an eye out for the dog. “I see you walking her and can tell you already know about keeping her safe from the heat.” She’d held a hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun—even though it had already gone down—and scanned the horizon. “Poor puppy.” She turned back to them, and her wizened face was full of sadness and concern. Billy wanted to erase her expression for fear of scaring Milt even more. She seemed to realize the hopelessness she was displaying because she caught Milt’s eyes and with a big smile said, “She’s a good girl. She’s gonna be okay. In fact, I bet you dollars to doughnuts, when you get back to your place, she’ll be waiting for you, wondering where her supper is.”

  Milt thanked her and said it was nice to meet her and her sister.

  “You come over sometime for a little nip of something. Maybe we could play a game of cards. You play poker?”

  Milt laughed. “Badly. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  They’d also met the young couple living next to Billy, two gay boys (almost literally—they were barely into their twenties) who’d escaped Vegas to clean up from a bad meth addiction. After they’d inquired in vain after Ruby, Billy told Milt, “I call them the sweet-and-sour twins. Cole is like some cuddly stuffed animal, wouldn’t say a bad word about anyone or anything, always with a smile on his face. But Carlos is just the opposite—always grumpy, practically snarling. I worry. But somehow they seem to be happy.”

  “We never know what goes on in a relationship, do we?” Milt asked. They were now heading back to his trailer. “I was with my Corky for a long, long time. And some of those years, a person could look at us and think we were the happiest lovebirds alive. And then that same someone could get a gander when we were going through a rough patch—and the last several years were a rough patch, believe me—and feel nothing but sorrow. Still, I wouldn’t trade my time with him for anything.” He slowed as they approached his gate.

  “Him? You said him?” Billy asked hopefully, maybe too hopefully, because it made Milt laugh.

  “Yes, Billy, I’m a proud card-carrying member of the Friends of Dorothy organization.”

  “Me too,” Billy said.

  “Oh really? The rainbow flag outside and the Herb Ritts poster inside didn’t give me a clue.”

  Billy snorted. “So, you do have a sense of humor?”

  But Milt didn’t join him in chuckling. After a moment he said, “Yeah, but it’s been on hiatus for a while.” He sighed. “And, I don’t know, the gay card might be on hiatus too. Permanently.”

  Billy chose to pretend he didn’t hear that last part.

  They stopped in front of the gate to Milt’s patio. The night, all around them, was still. The heat, almost suffocating, threatened to steal Billy’s breath away. That’s the way summer nights were in the desert—little to no relief. It was silent. Even Palm Canyon Drive, a couple of blocks over, seemed quiet for once. Billy, who never wore a watch, wondered how late it had gotten. As if the answer might be written there, he looked up at the sky, black and crowded with stars.

  He was about to tell Milt that they could go to the animal shelter tomorrow. Surely someone had found Ruby and had taken her there. That’s why they couldn’t find her. And maybe she hadn’t been microchipped, which would explain why Milt’s phone hadn’t rung.

  The words were on Billy’s lips when they heard a whimper. Billy took a step back when Milt turned to look toward the patio. There she was! Ruby emerged from underneath one of those retro metal rocking chairs. She simply sat next to the chair, tail thumping wearily against the concrete, too tired, Billy guessed, to drag herself over to her master. She whimpered again.

  Or maybe it was Milt.

  He rushed over to her and dropped to his knees. Sobbing, he wrapped his arms around the gray-and-white dog, burying his face in her neck.

  Billy watched, not daring to interrupt. It wasn’t enough that he was daddy-hot. And it wasn’t enough that he was the strong, silent type. Milt was a wounded warrior—Billy could tell—and that brought out his hopelessly nurturing side.

  And now—seeing the depth of emotion Milt had for his dog? Well, that clinched it.

  Billy was a goner. He was in love.

  God help him, because, while he knew himself, he didn’t know if he’d stand a chance with this guy—and his broken heart.

  Billy’s own heart, though still ticking, had been to some dark places. The shadows in those places, he sometimes feared had stained him—for life. He didn’t know if he had it in him to withstand the slings and arrows of that perfidious state called love.

  Yet….

  Billy let the happy reunion continue for a moment or so and then called out, through the dark, “You guys need to stay at my place tonight.”

  Milt stood up uncertainly, gaze more on the dog than Billy, as though he feared looking away from her might cause her to v
anish again, and asked, “Are you sure?”

  Billy rolled his eyes. “Come on. You can’t stay in there. We need to get it dried out.” Billy thought himself very clever for working “we” into the conversation. “I know my place is tiny, but you and Ruby can have my bed and I’ll surf the couch. She like carnitas?”

  “She likes everything, especially if there’s meat involved.”

  Girl, you and I have something in common. I like meat too. Billy eyed Ruby, then gave Milt the once-over. Large quantities of meat.

  Dog by his side, Milt came toward him. “If you’re sure we won’t be a bother….”

  Billy rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise. That’s what we do at Summer Winds. Help our neighbors out.”

  Billy stared into Milt’s face and wasn’t sure if he saw guilt or gratitude there.

  Chapter 4

  THE CELL door slammed shut with a clang. The sound made Billy think of endings, final moments, points of no return. The clang was an echo that called out in the dark, “No tomorrow.” He watched as the guard walked away, whistling, not looking back.

  “Dude. Hey, dude. You know what time it is?”

  Billy looked over his shoulder at the man sharing the cell with him. Most people, Billy thought, would look at this guy and think “gangbanger,” but Billy could see beyond the neck tattoo and the black-and-white skull bandana, the baggy jeans and the tight white T-shirt and see a scared kid. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. Billy moved away from the bars to sit down on the cot opposite.

  “What’s your name?” Billy asked.

  “The fuck? I only asked if you knew the time, man.”

  Billy smiled, leaning forward to peer more deeply into the boy’s dark, dark eyes. “What’s your name?”