by Rick R. Reed
Sighing, he turned toward the detached garage, his slippers sliding on the wet and partially frozen grass. The night air foretold winter.
The garage’s single window glowed yellow. Milt entered through the side door, softly. He stood for a moment, regarding this man he’d pledged to spend his life with, for better or worse, and felt a sad smile creep across his own features. Corky was naked underneath the red-and-black Hudson Bay blanket Ev had wrapped him up in, yet he probably wasn’t that cold. That blanket was a heavy mother!
“Bev! Bev… listen. And then we can go downtown with Gran, and she’ll buy me a new Matchbox car at the five-and-dime. Yes, sir!”
Corky’s smile lit up his features, making his dark brown eyes twinkle, adding more lines to his face, but somehow making him appear more boyish in spite of the wrinkles. He jabbered on to the person sitting across from him, his sister Beverly, taken from them years ago by breast cancer. Milt could almost see her sitting across from Corky, wearing one of the bedazzled sweaters she favored, her head shaved and her dark eyes looking bigger behind the oversized tortoiseshell glasses she always wore.
Milt then stared down at the oil-stained concrete floor, the tears welling up and threatening to spill over. He’s happy. That much was plain to see. Corky had been tortured when his mind started going, when he couldn’t remember things, when he’d been aware of the loss he was enduring.
But then things had changed as he fell farther and farther down into the well of his mind. The years erased themselves, and most of the time he lived as a boy again, innocent and happy. He truly didn’t have a care in the world, most days.
Milt almost envied him. “Hey.” Milt sat next to him and nudged him with his shoulder. Across from them, against the wall, stood the big box containing their Christmas tree. Would they take it out this year? Would Corky even be around to help trim it?
Corky looked over at him, a little surprised. Milt could see he was groping around in his head, trying to recall who Milt was. This would have hurt Milt once, but now it was just par for the course. He placed a hand on Corky’s knee. “It’s time for bed.”
“Bed? Get out! I’m not tired.” Corky’s gaze penetrated Milt’s. He looked a little surprised, maybe even a little annoyed, as though the hour was 4:00 p.m. instead of 4:00 a.m.
“Well, tired or not, it’s very late. And we all need our rest.” Milt thought about the long hours ahead of him, knowing that falling back asleep was nothing more than a pipe dream, the fantasy of a younger, untroubled man.
“I want pancakes,” Corky insisted.
Milt sighed, and then he smiled. Corky had always told him that when he was a little boy and his mama would ask what he wanted for supper, his answer was always the same: “Pannycakes.”
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 sausage and bacon.” 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, it was the 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, he was 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 PAUSED to 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.
Billy had tried. He really had. But every subtle hint he’d drop, every longing glance he’d send Milt’s way, every awkward but pointed touch, Milt met by laughing off or turning away or, the very worst, with a glance that clearly said no.
And yet Milt really seemed to like him! There was a sense that they were becoming best friends.
Perhaps that was all they were destined to be. Billy could just about manage to live with that consolation priz
e, but in the dark hours of the night, when he’d stand outside in the desert heat with a moon casting its silvery glow over the trailer park, he’d wonder if maybe he wouldn’t be happier gently but firmly cutting Milt out of his life. After all, sometimes it seemed like their growing friendship was, instead of a consolation, a hot point of pain, a tantalizing glimpse of what could never be.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Milt made him smile.
Made his heart race.
Made—sometimes, when he was alone, eyes closed, muscles relaxed, fantasies firmly engaged—his dick hard.
Why oh why had this guy had such an effect? He was a good bit older. Really, he wasn’t even all that remarkable-looking. Sure, he had a sexy kind of daddy thing going on, with his salt-and-pepper buzzed hair and close-cropped beard, his gray eyes that seemed to possess unfathomable depths, but honestly, if he were in one of the gay bars on Arenas, he’d look like almost every other man present.
Why couldn’t Billy move on? Find a guy who wanted him, who was attracted to him, who wanted to be more than just buddies. The desert was full of likely and hopeful prospects.
Why was there this torture? This hope? Both things were doubly painful to Billy because he felt he had to endure them in secret.
It was almost enough to drive him to drink.
And sometimes he’d imagine dropping by Milt’s with a fifth of vodka, something good like Stoli or Grey Goose, pouring strong and steady for both of them and watching the sun go down as their brains became fuzzier and fuzzier. Imagining a hand landing on a knee, a sorry/not sorry bump of shoulders, an impulsive kiss that just missed the recipient’s mouth and then the aim would need to be rectified….
When those fantasies became too intense, Billy would find himself in need of an AA meeting, which he could almost always find, just down the road at Sunny Dunes.
Billy had to concede that Milt had come out of his shell a lot over the past few months. Billy could take some of the credit for that. He’d figuratively (though he wished it was literally) taken Milt by the hand and kind of forced him back into life. He introduced him around the little community at Summer Winds, letting him know whom he could trust and whom he might want to avoid.
He introduced him to Demuth Park and the pickleball courts there and taught him how to play. He got Milt out—to the Thursday-night street fair downtown, to the art museum, to a movie now and then. Milt’s favorite theater was the Mary Pickford in Cathedral City—Billy smiled because Milt loved the big reclining seats—and Milt would usually be out cold within fifteen minutes of a movie starting.
But what they loved most to do together was hike the mountain trails, as they were this morning.
Now that it was October, the weather had turned decidedly more pleasant, almost cool in the morning, if you set off early enough. They’d usually do the Araby Trail or the one behind Vons supermarket, the trail Billy could never recall the name of. He’d heard many names for it, Clara something or other or the Goat Trails, but he just referred to it as the trail behind Von’s. It seemed that’s what most people called it.
He took a slug of water and watched Milt and Ruby now as they ascended farther up the Araby Trail. They were nearing the top, and the cluster of celebrity mountain homes, the most famous of which was Bob Hope’s old domed mansion, was now below them. Billy rested against an outcropping of boulders, the sun beginning to actually burn on his shoulders. He was glad he’d smeared some sunscreen on his nose, donned a baseball cap.
When they’d started hiking in earnest, back at the end of September, Milt had discovered CamelBak water reservoirs on Amazon that he thought were a good idea. They were like mini backpacks that held a liter of water. He’d bought one for each of them, orange for him (his favorite color) and lime green for Billy.
Billy bit and sipped from the tube that connected to the pack’s reservoir and felt a pang of deep gratitude. It was great to have an almost constant supply of water, while keeping one’s hands free. It was also great to simply be surrounded by the ethereal beauty of the mountains rising up, San Jacinto just before them, crowned with rock outcroppings and topped with pines. Billy felt a spiritual connection with the mountains. There was a force, mysterious and powerful, that emanated from them, their thousands-of-years-old secrets encompassing the wisdom of the whole world.
Billy was grateful that the best things in life didn’t cost a thing.
And he couldn’t discount the beauty, the happy joy of the man and the dog clambering up the mountainside a couple hundred feet away.
Billy removed his baseball cap to wipe the sweat from his brow, to break up his matted-down hair, before putting the cap back on. He started up after Milt and Ruby, calling, “Wait up!” and laughing.
Ruby had turned out to be the most energetic of the three of them. She could race up and down mountain trails with all the agility and energy of a goat or a bighorn sheep. Milt stopped to watch her, and Billy came to stand beside him.
He was surprised when Milt laid an arm casually across his shoulders. The touch sent a tingle through Billy that sparked all the way down to his toes.
“She’s come so far since I brought her home from the shelter when I first got here. Look at her go!” Milt laughed, and the sound was like music to Billy.
Milt’s gaze focused on the dog, while Billy took in Milt’s profile peripherally. Billy liked seeing the simple joy on Milt’s face and the sun-reddened ridge across his nose and cheekbones.
“Did I ever tell you that, for nearly a week after I brought her home, she’d hide under the bed almost twenty-four seven? I had to coax her out with round steak and broiled chicken. Smart of me! I spoiled her right off the bat. Now she won’t eat anything but.
“But God, she was a scared thing. I’d lift my hand to pet her and she’d cower, tail between her legs, terrified eyes looking at me, just begging. It broke my heart.”
Billy watched the dog gallop around and thought that Milt could be describing another creature entirely. This girl was so sure of herself, so full of joy. He asked Milt, “Aren’t you afraid she’ll run away?”
“Ruby? Never. The sweetest thing about her is she knows which side her bread is buttered on. Whatever hell she came from, I firmly believe she knows it was me that rescued her from it. And she’s grateful. She would not run away.” Milt thought for a moment. “I’m grateful too—to have found her. She gives me as much as I like to think I give her.”
Billy wanted to tell Milt that he was lucky to have such a faithful companion but knew he’d be pointing out the obvious.
Billy himself had been an abused animal, and the abuser had been the worst kind of enemy—himself.
He let Milt and Ruby continue wordlessly up the trail. Partly because not making the connection he wanted with Milt was making him a little sad, and with the sadness came a certain amount of lethargy. He’d hiked these trails—and this one in particular—countless times. They were aids to his recovery as much as the twelve steps themselves were, as much as the meetings were, and as much as his calls to his sponsor, an older woman named Candy. Alone up here on a trail, with the whole world spread out before him, he’d managed to find himself, to find the stillness within where he could begin to hear the voice that helped him find a new life, not hiding from it in a bottle, but embracing it, filled with all of its joys and sorrows.
Now he was lucky enough to have a companion on the trails. He’d taken Milt to White Water, to Palm Canyon, to Joshua Tree. There were still many, many unexplored paths for them. Could love grow in the sandy brush of the desert? Billy frowned. It didn’t seem so, at least not in this case.
He sometimes thought Milt looked at him as a kid brother. There was an easy affection between them that was growing. Billy knew he should accept that, be grateful for the gift it was, but he was stubborn.
Today, he thought, shielding his eyes as he looked upward at Milt and his dog and a sky so blue it glowed with neon intensity, he’d need to beg off after the
ir hike and get himself to a meeting.
He needed to remember the simple words of the Serenity Prayer.
Chapter 9
BILLY, BRAIN fuzzy, regarded the little crowd seated on folding chairs around him. The lower level of St. Augustine’s Catholic Church looked like the basement of many other old Catholic churches, at least in Billy’s experience. He’d grown up Catholic in Riverside, California, and had long ago abandoned the faith because, as a gay man, he no longer felt welcome. On the wall opposite was a come-on for Tuesday night bingo; next to that, Christ hanging out on his cross. Billy smirked. He’d always found Jesus kind of sexy, especially in that loincloth. There were also a few obvious nods to twelve-step groups—placards announcing “Easy Does It” and “There’s a Magic in this Room” and “Just for Today.”
What am I doing here? He shook his head, and the small motion made the little man behind his eyes pick up his ice pick and go back to work. The headache was sharp, making his eyes more sensitive to light. The fluorescents above, softly buzzing, did him no favors. He licked his lips, but it was no good—his mouth was dry. Acid pooled at the back of his throat.
The meeting hadn’t started yet, and the men and women gathered in that basement room, with its speckled linoleum and acoustic-tile suspended ceiling, chatted softly among themselves, clutching Styrofoam cups of coffee, many of them laughing. Billy was surprised at that. After all, wasn’t this an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting? Weren’t folks supposed to be serious, or to underline with a groaner of a pun, sober? Some of these folks were behaving as though they were at a party. Billy felt left out, like he wasn’t one of the cool kids. But how cool could you be, he wondered, if you ended up here?
The assembled alcoholics were a mix of young and old, fat and thin, poor (Billy guessed) and affluent. There were a couple of cute guys—one in particular who caught Billy’s eye who reminded him of Freddie Mercury, with his cropped black hair and walrus mustache—and Billy wondered if he could lead him astray after the meeting. One woman looked like she could have no different occupation other than a librarian, with her gray hair pulled back in a loose bun and her oval wire-rim glasses. She wore a loose-fitting housedress, black-and-white checkered, that his mom would have referred to as a shift. She wore black flats—sensible shoes.
