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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Uncle Milt’s umbrella
Benjamin Green
Wouldn’t you know it?
The sun break was only a temporary reprieve from the rain that had been pelting the city for a couple of weeks.
The gutters were struggling to drink it all down, but the leaves of fall choked their mouths, and created large pools of standing water.
Milton Berry didn’t bring an umbrella this morning, because the sun was shining.
Chalk it up to crazy optimism.
It was only a light drizzle right now, but he was a couple miles from home, and the rain was getting heavier by the minute.
A DeSoto Firestreak drove by, throwing up twin roostertails of grey water.
He managed to sidestep most of it, but some grit splashed across his trenchcoat.
He had a brief urge to shake his fist at the offending driver, but realized it would be an empty gesture, at best.
At least his suit hadn’t gotten all messed up.
Then he heard the sounds of singing to his right.
What made that unusual is he was walking past Restful Acres cemetery.
Why would people want to sing in a graveyard?
Especially in weather like this?
Still he was intrigued.
The gate was wide open, and he went inside.
To his amazement, there was a group clustered around the tombstones, and they were singing.
He recognized it as ‘The old rugged cross’.
His first impulse was to turn, and run out of there.
This looked like serious lunacy.
However, everyone looked so normal, and they all had umbrellas.
Maybe there was a logical explanation for this behavior.
Maybe they were having a memorial service for somebody that had just died.
Fortified in that justification, he marched over to see what was going on.
They were singing ‘Bringing in the sheaves’ as he approached. “What’s going on here?
Are you having a memorial for somebody?”
They turned to look at him.
Their stares were curious rather than hostile.
A middle-aged woman approached.
“No, sir.
We came here to sing to the dead.”
He looked at her as if she had just announced they drank blood.
“Sing to the dead?”
She nodded.
“Some people talk to their dead relatives.
We decided that it would be nice to sing to them.”
Milt thought it was crazy at first, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
At the worst, it was a harmless eccentricity.
The woman looked at him, and asked, “Would you be willing to join us?”
Then she added, “You don’t have an umbrella!”
She handed him the one hanging on her arm.
“Here.
Use mine.”
Now that he had it in his hands, he felt obliged to join them.
It came in the nick of time.
The drizzle thickened up into a misting that would have soaked anyone who was out for an extended period of time outside.
It was turning into real rain, and was promising much worse.
He began singing with them, and found that he enjoyed it.
The rain became a downpour, and they huddled even closer for protection against the elements.
They sang familiar hymn after familiar hymn, and he began to think about his church attendance.
Since he’d been confirmed, he’d been rather lax about getting up to go on Sundays.
Most of the time, it seemed like too much of a bother to make the effort.
Maybe he ought to renew his commitment with his faith.
After exhausting his store of remembered hymns, the group stopped to introduce themselves.
Milton found out that the middle-aged woman’s name was Terri Adams.
She said, “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Berry, but now we have to go.”
He received a nasty shock when they all disappeared.
He was singing in a cemetery full of ghosts!
The thought caused chills to ripple down his spine.
Then the thought occurred that it had not been such a loss after all.
A check of his watch revealed that he’d been at it for two hours.
If he’d spent that much time engrossed in singing hymns, he must have gotten something out of it.
He had gained a renewal of a sense of purpose, and a recommitment to his faith.
Plus, he now had an umbrella.
It was a real nice one.
Showed some real signs of craftsmanship.
He wondered when Terri would come back for it.
The years went by.
Kennedy was elected president, the country exploded with the Vietnam War, Watergate, Reagan was elected president, and the Berlin Wall fell.
Of course, all during that time, Terri and her friends never came back, and she never came for her umbrella.
He was aware of the envious looks the kids, and later the grandkids cast upon it.
He knew he would have to come up with an addendum to his will about who would get it, but he kept putting it off.
He just didn’t know who to give it to.
One night, he was lying down, and a blood vessel burst in his stomach.
Because he was an octogenarian, sleep deepened into unconsciousness, spiraling down toward death.
“Milton!
Milton!
Wake up!”
His eyes flew open, to see Terri smiling at him.
“do you still have my umbrella?”
He nodded.
“Good.
Go get it, then. It’s time to go home.”
He looked at her befuddled.
“Home?
I’m already home.”
She smiled, and her face lit up with a beatific glow, which made her even more beautiful.
“This isn’t your home anymore.
It’s time to leave this vale of tears.”
Milt turned around, and saw his shrunken form on the bed.
It looked all wrinkled and used up, but he felt a powerful wave of nostalgia for it.
He turned back toward her, and said, “I’m afraid.
I don’t want to die.”
She rewarded him with another smile, and stroked his brow.
He felt his fear melting away.
“Now grab my umbrella, and let’s be on our way.”
Two days after the funeral, the grandkids were ransacking the house, looking for the umbrella, under the guise of cleaning out the house.
Of course, it was nowhere to be found.
The wife of one shrieked, “It has to be around here somewhere!”
There was a soft titter, but nobody paid any attention.
