Tilting at Windmills (11 page)

Janey’s bright round eyes dimmed. “I’m sorry, Momma; I won’t do it again.”

“Okay, baby; it’s okay. Let’s just go inside and say hi to Cynthia and get you some strawberries.” Annie held out her arms and Janey went to them, a tender embrace that showed just how close they were. A team once again, they headed toward the fruit market. Annie said nothing further to me.

As for Janey, she turned and smiled at me and said, “We’re having strawberry shortcake for dessert. It’s my favorite.”

Then they disappeared inside the store, and I returned to my car, picking up the ripped bag of produce. Tossing it in the back, I hopped in the car. As I was about to pull out, an older woman with gray hair wrapped in a tight bun placed her hands on the driver’s door and peered in. Her face was familiar, but from where I couldn’t remember.

“You did the right thing, Brian, and Annie’s just overreacting.” She nodded her head as she spoke. “I’m Gerta Connors—George’s wife. We haven’t officially met, but I saw you from the car window when George dropped by the tavern the other night.”

“Oh—you’re all George ever talks about, Mrs. Connors. It’s very nice to meet you. And thanks for your supportive words just now. Don’t blame Mrs. Sullivan; it’s a natural reaction on her part, don’t you think? She was more scared than anything. She didn’t mean what she said about me, I’m sure.”

“Probably you’re right,” she said, again with that insistent nodding. “Still, haven’t seen Annie Sullivan so riled in . . . well, not for a long time.” Then, in a quieter voice, Gerta said, “Annie’s a widow, you know.”

“No, I didn’t realize that. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Coming up on two years, I think. Thank goodness for Janey—she’s Annie’s pride and joy, and I guess maybe today put a little scare into her. Poor dear. Well, I must hasten. I’m making a strawberry pie for George. If you’re going to be at the Corner tonight, I’ll bring you a slice. Do you like strawberry pie?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” I replied.

“Then you’re in for a treat, especially with the Knights’ berries. Cynthia’s got the magic touch, her berries being so ripe and full of juice.”

“You folks sure do know your passions,” I said. “Thanks, Gerta; I’ll be there.”

“Passion, young man,” she said, “is the energy of life.”

I drove off then, with the promise of sweet pie in my near future.

^“
T
hey call her the woman who loved the windmill,” he said, taking a puff of his pipe and sucking in the sweet, smoky aroma. A cloudy mist circled above his head and then dissipated in the cool night air. It was Sunday night, and I’d been in Linden Corners for nearly a week. “Of course, that’s not exactly the right nickname, ’cause it makes it sound like she doesn’t care anymore for the windmill, and to say so would be a falsehood.”

“So she’s actually the woman who
loves
the windmill,” I stated. “Present tense.”

George Connors gave me a quick nod as he continued to rock in his chair. “Second only to that bundle of energy.”

“Janey,” I said.

Again, that quick, agreeable nod that seemed to run in the Connors family.

George and Gerta Connors were people of habit, good, upstanding citizens who regularly attended church, living life like good Christians, and that included opening up their home and their hearts to a stranger in search of something he couldn’t quite name. Sunday was George’s one day off; he’d decided years ago that in observance of the Lord’s day, his corner tavern would lock its doors on Saturday night and remain closed all the next day, until four o’clock on Monday afternoon, when it was time again to go to work.

“On Sundays, there’s other spirits at work,” George told me.

I’d been helping out all week down at Connors’ Corners, and I’d refused any sort of remuneration for my duties, which resulted in George’s thinking me a damn fool and Gerta’s taking a keen interest in my well-being. So when the invitation came for Sunday dinner, there was no refusing. Not that I would have, mind you. These were good folk with big hearts, and aside from some home cooking, company was probably what I needed most. With them, there was no hidden agenda, just a long-married couple whose kids had grown up and moved away and who were happy now to open their home to a soul in need.

It was dark now, after seven, and dinner was over by a couple of hours, the dishes all put away. (I’d insisted on cleaning up, despite Gerta’s protests.) Gerta had gone to take a hot plate of food to a friend, a woman in her late seventies who lived alone. George explained this was part of Gerta’s routine, giving him a few spare moments to himself on his one day off, a chance to enjoy his pipe without complaint. He and I retired to the porch, where we sat in wicker chairs and watched the sun fall and the stars emerge in the wide-open black sky above.

We’d talked for a while, then sat in silence enjoying the chirping of the crickets out in the field. George and Gerta lived in a small, two-story clapboard house, having moved in when they’d gotten married nearly fifty years earlier. Four girls had grown up here and gone and were now all married with children of their own. The Connors were proud grandparents to eleven kids; while dinner cooked, Gerta had proudly showed me photo albums filled with memories. Beyond the house was a small open field, a rusting swing set at the edge of the field the last reminder of the kids who’d once filled this house with laughter. Seeing the field had brought the windmill to my mind, and so began the conversation that would tell me so much about the woman named Annie Sullivan.

“Gerta tells me Annie’s a widow,” I said. “Can’t be easy for her, raising a young daughter all alone.”

“She does okay, Annie does. A good mother—and that Janey? A parent couldn’t ask for a happier, more well-adjusted kid. Especially considering the tragedy she’s had to know at such a young age.” He hung his head low in obvious respect for the dead.

I was uncomfortable discussing Annie in this manner; it felt too much like idle gossip, and I said as much to George.

He puffed on his pipe, saw that it had gone out, and dug for his lighter. Once he had stoked the flame again and round puffs of smoke encircled him, he spoke again. “Well, Brian, I guess some might call it gossip, but you’re going to learn all about Annie Sullivan anyway. Whether you learn it from me or Gerta or from someone else in town, or even Annie herself, it’s not information that will evade you long.”

“First of all, the idea of talking with Annie about the death of her husband doesn’t strike me as likely. Or talking about anything else, for that matter. We’ve met twice—briefly, I might add—both times not under the best of circumstances. Assuming, George, that I’ll even be in town for much longer.”

“Oh, I think you’re misreading our Annie Sullivan. She’s a sweet girl—none sweeter in Linden Corners, if you ask me—but she’s had a tough time of late, that’s for certain. So if she comes off a bit brusque, it’s not you she’s reacting to. Just circumstance. Word is, Brian, her little girl can’t stop talking about you. Calls you the Windmill Man.”

“The Windmill Man?” I asked. “She barely knows me.”

“I’ve seen four girls grow from little to big, and if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that kids make up their own minds, and they do it pretty quickly. Adults, we question people’s motives, act all shy and reserved, and it’s any wonder we make friends or meet loved ones, given our skittish behavior. Kids, though, they make friends like it’s a magic act. Wave a wand and instant best friends. Janey’s no different. Living up on that hill, she’s pretty removed from town; people think it’s not right. But she goes to school, makes easy friends, and, as far as I’m concerned, is a better judge of character than most adults. So if she says she likes you, better know it’s genuine.”

Having made an impression on Janey left me feeling special, honored. “And so how did you hear about the Windmill Man?”

“Gerta heard it from Cynthia Knight, who heard it right from the horse’s mouth, as they say.”

The network of small-town talk no longer surprised me, but it sure did entertain me. “George, I’ve been in town six days, and already people are talking like I’ve lived here for years.”

He nodded. “That’s because you said the magic words.”

“Magic words?”

All around us a quiet descended, shushing even the crickets, it seemed. In the sparse light of the porch, blackness just beyond, George rocked in his chair, a smile growing on his weathered face. “The reason you stopped in the first place, Brian, the windmill. You said you liked it, didn’t you? Told Janey, told Annie. Believe me, you made an impression.”

“And now the town is talking about the Windmill Man?”

“It’s not the town that’s important, Brian. It’s the fact that the Woman Who Loved the Windmill mentioned you. Brian, Annie’s not the same effervescent girl she once was. Why, when she came to Linden Corners, she was a wide-eyed beauty who fell in love with a town landmark, saved it, and in turn gave renewed life to this town. We’re a grateful town, and so we look after her. After Dan died, she just closed up, kept to herself, and concentrated on raising Janey. And don’t get me wrong—she’s done a great job, like I’ve said. But a person can’t just shut down emotionally; it’s not healthy. You’ve got to live—not in the past but in the moment and for the future. You young kids don’t always see it that way, ’cause wisdom comes with age.” He paused, shaking his head. “I’ll shut up. Now’s not the time for lecturing.”

“No, George, believe me—your words are greatly appreciated. More than you know.”

“You sure about that?” he said, with a quizzical lift of his eyebrow.

I realized he hadn’t been talking just about Annie. Though I’d spilled nothing of my own troubles, it had not taken much for George to see inside me, sensing the issues I’d yet to come to terms with.

“You’re a shrewd man, George Connors.”

We sat in companionable silence for a while, each alone with his thoughts. Mine turned toward this strange little town and how it had welcomed me with such wide open arms. It couldn’t have been because I admitted to being drawn in by the windmill. A building doesn’t have such power, and people don’t obsess over such things, surely. And this added notion that there was a hidden connection between me and Annie Sullivan, well, that was plain malarkey, the confection of people with too much time on their hands. There was nothing to speak of between us, save for two not-so-wonderful encounters that only left Annie annoyed with me. So she’d spoken of me to her friends, probably in the context of being some weird freak who’s taken a liking to her daughter. Then again, George couldn’t have made up the Windmill Man part, and a small sense of joy crept into my heart. All this silly speculation, and over a windmill.

Yet its majestic image had not left my mind for any length of time since I’d come to Linden Corners. I’d seen it on my couple of trips out of town and more importantly, I’d seen it in my dreams.

“Tell me about the windmill, George; I want to know its history.”

“Don’t ask me. Go to the source.”

“Annie Sullivan.”

“She’ll tell you all you want to know, and more.”

I looked at him dubiously, and he smiled at me. “Stop thinking about things, Brian. Sometimes you need to just do. Speaking of which, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“Gerta lured you here with the promise of her good cooking, and don’t get me wrong, the invite was an earnest one on her part. As for me, I’ve got a proposition for you, and—no, don’t try to stop me. Don’t interrupt, don’t anything. Just hush up and you listen. You’ve done me a kind service this past week, helping out down at the Corner, giving an old man a chance to enjoy some moonlit nights with his wife—a rare opportunity, given the business I’m in. Summer’s coming up, and Gerta and I were thinking of maybe visiting our girls for a couple of weeks, but to do so, I’d have to close the bar. We’ve done it before, so it’s no big deal, really. But I thought as long as you were around, you might enjoy running the place. You’re a natural behind the bar, the folks seem to like you, and you pour a mean drink. All essential requirements for the job. Whaddaya say, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through?”

“If I were to accept your offer, I’d have to change my name.”

He guffawed, accidentally sucking in smoke. “See what I mean? You’re not just quick on your feet, your mind’s quick, too, and that’s what’ll keep the regulars coming back. And who knows? A nice-looking fella like yourself might bring in the younger crowd—those kids who think of Connors’ Corners as a saloon for old drunks. Be a real summer draw.”

His offer wasn’t unexpected—and wasn’t unappealing either. But it was scary, too, the prospect of staying in one place for the entire summer, committing what would essentially be the rest of my allotted time on the road. My plan all along was to be back in New York City after Labor Day and pick up where I left off, hopefully more emotionally sound and better prepared for my reentry into the world of corporate America. Would I be satisfied staying the summer in Linden Corners? Or was I destined to live the summer on the road, drive through New England as I’d planned, swim in the ocean, eat lobster, and grow tan from the sun’s strong rays? Could mixing drinks and listening to small-town gossip keep my interest during the long, hot days of summer? An uncertainty grasped me, and I found there was no quick answer.

“You think on it, Brian, and get back to me,” George said, his rocking chair casting moving shadows on the dimly lit porch.

“Don’t misinterpret my silence, though.”

“No judgments, Brian, and no pressure,” he said. “Oh, and little pay.”

“Gee, George, you really know how to sell it, don’t you?”

He laughed as he got up from the chair, excused himself for a moment, and disappeared within the house.

Time was getting on toward nine that night. I was thinking Gerta was due back soon, and at that exact moment a pair of headlights temporarily blinded me, as a car pulled into the driveway. Assuming it was Gerta, I got up to say hello, and that was when I noticed it wasn’t Gerta’s car. It was a pickup truck, beaten up and rusted through but somehow still able to run. A man in a ball cap stepped down from the cab and approached.