Tilting at Windmills Read online

  “So, what’s this storm—a hurricane or something?”

  “Nor’easter,” Gerta said, “which can be worse. Especially given the kind of heat we’ve been having.”

  “It’s the same in New York City.”

  “You were back in the city?” Chuck asked.

  “For a short while,” I said. “Had to rid myself of the apartment, you know?”

  A stricken look crossed his face, which was exactly my intent. He excused himself and went to see if he could be of help somewhere else. Hopefully somewhere in Siberia.

  I followed Gerta through the room, scanning the assembled folks for any sign of Janey or Annie. I came up empty. Perhaps they were at the school. Or—a light went off inside my brain as I recalled the light I’d seen inside the windmill a short while ago—perhaps Annie had gone back there. But why? I dismissed the thought; she wouldn’t be there with a storm like this brewing. Suddenly a crash of thunder rattled the windows, and my gut churned with nervous energy. I had a bad feeling about this storm; maybe it was my inexperience with them, since everyone else seemed calm, even unconcerned.

  Gerta stopped at the television, where the local weatherman was detailing the path of the storm. From what he said, the northern portion of the Hudson River Valley was going to be the hardest hit, with possible power outages and the touching down of lightning bolts. He couldn’t repeat himself enough: Stay indoors. And again, an unsettling feeling overcame me.

  “Gerta, have you heard anything from Annie?”

  A puzzled look crossed her face. “Well, surely she’s here, somewhere. Just a half hour ago I saw little Janey playing with some other children,” she said reassuringly. “Relax—it’ll be over soon. Though it does look like nature has put a damper on our Third Thursday—not much you can do but listen when God speaks up.”

  She took a seat then and settled in to wait out the storm.

  I told her I’d be back, and I waded through the room, asking after Annie and Janey. No one had seen Annie, but Marla the twin said she’d seen Janey with a couple of other kids upstairs, playing in the vestibule. I dashed up the stairs two at a time, bypassing folks who were coming down the stairs with trays of piping hot food, a small town’s answer to riding out a storm. It smelled good, making me realize I hadn’t eaten all day. But food would have to wait. My heart was near bursting knowing Janey was nearby. I needed to know she was okay.

  There were five kids running around the altar, and I suppose on any other day Father Burton would have put a stop to it quickly, but today the kids had the run of the place. Janey, I saw, was among the happy group, oblivious to the coming storm.

  I called out Janey’s name, and she stopped short and peered out from behind the lectern.

  “Brian!” she cried loudly, and as she came running toward me, a loud clap of thunder shook the room and I turned with sudden surprise, only to be knocked off my feet as Janey came racing into my arms. The two of us fell to the floor in a happy reunion. This little bundle of joy, my God, how I’d missed her presence, her exuberance. She was a true gift, and for a moment I felt a sadness at having lost her even for a brief amount of time. But here she was, giggling and laughing, an infectious combination that got a similar response from me.

  “You came back, just like you said you would. Brian’s home! I knew you’d come home,” she said, barely pausing for breath. “That’s what I kept telling Momma, that’d you’d be back.”

  Before I could respond, another clap of thunder roared through the church. Then the sound of shattering glass shook the room. There were a few cries of shock, and someone yelled, “Look out!” I looked up to see shards of stained glass heading my way—Janey’s way.

  “Get down,” I shouted, and then threw myself over her. My body covered Janey just in time as pieces of glass fell all around us, bouncing on my back and my legs but luckily not piercing either. I listened for the brief shower to end. Then I raised myself from the floor and grabbed for Janey.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, checking her over for any cuts or bruises. She seemed to be okay.

  “Wow,” she said, and then, with the hint of the devilish grin I’d come to love, she said, “See, you can’t ever leave me, Brian. You’re always saving me!” And then she giggled again. I knew she was just fine, probably better than I was.

  I looked up then at the broken window and saw pieces of a tree branch sticking through the open space, felt rain coming in, and felt the wind as it whipped through the smashed window.

  “We can’t leave the window like that, can we?” a man shouted.

  “What choice do we have?” someone else asked.

  Behind me was Chuck Ackroyd, who suggested we board it up. “With planks of wood from the hardware store.”

  “You can’t go out in that . . .”

  To my surprise, Chuck was headed out the door, and I took off after him, thinking he was crazy to go out in the midst of the storm. I caught up to him, grabbed his shirt to pull him back. He resisted.

  “Either help or don’t,” he said. “But don’t stall.”

  I made up my mind fast. “Okay, I’m going with you.”

  For a second we both hesitated, as though the idea of our working together was incomprehensible. It was us versus the storm, we both realized, and there was no time for anything else.

  I was ready to leave when Janey came running up to me, asking me not to leave.

  “I’ve got to help Mr. Ackroyd,” I said. “But I’ll be back.”

  “Okay—but Brian, bring Momma back with you.”

  So what I sensed was true. Annie wasn’t there.

  “She said she’d meet me here, Brian. She was closing up the shop and heading for home. Can you go and get her?”

  Annie, alone at the farmhouse, or worse, inside the windmill. Definitely, she was inside the windmill. And that was not the safest place to be.

  “Yeah, we’ll go to the store and we’ll get your mom, too. Until then, be good, huh, sweetie?”

  Chuck threw open the front door of the church, only to be pushed back by a fierce gust of wind. But we persevered, running through the stinging sheets of rain until we reached his truck. He pulled out of the lot and drove the three blocks to the hardware store, both of us assessing the damage already done to the village square. There were downed trees and large puddles of rain and street signs waved wildly. I prayed they were secure in the ground.

  We turned onto Main Street and quickly came to Chuck’s store, and his first reaction said it all.

  “Shit.”

  The front display window was shattered and the wind was ripping through his store, causing who knew how much damage. Lots, I figured. Neither of us said a word; we just stared ahead, uncertain what to do. Finally, I said, “Forget the church window. You can’t beat this storm.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “you said it.”

  We were about to leave when out of the truck’s window I noticed another truck parked in the lot. It looked terribly familiar, and an unsettling feeling overcame me. Then a beam of a light caught my eyes. The beam was coming from inside the store.

  “Wait, Chuck—someone’s inside the store.”

  “What the hell . . . hey, that’s a flashlight beam.”

  He hopped out of the cab. I joined him.

  We ran to the store, seeking what cover we could from the torn awning over the front entrance. Forsaking the keys, Chuck jumped into his display case and entered the store the convenient way—at least it was now. That was probably how the intruder had entered as well. What intruder? I thought. Hell, it was Annie. Again, I followed, shrieking out a series of hellos that weren’t heard; the fury of the storm swallowed my voice.

  I sought out the beam of light, running through the aisles, while Chuck went to check on the other entrances and exits. I continued to call out and finally I got a reply.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “Annie!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  Her mouth opened, but if words came ou
t, I couldn’t hear them.

  I ran to her. “Are you crazy—what are you doing out in this storm?”

  “I needed supplies. I needed help.”

  “Help? For what? Annie, you need to get over to the church. Janey’s waiting for you. Come on.”

  I reached for her windbreaker, but she pulled away.

  “I’m not leaving—not yet!”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I need rope. Coil. Something that’s strong.”

  “Strong? Why? What are you going to try to tie down? In this storm, it’ll never hold anyway. Just forget it, Annie. Come with me, back to the church. Janey needs you.”

  Her maternal concern stopped her for a second. “She’s fine? Janey’s okay? Her friend’s mother brought them to the church okay?”

  “Yeah. Except she wants her mother,” I said. “Annie, what’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  “Brian, don’t you get it? It’s the windmill. I’m afraid the storm’s going to damage it. I can’t have that happen, Brian. It’s too much, don’t you see? I’ve lost too much in life. I can’t let the windmill be destroyed. It’s what keeps me strong—strong for Janey.” She paused, and in that moment her eyes became fierce, determined. “Brian, it’s the windmill that brought you to me.”

  She’d shaken me to my core, the determination in her voice cutting off all rational thoughts I might have had. My brain ceased to work, save for images of that windmill, and for a second I saw it in complete ruin and realized I couldn’t allow it to happen either. Annie’s dream was now my dream, too, and we couldn’t let it be destroyed.

  “Come on. Let me help.”

  Not even twenty-four hours earlier, Annie and I had renewed our love inside the windmill, and I think she realized, now, that it was no longer just her windmill but ours.

  “If you’re helping, then let’s move. There’s very little time left,” she said, scrambling down the aisle until she’d found what she was looking for. Grabbing both a coil of thick wire and another of taut rope, a hammer and heavy metal spikes, she started toward the exit and stopped at the registers in the front.

  Chuck, who was there assessing the damage, waved her on. “You’d better get out of here or you’ll never make it back to the church in time. Your items are free.”

  She thanked Chuck and turned to me, her impatience evident. “In the car. Come on, time’s wasting.”

  I shook my head and followed Annie out of the store and into the fierce storm. The wind immediately whipped her hair into her face and nearly knocked her down. It was clear that the storm was intensifying, fast. I helped Annie to the cab of the truck, and she started the engine. She looked ready to leave without me, but before she had a chance to do that, I grabbed the passenger door and jumped in beside her.

  “Ready?” she said, her lips curled upward. She was enjoying this.

  “Annie Sullivan, you’re crazy.”

  “No, Brian. It’s about loyalty. The windmill saved me years ago, and it continues to save me, almost daily. I can’t let it stand alone and unprotected.”

  Just then another gust of wind passed us, rocking the truck like it was a ship being tossed on the waves.

  “Then we’d better go now, before the wind carries us to Oz,” I said.

  “Now who’s in a hurry?” she said. Then she tilted her head toward the hardware store. “What about Chuck?”

  “I think he can fend for himself. Come on—let’s go save our windmill.”

  I’d made her smile, and she leaned over and kissed me fast before putting the truck in gear and then pulling out onto the road. The truck barreled down the empty roads, swerving occasionally to avoid a fallen tree branch or, in one case, a whole tree. Annie missed the turnoff for her driveway, continuing down the main route, and I realized she meant to drive directly to the windmill. And that’s exactly what she did, hopping the shoulder and peeling her way over the great lawn. In the near distance, the windmill still stood. Despite the incredible wind outside, though, the sails weren’t moving. My face scrunched up in puzzlement.

  “I secured the sails when I heard the weather report earlier. I was inside—I wanted to finish your painting, and so I secured the lock inside the cap. It’s a safety device, to keep the sails from turning too quickly—from allowing nature to take total control of the sails.”

  “So then why the rope?”

  “Because the lock may not hold—not in this wind. Just an hour ago, the weatherman said we could have gusts of up to eighty miles an hour. I’m not taking any chances, not with the windmill.”

  “What will the ropes do?”

  “I want to secure them to the ground. Hopefully, between the lock and the ropes, the sails will stay put.”

  I gave her a doubtful expression.

  “You have a better idea?”

  I had to admit I didn’t. That still didn’t give me confidence in her plan. But I was going to help her, no matter what.

  She brought the truck to a stop about a hundred feet from the windmill, and before she stepped back out into the storm, she turned to me. Rain, maybe sweat, dripped from her forehead and her hair was drenched and lying flat against her scalp. She looked amazing.

  “What?” she asked me suddenly.

  “What what?”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “Can’t help myself there.”

  She had her hand on the door handle. “Yes, the windblown look is terribly attractive.”

  I should have laughed, since sarcasm was unusual coming from Annie, yet what I felt wash over me was a sudden sadness, as though all we’d been through, the friendship, the love, the time apart, the coming home, all of it was now on the line. This was the moment we had been heading toward, and our next steps would dictate our future.

  “What’s the matter, Brian?”

  “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”

  “Brian, you came back to me yesterday, told me you were fighting for something you believe in, something that means the world to you. Well, I’m doing the same thing.”

  I saw her swallow heavily, like it hurt. You can’t make your emotions slide away. We both knew that. Silence enveloped the cab, and for a brief moment we were oblivious to the storm raging outside. Then, in one blast of wind, the truck again rocked and our eye contact was broken.

  “I’ll get the supplies,” I said.

  As I reached for the length of rope, Annie jumped out of the truck. The wind nearly knocked her over, but she braced herself against the side of the truck in defiance. She yelled something to me, but I couldn’t hear what it was. So I joined her outside in the storm, and together, we went running toward the windmill, getting soaked to the bone as we pushed against the wind. I had certainly never seen a storm of such power and certainly had never been in the midst of one.

  “This is crazy,” I shouted into the wind, and my words were met only by Annie’s laugh. She was invigorated, alive, and her sense of purpose found its way into me. I laughed at her recklessness. “You’re crazy.”

  She waved at me as she reached the windmill. Thrusting open the door, she went inside and wiped away a fountain of water from her hair and face. It pooled on the floor, and I stepped in it as I followed behind her, shutting the door behind me. Lightning lit the black sky for a split second, and then thunder rumbled directly overhead.

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked, coming up behind her.

  “No time like the present,” she responded. “Okay, here’s the plan: I’ll head upstairs and throw the rope down to you. Don’t forget to lace it through the slats; that will help secure it.”

  I shook my head. “Only one thing wrong with that plan—I don’t want you spending all that time outside on the catwalk. It’s too dangerous, Annie.”

  “No more dangerous—”

  “Annie, for Janey’s sake, stay inside as much as you can.”

  That stopped her for a second, and I hoped she was reconsidering this entire plan.

&
nbsp; “I’ll do my best.”

  She took the rope and wound her way up the spiral staircase, as I waited on the main level for her okay. She yelled down that she was in position and so, steeling myself against the elements once again, I scurried out of the relative safety of the windmill and into the insanity of the storm. Immediately the wind whipped at my body, and I slipped in a puddle of mud. Picking myself up quickly, though, I made my way to the base of the windmill, where the sails, dormant when we’d arrived, now threatened to shake loose of their holding winch and fall victim to the uncontrollable forces of the wind. I just had to have faith that Annie’s plan would work; I, too, hated the thought of the windmill’s being damaged.

  “Brian—catch . . .”

  I spun into action, climbing up the sails like I’d done weeks ago, winding the rope through the latticework. Then, when it was fully woven through the sails, I tied a knot and then grabbed from my pocket one of the metal spikes Annie had taken from the hardware store, and with the hammer I pounded the spike into the bottom part of the windmill itself because the ground was too sopping to let me gain any purchase. I pulled at it, tightening the rope until I felt it grow taut while Annie yanked from the other end, securing her end around the mechanism inside the windmill. I gave her a high five, letting her know my end was done.

  “Mine, too!” she screamed. “We did it, Brian—look!”

  And I did look up at the windmill’s sails—and saw that they were truly immobilized. Annie’s theory had proven true—at least for now. Now all we could do was hope that the wind would let up soon.

  “You did it, Annie—you were right,” I shouted up to her, happily twisting in the wind, ignoring the rain and the sharp pellets of hail that battered my body. Who cared? Annie and I had triumphed over nature, over adversity, and wasn’t that really why I’d come back to Linden Corners? Annie was all that mattered, she and Janey, and I had to let her know it, now. Fumbling in my pocket, I found the small jewelry box I’d aquired from Eli’s Jewelers yesterday. It contained a ring that was meant for only one woman. A different ring for the right woman.