Tilting at Windmills Page 8

Time passed and a couple of people left; a couple new ones showed up. I sat alone and content, enjoying the congenial atmosphere, the sense of belonging that George had effortlessly instilled in me. Finally, around ten o’clock, the game ended (the Mets won) and I’d had my fill of seltzer. I got up to leave. I realized, though, that I was feeling a bit restless.

  “You’re a man in search of something to do,” George said. “Beware my daddy’s lesson in boredom.” A smile brightened his craggy features. “You know, just occurred to me, this great idea. How’d you like to close up shop for me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Clean a few glasses, turn the lights off, and then lock the front door. It’s real simple.”

  “But . . . you don’t even know me.”

  “Call me a good judge of character, Brian. Look, the wife’ll be pleased to see me early, and truth be known, I’m tuckered out tonight. Grandkids were visiting this past weekend and they ran me ragged. What do you say? I can’t trust any of these fools”—he pointed to the three men who also sat at the bar—“’cause they’ll help themselves to the tap. You—I can trust you, Brian Duncan.”

  And before I could answer yes or no, he tossed off his apron, came around the bar, and handed me a key.

  “Midnight, kick these boys out.” Then he told his regulars that Brian Duncan Just Passing Through would be tending bar the rest of the night and to be nice, to try not to rook him. He patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine, son. All they drink is beer, three bucks a draft, no tabs. Good luck. Come by tomorrow to return the key; we’ll see how you did.”

  “But George . . .”

  I was still sitting on the bar stool, watching as George ignored my pleas on his way out the door and into the dark night. The screen door closed with a loud thwack that reverberated through the quiet bar. I spun around and found the patrons looking at me, all of them with empty or near-empty glasses.

  “Refill, guys?” I said, attempting a smile and failing miserably.

  They pushed their mugs forward expectantly, and suddenly, I was put to work. I was gainfully employed in Linden Corners.

  FIVE

  Before I knew it, two days had passed and still Linden Corners held me in its appealingly quaint grip. It was Thursday afternoon and I’d just returned from a trip up to Albany, where I’d done some shopping and enjoyed a quick lunch in the downtown area of New York’s capital. Though not a renowned urban center like New York City, Albany showed itself to be a serious town with serious issues to contend with, and the sight of the state government in action, men and women dressed up in power suits, cell phones practically glued to their ears, made me long for the small-town pace of Linden Corners.

  Truth be told, I’d been having a good time in Linden Corners and was eager to return. I’d taken Martha up on her suggestion, trying her scrambled eggs and easily finding much to rave about, though I confess I hadn’t exactly arrived for the five-o’clock rush. I’d also filled in at Connors’ Corners Wednesday night, not a spur-of-the-moment decision but something planned the night before, so George could have more than a couple hours off. In fact, he showed up only to open up at four in the afternoon, then left me alone for what turned out to be a very long eight-hour shift. Word had gotten around about the new guy, so folks showed up for a drink, a game of pool, and a little bit of small-town gossip, of which I was the big topic. Well, it ended up being a fun night, with Sara the waitress stopping by after work, glad to have me wait on her, all the while batting her eyelashes at me. Turned out she was twenty-two, but as the saying goes, Thanks but no thanks.

  This morning I’d bypassed the major highway, opting for the backroads tour through the countryside all the way up to Albany, memorizing the route for the return trip. There were a couple places that had attracted my eye, including a roadside fruit stand a couple miles north of Linden Corners. It was coming up again, on my left, and I decided to check it out. Hanging around the motel, it was nice to have a snack handy, and given the lingering effects of the hepatitis, fruit was the right choice. There was a small wooden sign posted alongside the road, reminding drivers that the fruit stand was just over the next hill, and indeed it was, a series of four connected buildings, with wide wooden doors held open by white-painted stands overflowing with vegetables and fruit. With about a dozen cars in the lot and a couple more pulling in and out, it was clear this was no well-kept secret.

  KNIGHT’S FRUITS, read a hand-painted sign on the building’s roof.

  I milled about with the other locals, picking out ripe red strawberries and grapes and cherries—some apples and oranges, too. Adding a plastic container of freshly squeezed orange juice to the basket, I decided I had plenty and headed to the checkout area. The woman behind the makeshift counter smiled pleasantly at me and asked if this was my first time at the market. She, too, had a friendly demeanor, with a smile full of white, gleaming teeth and a big pile of blond hair that curled naturally around her pretty face.

  “First—maybe not last. We’ll see.”

  “You must be Brian Duncan,” she said. “I’m Cynthia Knight; my husband and I own this place. We live down the road from Annie Sullivan.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise, since I figured my encounter with Annie Sullivan had long gone off her radar. A mother with a seven-year-old girl had other things to think about. But still . . . the windmill flashed in my mind, and so did Janey, running through the field, her mother trying to catch her.

  “Annie Sullivan told you about me?”

  “Sort of. More like Janey.”

  “Ah,” I said, handing over money for my purchases. We exchanged a bit more small talk, then I let her get on with the customers behind me, none of whom appeared upset or annoyed by the lack of movement in the line. Once it was their turn, Cynthia was all chatter with them, too. Good food, good service, good people. Could be Linden Corners’ motto.

  I was back at my car when I heard someone call out my name. I turned and saw little Janey Sullivan stepping out of the passenger side of a beat-up old pickup. She jumped down to the ground, waving wildly at me.

  “It’s Brian! Wow! It’s Brian!”

  Then, without looking, she darted out into the parking lot and started to run toward me. I sensed something was wrong, something dreadful, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a car backing up, the driver unaware of what—who—was behind her. Neither was Janey, meaning the two were headed for a collision. Annie wasn’t even out of the truck yet, but she saw what was happening, and her mouth opened in terror.

  “Janey!” she screamed out.

  But that only made the situation worse, because Janey came to a sharp stop at the sound of her mother’s frightened voice. I acted fast, dropping my sack of fruit to the ground as I raced forward, calling out to the driver to stop. To no avail—the radio was turned on loud, and besides, Janey was standing in the woman’s blind spot.

  I reached Janey just in time, scooping her up into my arms, which caused her to scream out. But it was not with alarm. Janey thought this was just an extension of the game we’d played the other day, and that’s when it occurred to me that she wasn’t even aware of what had almost happened. The car missed us both by about six inches, then drove off the lot and onto the highway. An oblivious driver like that had no business being on the road.

  But at least Janey was safe.

  I carried her over to the pickup, let down the back latch, and stood her on the flatbed. She jumped up and down with delight, as the other people in the parking lot watched with great relief. Seems Janey was the only one who missed all the excitement. A few folks came by, offering up kind words, thanking me for being in the right place at the right time.

  One person who seemed not to share this gratitude was Annie Sullivan.

  “What is it with you, mister?” she said to me.

  Why was she angry at me and not at the idiot driver? “In case you don’t realize it, I just saved your daughter from being hit by that car.”

  “Well . . . it
seems lately that every time I have reason to panic over my daughter, you’re nearby.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be panicking,” I suggested, angry all of a sudden over her accusation. She appeared about to say something and then changed her mind. Instead, she pushed past me and looked up at her daughter, who was watching the two of us with confusion. “Honey, are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Honey, how have I told you to answer?”

  Janey rolled her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. No ‘yup’ or ‘yeah’ or ‘uh-huh.’ ”

  “Wise guy,” Annie said.

  “I’m a wise girl,” Janey said, trying to lighten the mood. “Why are you mad at Brian?”

  Annie hesitated and stole a steely glance at me before replying. “Janey, I don’t want you to ever run so carelessly again—in a busy parking lot, you should know better. And I know you think Brian is nice—and I’m sure he is—but he’s a stranger, Janey, and what have I told you time and again? What did I tell you the other day, after the incident by the windmill?”

  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.

  “They 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 y
ou 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.”