Tilting at Windmills Page 9

  “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.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said to me.

  It was Chuck Ackroyd, one of George’s regular patrons down at Connors’ Corners. He was dressed in jeans and a blue flannel shirt under a brown cowhide coat. I remembered him from the Five-O, when he’d warned me about the perils of small-town life. I’d also refilled his glass a couple times down at the bar but hadn’t exactly engaged him in conversation. He struck me as the surly type, a lonely man with private troubles, letting them simmer inside while he fueled them with beer after beer.

  “Evening,” I said, coming to the edge of the porch.

  “Is George here?”

  “Yes,” I said, inviting Chuck up on the porch. He bristled at my familiarity and walked past me, hopping up the short flight two steps at a time and then taking up residence in the seat I’d occupied. I let it roll off.

  George reappeared with a six-pack of beer in his hands and gave Chuck a welcoming hello. “You remember Brian, I’m sure.”

  “Of course. Your little helper.”

  His tone was patronizing, but George either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Either way, we moved on, with George offering his friend a beer and Chuck quickly accepting.

  “That’ll be three bucks,” I said.

  George slapped his knee and laughed loudly. Chuck glared at me, and this time George did notice and did say something.

  “Oh, Chuck, lighten up. Brian’s a city kid. Thinks faster than he talks, and things just slip out. He’s funny and smart and he’s gonna be hanging around a while, so get used to it.”

  “Is that so?” Chuck said.

  To contradict George would be insulting, so I confirmed his statement. To my surprise, I liked the sound of it. Made me feel like I belonged.

  “Chuck’s my most dependable patron,” George told me. “Owns the hardware store down the street from the bar. I’m sure you’ve seen the sign. Biggest damn sign in town; ACKROYD’S HARDWARE EMPORIUM. Wonder why the sign needs to be so large? Well, people come for miles to stock up on necessities—have for years. Chuck’s lived his whole life in Linden Corners, too—started the business, what, twenty years ago? You were, what, Chuck? Twenty-five?”

  “Like I need to be reminded,” Chuck said, running his hands across a bald patch on the back of his head.

  “Hah—you kids. Worried about your hair. I went white at thirty. You see me full of gripes? Take life as it comes and hopefully learn to take it easy. Eh, Chuck? Brian, Chuck’s been coming by every couple of Sundays for a couple drinks; we sit back and shoot the breeze. Started, oh, about two years ago, right, Chuck? Right after that storm knocked down my barn and you helped clear away the dead wood. Some storm that was, too. Worst I’d seen in—oh, who can remember these days? But bad? Brian, you should have seen it. Knocked down power lines and left us in the dark for days. Lots of damage, trees down, roofs caved in. The local paper ran a spread of photos—a chilling record of that day.” He paused, thoughts winning out over words. Then he nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “Come to think of it, it’s a storm like that that almost took down the windmill. It was in such bad need of repair we all thought maybe it was best to tear it down. That’s when Annie stepped in, saved it
. You never forget that kind of thing. Nature’s fury and humankind’s beauty. Hard to beat.” George looked over at me. “Of course, Chuck here saw it as a time of prosperity. Sold all the scrap from my barn and other places, made a hefty profit. But that’s okay, ’cause he got no pay from me for hauling it off my land.”

  “Just good beer and good company,” Chuck said, an edge to his voice that indicated he didn’t appreciate my knowing such details. He looked queerly at me because I wasn’t drinking. Probably he was the type who didn’t trust a man who didn’t drink. Heck, he was drinking, and I surely wasn’t convinced that I could trust him.

  “Why didn’t you rebuild the barn, George, if you’ve got such a handy man coming by so often?” I asked, stretching out comfortably along the porch railing. A gentle breeze blew past, ruffling my hair.

  “Too much effort,” he said. “Also, had no use for it anymore. This house, like the bar, is family-owned for three generations, and back then, we did lots of farming and growing and the barn served its purpose. If we rebuilt now, I just don’t know what I’d do with it. Easier to just have more space to watch the grandkids run around. Yup, that storm sure did some damage. Suppose it was nature leveling the playing field.”

  George continued to rock in his chair, puffing away on his pipe like a wizened elder teaching us the legends of the past. Chuck and I sat quietly, staring ahead into the dark night. Conversation waned and I began to feel like a third wheel, intruding on the set routine of two men who have shared a long history. I was figuring out the best way to shove off when the opportunity presented itself. Gerta had returned, apparently having gone shopping after taking the neighbor her meal. I got up to help her, insisting that George and Chuck remain seated. No objections there, and once I’d finished carrying in Gerta’s packages, I announced my departure. Gerta, sweet as pie, pecked my cheek with a motherly kiss and told me that anytime my stomach grumbled, I should head this way because there was always room for another person at her table.

  George opted to walk me to my car. “There’s one thing I forgot to mention, Brian, you know, about my offer. Upstairs from the bar, there’s a three-room apartment that’s been unoccupied for a few months now. I had a renter, a young guy who ended up marrying his childhood sweetheart and moving in with her and her family. So it’s furnished. Just needs some cleanup and the place could be yours. We can talk about the terms later—about the job and the apartment. And before you answer, take the night and think about it. Stop by the bar tomorrow night and we’ll talk—over a nice, tall seltzer.”

  “George, you and Gerta have been so kind, I can’t tell you,” I confessed, meaning it. “I appreciate your hospitality and your friendship.”

  “It’s our pleasure,” he said, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze.

  As I was leaving, Gerta reemerged from the house with a foil-wrapped package. “You’re not leaving without leftovers. I know how you bachelors are, eating junk food the day long. Not in my care you don’t.”

  She foisted the package on me, only to say there was another. Chuck jumped in to help with the load of food, and before I knew it, he was helping himself to my dinner. We got to my car and loaded the pans in the backseat. He slammed the door shut without warning me and almost caught my thumb. I gave him a surprised look.

  “Enjoy the food,” he said. “But when it disappears, I suggest you do the same. These are good people, and they don’t need taking advantage of.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Could have fooled me,” he said.

  I didn’t like his attitude and couldn’t care less how many beers were inside him. “Look, Chuck, the last thing I would do is hurt George and Gerta. They’ve been uncommonly kind to me and, it seems, to you. So why don’t you and I just get along, perhaps for their sake?”

  He didn’t appreciate my good-guy approach and turned his back on me. Before I left, I called out to him as he made his way to the porch. “Have a good night.”

  He said nothing. Instead, I heard the snap of a beer can being opened.

  Midnight rolled around. I was unable to sleep and frustrated by the notion of a sleepless night. It’s not that the bed at the Solemn Nights was uncomfortable; rather, it was the opposite, with its downy pillow and firm mattress, and there were no noises to keep me awake. The few other tenants from this weekend had checked out this afternoon, once again leaving me and Richie Ravens the run of the place. No, sleep evaded me because I was distracted, by my thoughts and by George’s proposition and by the idea of staying the summer in Linden Corners.

  After thirty minutes of tossing and turning, I gave up, threw back the covers, and tossed on jeans, a sweatshirt, and my sneakers. Grabbing my keys, I headed outside. It was a cool night, down around fifty degrees, and the wind had picked up some. An earthy smell permeated the air; rain was on the way.

  Already the windshield was wet with dew, and as I turned the engine, I flipped on the wipers. Then I drove off, flicking on the headlights to guide my way. With the radio off, I rode in silence, easing down the winding road slowly and surely. There were no other cars on the road, not past midnight on a Sunday night, not with the pressure of the start of the work week just hours away. I rolled the window down, felt the wind on my face, felt alive and free.

  I looped the car around the county roads beyond Linden Corners, past the fruit stand and back again, then found myself heading west out of the village. Even though I’d started out on a random, uncertain path, my destination now was clear. I wondered, though, with the sky so blackened and the stars invisible from a dense covering of clouds, would I be able to see the windmill at this late hour? Had I possibly missed it?

  But then there it was, caught in my headlights as I rounded a sharp curve. Since the wind had picked up, so had the windmill’s sails, turning in a quicker rotation than I’d seen the other day, and I was pulled in by its power and energy. Realizing my best view was from atop this hill, I pulled to the side of the road, flicked on my car’s hazard lights, and then stepped out of the car. I left the headlights on, focused directly on the windmill straight ahead.

  I sat on the hood of the car, cross-legged, staring straight ahead. The cold attacked my body, the sweatshirt I had pulled on just not warm enough. I held myself tightly, arms wrapped around my legs, and sat in quiet contemplation, pondering the future.

  I could never have imagined this moment, when I felt so alone with the world. This was a far cry from New York City, its bustling activity and pulsing lights, its overcrowded subways and teeming sidewalks. In New York City, you never stopped to really breathe in the air and think beyond the boundaries of the city. Here, though, in nature’s backyard, you could almost taste the air and touch the sky. You were one with the world, instead of just one in the world, and a serenity I’d never experienced before washed over me. In this land that time forgot, my very future was upon me.

  Maddie came to mind. She was a restless sleeper, and I imagined her now, wide awake in her apartment, waiting for the weekend to end, wanting the work week to start. She was never happier than on a Monday morning, ready to face the challenges of a new week. Maybe, though, she’d changed, like I had. Maybe life with Justin had given her a new appreciation for the downtime of weekends, where you could catch your breath and clear your mind and reenergize.

  Did I miss my old life? It’s hard to leave something you’ve known, a comfortable existence where risk meant taking a cab through Midtown at rush hour instead of the subway when you were already late for a meeting. Where ordering off the menu instead of from the specials board caused your waiter to raise an eyebrow. But I’d taken the biggest risk of my life by walking away from the well-defined and predictable challenges the city had offered. Truthfully, I had no regrets about my decision, not now.

  Just then a drop of rain landed on my head, and then another. Big, single droplets that dotted my sweatshirt. Any moment the sky would open up and soak the dry land with much-needed rain. An unexpected swish of wind passed me by
and suddenly I was reminded of George’s story of the furious storm, wondered if that was what we were in for. I stole a brief glance at the windmill and saw that its sails still spun, despite the rain. And like the windmill, I wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t leaving. No storm would chase me away.

  And I realized I wouldn’t be leaving Linden Corners. No, I was going to stay, accept George’s offer, and spend my summer in a town that had generously and openly welcomed me into its fold. When doubt and change and risk arose, I would meet them all head-on, challenging—even embracing—them.

  And there I sat in the pouring rain, tall on the hood of my car, my arms outstretched like the sails of the windmill. I was filled with the promise of a new day, a new life—a future.

  SIX

  After two days of rain and gray skies, the sun finally burst through the clouds on Wednesday morning, and by ten o’clock the sky was alive, a vibrant blue. It was a beautiful spring day in the making. White wisps of cloud floated by, a steady breeze the only remnant of the storm. Forty-eight hours had passed since I’d made my decision to stay in Linden Corners, twenty-four since I’d informed George, and just over twelve since I’d made the apartment upstairs from Connors’ Corners my permanent temporary home. The rate was decidedly better than at the Solemn Nights, and after one night of restful sleep, I’d concluded that this tiny place was more comfortable and certainly more livable. For lack of a better way to say it, I was home.