Tilting at Windmills

by Joseph Pittman

  Marla’s and Darla’s shops were open and would probably do a brisk business, selling cold drinks and holiday knickknacks. The Five-O was closed, and Martha had put a sign in the front door that encouraged folks to enjoy the barbecue and that she’d see them there. Most other businesses were closed for the day, even Connors’ Corners, but George, back in town, confessed he’d probably break down and open up later, after the fireworks.

  It was festive enough to have been Independence Day, but as I’d learned, a neighboring town held the celebratory honors for that holiday, so Linden Corners went overboard on Memorial Day.

  Already the village square was filling up with people. Cars and trucks filled the lots, and even the county sheriff’s office had sent a deputy to keep the traffic flowing. I’d never seen Linden Corners so filled with energy and with life, with folks simply enjoying one another’s company.

  I passed through town and rode high into the hills and up to the lane that led to the Sullivan driveway. Janey was waiting for me on the porch and came running over as soon as the car came to a stop. She was a special kid, always smiling whenever I saw her and always able to get me smiling, too, no matter what kind of mood was occupying my mind.

  “We’re going to have so much fun today,” she informed me, and I said I hoped so, which got her going, filling me in on everything and anything that had to do with the day’s events. At seven years of age, she was a veteran.

  Annie emerged from the house dressed in a pair of white slacks and a blue blouse, a navy sweater casually tossed around her shoulders. She looked beautiful, I thought. With her chestnut-colored hair and that faint hint of blush to her cheeks, she was an all-American beauty, made even more lovely by the sight of Janey at her side, apple-cheeked and grinning.

  Me, I wore casual slacks and a red shirt, long sleeves rolled to my elbows. I was ready to relax in a serious way, and that meant playing with an energetic seven-year-old.

  “She’s been talking about this day all weekend,” Annie said.

  “And I’ve been thinking about it,” I confessed, looking down at Janey. “Thank you very much for inviting me to your picnic.”

  So that was how the day began, a mother and her young daughter adopting for the day one lost soul, the three pooling their resources to become a makeshift family on a day tailor-made for one. From all appearances, Memorial Day in Linden Corners was going to be a spectacular success, and we were intent on being part of it. Annie gathered a picnic basket, assigned me the task of carrying the heavy cooler, and issued Janey a reminder to take her toy-filled knapsack. We packed everything into the back of Annie’s truck, left my car in her driveway, and made our way back to town where we parked behind Connors’ Corners (in my driveway, actually). A double-trip for me, but Janey had wanted us to arrive in the village together. Then we made our way to the village park and found Cynthia and Bradley Knight already spreading out a large, oversized blanket, what Bradley called our home base for the day.

  The Knights were a couple in their thirties, Cynthia being the proprietor of the fruit stand at the edge of town and Bradley being a lawyer up in Albany. Bradley was a formal kind of guy, sleeves rolled all the way down, all the buttons buttoned, not a hair out of place. I’d been told not to call him Brad. But he was good natured, too, with white-blond hair and dimples when he smiled that easily won over folks who thought of lawyers as good for nothing. Cynthia was just plain wonderful, a great friend of Annie’s and an easy person to talk with. You could tell at first sight that Cynthia and Bradley were very much in love with each other but hadn’t yet gotten around to having kids. They’d been married only three years.

  Annie, Cynthia, and Bradley welcomed me into their tight-knit fold and we spent an enjoyable afternoon in the park, watching the parade—the school band, the local church groups, the county Little Leaguers—and devouring a delicious lunch of sandwiches from Annie and fried chicken from Cynthia and, of course, lots of fresh ripe fruits. Janey sat atop my shoulders and waved cheerfully at the passing marchers, happy to be above the spectators and calling out to Annie to “look how high I am.” We played hide-and-seek and Frisbee and an assortment of other games, until I was just plain tuckered out. I dropped to the blanket with relief. Janey went and played with a school friend whose parents were set up nearby the gazebo, leaving us four adults a moment’s peace. Bradley and Cynthia decided to take a walk around the park, and that in turn left Annie and me alone on the blanket, stomachs full from lunch, and, speaking for myself, with a heart full of joy.

  “I can’t tell you, Annie, how much I’m enjoying myself.”

  “You’re a good sport, is what you are. I knew Janey would run you ragged. She’s having fun doing it and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. Hard to explain it, Brian, but she’s taken a real shine to you. And she hardly ever does with . . . well, people she doesn’t know.”

  “So I’m not a stranger anymore?” I asked.

  She kiddingly punched my arm. “Strange, yes. But seriously, I can’t thank you enough for spending so much time with her. I fear sometimes that she’s lonely. You know, what with her father dying so soon . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, perhaps because she realized she’d begun to open up. This was the first time she’d spoken of her late husband in my presence, first time I’d heard her say that he’d died. His death was still a mystery to me, and Annie’s mentioning it was a sign either that she was beginning to deal with it or that she had just become more comfortable with me. I hoped both were true.

  “How about a walk?” I suggested.

  “Caught your breath already?”

  I was staring directly at her when I said, “No, my breath is still taken away.”

  She shied away from the compliment but got up anyway, and I joined her. We took up a nice, leisurely pace while keeping a careful distance from one another. Unlike our day at the windmill, where our fingers had touched and our hands had curled around each other’s, there was no hint of that intimacy now. There was an energy between us that, though it didn’t bring us closer together, seemed to keep us from straying even further apart. The feeling was undeniably comforting and also completely unnerving. Our being together wasn’t a date, we weren’t two people testing out romantic waters; no, we were just two lonely and confused people finding tentative friendship in the wake of sorrow.

  But finally, after an awkward silence, Annie began to open up to me, and I to her.

  “Do you mind my asking about your husband?” I asked.

  “I don’t often speak about him, and when I do, it’s usually because Janey’s asked me a question about her dad. She misses him, even though sometimes I wonder how much she really remembers him.” Annie paused, no doubt fighting the emotions that were ripping through her. “Janey was only five when Dan died, and in the beginning she asked me lots of questions—when is Daddy coming home, stuff like that—because she didn’t understand. I still wonder how much she gets, and I still wonder if she’s the luckier one. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Dan and the love we shared and the life we dreamed of. My saving grace is Janey, who looks so much like Dan it’s frightening. Her smile, her eyes, even her disposition, so sunny and outgoing, it’s Dan to a T.”

  “From where I stand, Janey’s got a lot of you inside her, too,” I said. “Like the way you blush when someone hands you a compliment . . . yeah, just like that.”

  She pushed me away, off the narrow path we were traveling. “You’re mocking me.”

  I stopped for a moment, feigning hurt at her accusation. “Me? Mock?” And when she faced me, my hand instinctively reached up and felt her cheek, so warm and so soft. My hand lingered, and we gazed into each other’s eyes like sudden, star-crossed lovers. Seconds later, the moment was gone, my hand withdrawn. Annie and I resumed walking.

  “How about you, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through,” she said, avoiding what had just happened between us, “what’s your story? Shouldn’t you have a career or a wife or a girlfriend or—oop
s.”

  My face, always the betrayer, had done it again, revealing my inner wounds like a banner. “No, no, it’s only fair, since I started it. And my story is not so sad—more self-indulgent than anything else. The long and the short of it is this: I had a girlfriend who was practically my fiancée who also happened to be my work colleague and then one day she decided she’d rather sleep with the boss and get a hell of a promotion than be honest with me.”

  “My God, Brian, you make it sound so clinical.”

  “Detachment frees up your mind,” I stated.

  “But closes down the heart.”

  “Can you say you’re any different?” I asked, not intending to sound so accusing. But that was exactly the way Annie heard it, and I quickly apologized. “Forget I said that, okay, because I’d hate to spoil this day.”

  Her face softened and we were once again on solid ground. In the waning afternoon sunlight, we finished our walk and returned to find Cynthia and Bradley playing cards with Janey.

  “We’re playing Go Fish, and I’m winning,” Janey stated proudly.

  “Such a shark—interested in lawyering?” Bradley said, tossing down his hand while the rest of us laughed.

  Dinner was just around the corner, both literally and figuratively, since the firehouse would start serving at six o’clock. There, we had a bountiful choice of hot dogs and hamburgers, sweet sausage and blackened chicken, with salads and salt potatoes, which we carried back to our blanket and feasted on with great relish. Next came the desserts, with Cynthia unwrapping a dozen different pies, which it turned out were for anyone who wanted a slice. Seems dessert was a community event, with everyone bringing too many sweet treats, enough for the entire town to be able to sample bits and pieces from neighboring blankets. It was our chance to say hello to the folks we knew, and that included George and Gerta, who joined us for coffee and lingered with us to watch the fireworks display.

  At nine sharp, with nightfall upon us and stars scattered throughout a dimly lit sky, the fireworks began, thunderous bursts of brightly colored lights, reds and greens and blues and oranges, a vast and explosive rainbow. Janey and the other children watched with fascination, inspiring the adults to “ooh” and “aah,” too. At last, the grand finale was fired off, and after burst after burst of rich, explosive color, the smoke fizzled and the noise ended and a silence fell on the entire town. There was instant and spontaneous applause.

  The evening over, families began packing up their things, leaving the park with warm new memories of another Linden Corners Memorial Day. Janey had fallen asleep almost immediately, and Cynthia and Bradley offered to take her home and get her settled in for the night. Annie, they said, should stay out, enjoy the cool night and the pleasant company, and I guess that latter part referred to me. She didn’t fight it too long, and soon the Knights were off for the night, and Annie and I, once we’d returned the cooler and picnic basket to her truck, were again alone.

  “How about a drink?” I asked.

  “Thought George decided not to open up tonight after all.”

  “He’s not,” I said, “but not only do I have an in with the owner, I also have a key.” And I dangled the single key in the air.

  She told me to lead on, and five minutes later we were settled on two stools, a glass of wine and a seltzer before us, talking about the events of the day. Our conversation wasn’t forced; our company wasn’t awkward. To keep potential patrons from thinking we were open, I kept the lights to a minimum, including leaving the porch light off. It kept most people away, but there was one visitor whose persistent knocking finally became a nuisance.

  It was Chuck Ackroyd.

  “Closed,” I said through the locked door.

  Still, he banged on the glass, harder it seemed, until I thought it was going to break. I unhooked the chain and opened the door slightly and tried to tell him to go away. His breath hit me first; he probably had more booze in him than I had behind the bar. And before I could send him off, he saw Annie sitting alone at the bar.

  “What di’ I tell you,” he said, his words horribly slurred. “Kee’ ’way from her; she’s nuttin’ but trouble. Caused me nuttin’ but pain—is all ’er fault.”

  “Look, Chuck, whatever your troubles, I’m sure Annie’s got nothing to do with them, so why don’t you go on home, sleep off the effects of the keg you’ve obviously consumed, and maybe tomorrow you’ll see things in the proper light.”

  Being nice to a belligerent drunk, I found, was a complete waste of time. Chuck pushed hard against the open door and made his way over to Annie. She gave me a concerned look, afraid of his ramblings and what they might lead him to do. So I grabbed him from behind and he came at me, swinging hard and fast, but not fast enough, because I managed to duck his punch. He spun too hard and fell to the floor, no doubt dizzy and nauseated.

  From the floor, he pointed an accusatory finger at Annie, and again reiterated his belief that his troubles, whatever they were, had been her fault.

  I helped him to his feet, walked his unsteady limbs to the door, and shoved him outside and onto the porch, where he lost his balance and tumbled down the couple of stairs to the sidewalk. He lay flat on the ground, not moving, and I hoped he’d passed out. Maybe in the morning, he’d think twice about his actions—that is, if he could even remember them.

  I returned to Annie and apologized for Chuck’s behavior.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “He’s . . . he’s just bitter from his divorce. His wife left him a while back. He hasn’t taken it well, and I guess on days like today—family time—the booze is his escape.”

  “Why would he blame you?”

  “Beats me,” she said, perhaps too quickly. But whatever the reason, it was put aside when Annie asked me if I’d like to dance.

  “Uh . . . sure. Let me put on some music.”

  I put a coin in the jukebox and picked a song by Faith Hill called “This Kiss,” and soon the bar was filled with the hummable country tune. Annie approved of my choice. The two of us began a slow and steady dance, our feet grazing the hardwood floor, our fingers linked. Holding her so close, I could smell her hair and see the definitions of her soft skin. A feeling of magic came over me as we gazed into each other’s eyes. I felt drawn to her, though I was nervous and tentative, and I think she felt the same way. And as the song crescendoed and our bodies moved in closer, there was no stopping our next move.

  Our faces close, noses practically touching, I felt my lips brush hers, a hesitant kiss from me and a hesitant return kiss from her. Still, neither of us pulled away, and our lips lingered, pressing tighter. Softly, she opened her mouth and our tongues lightly brushed. How long we held that kiss, I couldn’t say—perhaps the song’s lyrics had inspired us—but when we did finally part, we realized the song was over and we were dancing to the sound of silence.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Yeah, oh,” I said.

  “It’s late,” she said.

  “Should I take you home?” I asked.

  “I can drive myself,” she said.

  “My car is parked at your house,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Yeah, oh,” I said.

  Another moment passed before we parted, and the next thing I knew, it was as though our kiss had never happened. Annie was now formal and businesslike as she began to clean up our empty glasses; I busied myself by turning off the jukebox. She felt awkward and so did I.

  We left the bar and she drove through the dark streets of the village and into the even darker countryside to her farmhouse. There, standing in the driveway with my car door open, the little dome light adding a slight glow to the night, Annie and I stared one last time at each other.

  “Thanks, Brian, for making today such a special day . . . for Janey.”

  “Thank you for inviting me. . . . Thank Janey, will you?”

  “I will. Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Annie turned from me, swal
lowed up by the dark night as though she didn’t truly exist. I wondered, for a moment, if I had really even kissed her. But as I drove back to my apartment, I could smell Annie’s sweet perfume and still taste the touch of her lips. It seemed to me that my hardened heart had unexpectedly begun to soften.

  It was past midnight when I finally got home, but I doubted I would sleep that night. Not with that shy and hesitant kiss weighing so heavily on my mind. A complication? Yes. Unwanted? Maybe. Regretful? Absolutely not. But scary nonetheless. I needed a distraction and flicked on the television. The news was on, an hour later than usual, and I figured the night’s movie must have run long or something. It turned out that maybe the gods were working overtime, because whatever had delayed the broadcast, I was definitely meant to see it. Not the top national or international news, not the extended weather forecast or even news of the night’s scores. No, it was a short, buried piece about midway through the program, about a new drug that had not been approved by the FDA. I heard the name Voltaire and my head snapped up. I tuned in.

  The anchor had tossed the story to a reporter, who was standing in front of the FDA building in Washington.

  “Rick, the news out of the Food and Drug Administration about the new drug Tensure is nothing more than shocking. In development for many years, the drug, designed to aid in treating hypertension, was today denied approval by the FDA, over claims that some of its test findings were either inaccurate or, as one source alleged, altered. Little else is known about this disturbing development. Voltaire Pharmaceuticals, a division of the Voltaire Health Group, makers of Tensure, could not be reached for comment and has yet to issue a statement.”

  They moved on to the next story and I flipped off the television. I sat there in the near dark, silent and alone, absolutely blown away by the news. The Beckford Warfield Group, Justin and Maddie in particular, had a public relations nightmare on their hands, especially if Voltaire had falsified the research on the new drug. Heads would roll at Voltaire, and Justin’s might, too. And Maddie—right then, I felt the pit of my stomach drop out, and all the food I’d consumed during the picnic made my stomach lurch in protest. My God, I thought, what a mess.