Tilting at Windmills

by Joseph Pittman

  He didn’t say another word and neither did I. The two of us spent the next hour energetically cleaning up the lingering effects of my first and, as it turned out, George’s last, First Friday.

  I was coming up the stairs from the basement after bringing down an empty keg, and I found George sitting on his stool behind the bar, slightly slumped over. On the bar was a pint of beer, freshly poured. It waited for the next customer. George had poured his final glass. As I sat down at the bar, tears fell uncontrollably from my eyes, and, despite doctor’s orders, I drank that beer until nothing remained but the love with which it had been poured.

  NINE

  The words came easily from the heart.

  “You live your life well, you live it long, and then God shines down on a certain day and you enter his kingdom,” said Father Eldreth Burton, the resident pastor of St. Matthew’s Roman Catholic Church, as he stood graveside while administering comfort to family and friends, all of whom had come together to say final good-byes to one of their own, one of the best. That Monday morning was alive with the energy of life. Birds flew overhead, moving images against a lustrous canvas of blue sky, their gentle song lifting our hearts, and the sun’s powerful rays warmed us on this most solemn occasion. No one could have asked for a more beautiful summer’s day.

  After a mass in which eulogies were delivered with verve and spirit, and truth and laughter, too, the mourners ventured beyond the simple white clapboard building to the town’s historic cemetery, where generations of loyal townsfolk were long buried but in no way forgotten. Forever, they were a part of the town’s tapestry. It was there, on land touched by history, beside his beloved grandfather and father, that George Connors was laid to rest.

  I was surrounded by folks who had been born in Linden Corners, and this might have left me feeling like a stranger. Who was I, really, this Brian Duncan Just Passing Through, to be overcome with sadness equal to that of those who had known George for years or decades or a lifetime? Maybe it was being the last person he spoke with, maybe it was finding him slumped over behind the bar, but George had moved me, touched me, welcomed me into his world with that simple phrase, “What’ll it be?” In such a short stretch of time, George had made a lasting impression on me, as though I’d known him all my life, a surrogate father who instilled in me confidence and knowledge and self-worth, qualities I’d lost sight of back in New York City.

  Having to be the one to tell Gerta had filled me with tremendous sorrow and extreme trepidation. I knew for certain I couldn’t tell her over the phone. I did, however, call the local doctor, Marcus Burton—the pastor’s retired brother, to attend to George and deal with the necessary details, and once that was done, I wound my way down dark, empty streets until coming to the Connors’ home of nearly fifty years. Gerta was waiting for me on the porch, sitting quietly in her rocker, her wedding photographs cradled in her arms.

  “I felt him leave me,” she told me.

  I sat with her there, and for two hours, as the dawn broke over the horizon, I listened with rapt attention as Gerta unfolded story after story of a life shared, stories laced with the magic of love, stories that filled me with a a sense of warmth that bordered on envy as I realized how lucky Gerta and George had been to find one another. These stories carried both Gerta and myself through a busy weekend of funeral preparations, which intensified hourly as his family arrived from various corners of the state, including his four daughters with their spouses and numerous children—the tangible legacy of George’s love.

  The same folks I’d spent the weekend with were now assembled before the grave, gathering strength from their numbers. In addition to his four daughters—Lindsey, Melanie, Nora, Viki—there were eleven grandchildren, nice-looking kids who stood proud and attentive, supporting their moms and dads and their grandmother. Gerta was brave, stalwart, keeping her tears at bay, needing to in order to get through this ritual. Here, now, she was her family’s leader, its voice.

  Keeping Gerta close in his sights was Chuck Ackroyd, decidedly sober and with his head bowed. He’d done a fair amount of things to alienate too many folks in town, yet George had remained steadfast in his friendship, and now, with George gone, Chuck’s tenuous link with the town was frayed even more. Gerta, though, I noticed, took comfort in knowing that he was just one step behind her.

  Me, I was among the townspeople, a large contingent of folks who had known George for years, many of whom had been part of the First Friday celebration, all of whom remarked on how well George had seemed; everyone was shocked by his death. Everyone who ran a business in town was there, too; Martha, the twins, Richie Ravens from the Solemn Nights. And at my side, offering me more comfort than I’d expected, was Annie, and with her, Janey. Though she was only seven, Janey knew from death and showed just how grown up she could be, standing in her dark skirt and blouse, her blond hair reflecting the sun’s yellow glow.

  Father Burton guided us through the interment, offering prayers and a loving benediction. Tradition dictated the remainder of the service, with each of George’s daughters tossing a handful of earth on the casket as it was lowered into the ground. They remained, talking quietly with Father Burton while the rest of us started to drift off, back to our lives and homes with the hope that today’s celebration of life in the face of the death would help us all live just a little bit better.

  Annie and Janey and I started down the grassy hill of the cemetery; we didn’t get very far before I heard my name. It was Gerta, being led down the hill by her eldest daughter, Nora.

  “I wanted to speak with you,” Gerta said as she approached. “You see, Brian, we haven’t talked about the Corner yet.”

  “Oh, Mom, isn’t it too soon?”

  I had to agree with Nora. “Gerta, maybe this can wait . . . you know, until you’ve had some time to think—”

  “Oh, hush now. Everyone’s treating me with kid gloves, and I’ve gotta tell you, I’m stronger than all of you give me credit for. George and I, we talked a lot about what our lives would be like without the other. And I do miss my George so very much, more than words can ever say, but you’ve got to let me deal with that in my own time, my private time. See, though, I’m a practical woman, always have been, and I don’t want to see George’s work forgotten.”

  “I realize that,” I said, “and surely George made provisions for the Corner for after he . . .”

  “Brian, you can say it in front of me. George died.” She put a soft hand to my cheek. “I’ll never forget the comfort you showed me that early morning, listening to me tell my stories. Tell my life. And George, well, he was a good man, kind to all, but I never did see him take such a fast liking to another person like he did with you—excepting of course with me. One look, that’s all it took.” She smiled. “But if you want to wait a couple of days before making a decision, we can postpone.”

  “Maybe it’s best—”

  Once again, she cut me off; I guess it was her prerogative. She turned instead to Annie, who was listening in, and said, “Talk with Brian, dear; see if you can’t convince him that what George would have wanted most was to see the Corner continue.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Janey piped up. “I’ll help, too.”

  “Thank you, sweet angel,” Gerta said. “That will be a big help.”

  Then, before Nora could lead her mother back down the hill and to their car, Gerta’s eyes twinkled as she stared at me and Annie and Janey.

  “You know what you three look like?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “A family.”

  Then she gave me a warm embrace, her hands patting my back with maternal assurance. I caught Chuck Ackroyd’s gaze as he watched from nearby the grave site, and it wasn’t one of sympathy. He stalked away. There was no sense explaining the situation; he saw my friendship with Gerta as competitive, and that was that. Grief knows no boundaries, and like us all, Chuck would have to deal with George’s death in his own time, his own way.


  Our makeshift family—a description ignored by Annie—headed out of the cemetery and onto the sidewalks of the village, toward Main Street, where Annie had parked her truck. Once we were at the truck, Janey hopped in and Annie went around to the driver’s side. She stopped and regarded me with uncertainty.

  “Brian . . . thanks, you know, for joining us today.”

  “We were there for each other,” I said.

  “Death is never easy, especially for the young.”

  “And not so young,” I added.

  She smiled ruefully. “Yeah.”

  “Momma, don’t say ‘yeah,’ ” Janey said from inside the truck.

  “Maybe she’s not so young, either,” Annie remarked with a tentative smile.

  We said our good-byes then, and they drove back to the farmhouse; I went upstairs to the three-room apartment above a bar that I called home. For now, at least—for who knew how long? I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop imagining the sound of George tooling around downstairs, getting ready for another day behind the bar, and so I grabbed my car keys and headed down the stairs. I was just about ready to drive to parts unknown when the ringing of the phone stopped me. With one hand on the doorknob, I hesitated long enough for the phone to ring a second time. One the third ring, I went for the receiver.

  “Hey, Don Quixote, what say you from the merry land of windmills?”

  “Turning as always,” I said. “How’s it going, John?”

  “Same old,” he said, which meant that even on a Monday morning, he was bored by his job and already placing long-distance personal calls. I had to figure I was one of many he’d made or was planning to make. He was in a chatty mood, and for fifteen minutes we talked. Actually, he talked and I listened to things going on in his life—there was a new woman he’d met but with whom he’d yet to do the “dirty deed.” If that was what he was still calling it and if the woman had any sense, John would be doing only the “solo deed.” Still, it was nice hearing a friendly voice—nice, too, that I had to add little to the conversation to keep it going, a fact John became aware of late in our call.

  “Everything all right with you, Bri?”

  All through the call, I’d debated whether to share my thoughts with him, and I relented, figuring it was better to get it off my chest. And so I told him about Friday night, the blowout party at the bar and how seeing George in prime form was the evening’s highlight, and then I hit John with the news of George’s death.

  “It’s funny, John, the way George went about his job that night—it was like he knew it was his last chance. His wife said the same thing, how all day long George seemed to be savoring each step, each motion. Imagine it, John—here we are already in our mid-thirties and we’re still searching. Here were two people who, by our age, had been married more than ten years and had kids and were enjoying life full throttle.”

  “Hey, I’m living—and loving it.”

  “Yeah—alone, unless you can convince your new girlfriend . . .”

  “Hey.”

  “Seriously, John, doesn’t it sometimes feel like you’re just going through the motions?”

  “If she’s not as pretty as I’d thought,” he said, then laughed heartily.

  His juvenile sense of humor actually managed to cheer me up some. “Look, John, I gotta go. There’s . . . well, I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  “You coming home soon?”

  Was I? Good question. “Well, I guess that’s one of the things on my mind. Gerta—that’s George’s widow—she kind of intimated that she wants me to take over running the bar. Like, on a permanent basis. I just don’t know . . .”

  “You know what I think?”

  “Yes, actually, I do, John. You think I’ve run long enough and it’s time to leave this half-horse town and get back to city life.”

  “See? Even you know. And you could probably have your old job back, too, what with the trouble going on over there. The shit’s really hit the fan with Voltaire, and from what I’ve heard, well, it blew up in Warfiend’s face big time. Last time I saw Maddie, she looked really haggard. I think Warfiend’s been giving her hell about the losses they’re taking.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure that’s not all he’s giving her,” I said. “Look, John, thanks for the update. And, you know, for listening . . .”

  “As always, my man, as always. And come home, dammit—I miss my bud.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He said good-bye and I said good-bye, and next, I heard a dial tone and realized I was still holding the receiver. Replacing it, I retrieved my car keys from the edge of the bar and started on my way out again. The phone, usually so quiet during the days rang again.

  “Connors’ Corners,” I said into the phone, my voice hollow in the quiet of the bar.

  “Hi. I was wondering if you’d be open later today.”

  Anger overtook my better judgment and I almost hurled a handful of obscenities at the insensitive sap. In the end, I merely replaced the receiver onto its cradle.

  “No,” I said aloud to the empty tavern, “the bar is closed today.”

  And then I left, gently closing the door behind me.

  I drove on endless stretches of road, paying no attention to signs, turning on a whim, my direction as aimless as my life. I didn’t keep track of time. I’d missed lunch, and somehow the day slipped away from me. As the light began to silently die in the sky, I found I had left the upper Hudson Valley region and was below Poughkeepsie and halfway to New York City. Suddenly I was faced with a terrorizing choice: drive south and pick up where I had left off or drive north and return to my home in Linden Corners. Home, I mused, was no longer a comforting word, since where mine lay I couldn’t say.

  Where I ended up that night, as it turned out, was ultimately fairly close to Linden Corners. I finally drove back to the windmill, just as I had so many nights ago, when the rain fell and the answers I sought seemed to be given. Tonight, as I pulled to the side of the road and climbed atop my car’s hood, I noticed hundreds—maybe thousands—of little lights, pinpoints in the sky that illuminated the world below. I sat and contemplated my life and my future, all the while thinking about George and the other folks in Linden Corners, and the choice now facing me.

  The windmill, as always, inspired me, but I reminded myself that as magical as the windmill seemed, it was not all-knowing, a psychic portal into another world. No, whatever I needed to understand about myself and my life, it needed to come from within, and if the windmill served any purpose, it was a reminder not to give up on my dreams, to keep myself open to opportunity.

  And then opportunity knocked . . . or at least it turned on the light.

  The small window on the second floor of the windmill was suddenly filled by a square patch of yellow light. Someone was home, and at nearly nine o’clock that night, I had to assume it was Annie. Still, would she leave Janey all alone in the house? Maybe Janey was with her. Or maybe it was someone else. Whoever it was, was about to have company.

  I crossed the field, my sneakers wet with the night’s dew, and I thought about how the grass could use a cutting. I trekked onward and was soon in front of the mighty windmill, its sails slightly illuminated by the upstairs light.

  I stepped up to the door of the mill and simply knocked. One quick rap that echoed loud in the quiet air. There was no response from inside, but then I heard the door on the second floor open and light spilled out, creating shadows on the ground. Annie stepped out onto the catwalk.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “Just your friendly neighborhood windmill repairman,” I said, stepping back from the tower to wave up at her. I saw nervous features soften as she waved back.

  “Come on up,” she said.

  I took her up on the offer, opening the door and winding my way up the circular stairs until I reached her studio. I liked that Annie had these not-so-secret hideaways, places to escape to but places that weren’t all that difficult to find, either.


  “Hi,” she said from atop her stool, where she sat in front of a canvas, the front of which I couldn’t see. She set down her paintbrush.

  As I came around, I saw that she’d already covered whatever it was she was painting.

  “Can I see?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Maybe when it’s done,” she informed me, and then she asked me what I was doing out so late.

  “It’s just after nine.”

  “That’s late for Linden Corners, remember?”

  “I guess I’m on New York City time—same time zone, different concept,” I said. “Besides, I haven’t slept well since . . . well, all weekend, and now probably all week.”

  “George?”

  I nodded. “I barely knew him, Annie, but . . .”

  “Feel like you knew him all your life?”

  “Yeah,” I said, afraid that in this dimly lit atmosphere, our conversation might lean toward the morose. So I inquired about Janey and found she was staying overnight at a friend’s house.

  “She needed some kids her own age to play with, and two of her school friends were having a sleepover and they called and invited Janey, too. After the funeral today, I thought it best for her to get out and have some fun. Sometimes she has to take on adult weights, and I worry. This will be good for her.”

  “Good for you, too,” I said. “Even moms need breaks.”

  “Tonight, I’m a mother by way of telephone and a simple craftsperson, a painter.”

  “A pretty painter,” I said.

  My compliment embarrassed her and she lowered her head. “Me? I’m a mess.”

  She was wearing a paint-splattered smock, had on no makeup, and her hair was slightly awry. “Okay, you’re the prettiest mess in the room.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a grin. “Really, Brian, what brings you out tonight?”

  “Truthfully? I needed some time to think, and your windmill seems to help me, believe it or not. Look who I’m talking to—of course you believe it. I’ve come before, parked on the side of the road, sat atop my car, and just watched as the windmill turned and turned. It tends to clear my head.”