Tilting at Windmills

by Joseph Pittman

  “Maddie, you’re not the first person to get so wrapped up in your job. Hell, a year ago, I would have been right there with you. Ambition attracted us both. But Maddie, I want you to know that I don’t blame you, not for anything that’s happened. That’s what I came here to say. It’s time to bury the past, so we can move on.”

  “Separately,” she stated, with a slight hint of a question mark on the last syllable of the word. As though maybe there was some possibility of our reclaiming what we’d lost. But I nodded my head, confirming that what we had was gone, that yes, we were moving on separately.

  “Brian, there’s one thing about this whole mess you never knew—”

  I cut her off, quickly. “The past, Maddie. Leave it there.”

  She realized then what she should have guessed all along. That I knew about Justin and her. Tears sprang from her eyes and she tried her best to wipe them away, but others followed. She covered her mouth with her hand. “That’s why you left—oh, God . . . but . . . how, Brian? We thought we were being so smart, so . . . God, I felt disgusting after it happened. But I couldn’t stop it, not without jeopardizing all I’d worked for . . . you do know that, Brian, don’t you?”

  I went to her and I held her and soothed her, assuring her it was good to have everything out in the open so we could both move on. After a few minutes, she regained her composure and wiped the last of her tears away. I got up to leave, and she didn’t try to stop me. At the door, I turned to her and found her standing right in front of me. I stared into those lovely blue eyes of hers, saw in them the spark that had once drawn me to her. That was when I knew she’d be fine, that she’d survive and go on and find another job and another love and a new life. I told her so, and that’s when she leaned in and pressed her lips to mine. Our kiss held, and it was almost as if each passing second represented each month we’d spent together, until finally we’d run out of time and our lips parted.

  I turned to leave and I heard my name.

  “Go find happiness,” Maddie said, then managed a smile that could only be called bittersweet. “Go back to the windmill.”

  I’d been so busy repairing the wounds to my heart in all these past months that I’d forgotten about the hepatitis that had started this whole thing. So I took advantage of being in the city to drop by the doctor’s office for an examination and blood test, hoping for the prognosis I’d sensed anyway—that I was healed.

  Three days after my appointment, the phone rang. I was busy amidst a sea of packed cartons; I was nearly fully packed and ready to finally move out of my apartment. I was fully expecting it to be my doctor. It wasn’t.

  “Hello?”

  “Brian?”

  “Yes, this is Brian.”

  “Brian Duncan?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Brian, dear . . . it’s Gerta. Gerta Connors.”

  My heart swelled as I recognized her voice, at the rush of memories it brought back. George and the porch and Sunday dinners with sweet strawberry pies for dessert.

  “Oh, Gerta, how are you?”

  “Fine, dear, simply fine. Folks in town, though, they’re awfully thirsty. Linden Corners without the tavern, well, it’s not the same. Brian, are you coming back?”

  I looked at the packed cartons, at the empty walls, heard the silence within those four walls. “Yes, Gerta, I’m coming back.”

  “Goodness, that’s wonderful to hear. Because I need your help. See, I’ve come up with this idea for the Labor Day weekend. You know, most folks are off on Friday and Monday, and they’re eager for the long four-day weekend. So here’s what I’ve been thinking. You remember First Friday?”

  “And Second Saturday, sure.”

  “Well, we’re having a Third Thursday, and I need you here, to help behind the bar.”

  The Thursday before Labor Day, that was only a week away. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to see Gerta again—and the other fine folks of the town I missed so much. But most of all, I longed to return to Annie’s world, the quiet mornings at the farmhouse, the tender nights in her arms, of finding again the joy that Janey instilled within me. And of course, the windmill. There was no way I could resist the call of Linden Corners.

  “I’ll be there, Gerta, you can count on it.”

  We made a date to meet for lunch on that Thursday to finalize plans for the night’s festivities. I resisted, though, asking about Annie. What Annie and I had to say to each other, well, the phone wasn’t the way to do it. It had to be face-to-face, open and honest. So instead, I simply said good-bye to Gerta and set down the phone. I needed to get on with my packing.

  Finalizing my plans to leave New York took four more days, which flew by, and before long, it was Wednesday morning, late August, and I was saying my good-byes to John, my best friend, my sole support through this tough time.

  “Come to Linden Corners, John. Come visit.”

  “As long as you don’t make me get up early to milk cows,” he said.

  “Jerk. I’m not a farmer.”

  He showed me a smile and said, “I’ll see you soon, farmer boy.”

  A belly laugh filled my car as I pulled it out of the garage and headed off. There was one last stop to make before I left the city limits.

  On 47th Street, I parked the car, got out, and walked down the street to Eli’s Jewelers. And it was there that I pulled from my pocket the engagement ring I’d bought for Maddie those many months ago. It was the last reminder I had of my previous life, and it was time to let it go.

  Eli said he’d be right back and went, again, for his paperwork. Again I had the store to myself; there were no happy couples poring over rings; no reminders of what might have been. While the old man was in the back, I took the liberty of looking around. The old man returned, eyeing me carefully as I pointed to a diamond set between two aquamarines that were exactly the color of Janey Sullivan’s eyes. Our business together took longer than I expected, but that was fine. Some things are worth the time, the effort.

  “A new start?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. ’Cause you know what, Eli? Life goes on. You face your battles, and you win. You—”

  And he interrupted me. “You tilt at windmills?”

  He grinned at me, and I returned the grin. Then, vowing this was my last visit to his shop of dreams, I left with my future in my pocket—and my future before me.

  I’d finally stopped running away.

  THIRTEEN

  I remember my first time in Linden Corners. The way the windmill caught my eye and sparked my imagination—and how I had become transfixed. Time seemed to shift and the troubles of the past were no more. All that lay before me was the future, and where it lay was in the wondrous land of this windmill.

  Today, though, with New York City hours away by car and millions more by mind, I approached Linden Corners. A dark, foreboding sky lay before me. It looked like a summer storm was imminent, and immediately George’s face came to me. He’d revered—and feared—these storms. Still, the rain couldn’t dampen my spirits, not when I was nearly home.

  Six months ago, I had driven over this now familiar hill, and this time, I knew what to expect: the windmill.

  Today its sails spun, and as I’d done before, I pulled over to the side of the road, hoping to recapture the mood and the feeling. I got out of the car, climbed atop its hood, and crossed my legs, and just stared at the slowly turning slats, at the darkened windows. In my mind, I relived the moments I’d shared with the powerful old windmill. No cars passed me, there were no interruptions; time just stood still.

  As I sat there, as though I were watching a favorite movie, a vision came running over the hill, a running figure who stretched out her arms and raced into the wind. My heart leaped at the thought of seeing Janey once again, only this time I realized my wingless angel wasn’t Janey but Annie herself.

  And I could hear her laughing, laughing in the wind.

  The rain started then. A drop here, a drop there. The humid air swept past me, thick a
nd clinging. Annie seemed oblivious to both as she continued to run down the hill—and between the churning sails of the windmill. Then exhaustion overcame her and she dropped to the high grass. She was still laughing, and she still hadn’t noticed me.

  How appropriate that we had parted here and that we would meet again here, where our future together would begin.

  I jumped from the hood of the car and crossed the road. And I began to walk toward Annie and her windmill.

  “Now I know why Janey thinks she can fly,” I said.

  Annie, still lying in the grass, turned at the sound of my voice. When she saw me, her words failed her. So I filled the silence.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Brian.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t say—”

  “I know—don’t say ‘yeah.’ It seemed appropriate.”

  “You’re . . . back?”

  “Not back. I’m here. Now. And if you’ll have me, I won’t be going anywhere.”

  “No more Brian Duncan Just Passing Through?”

  “Brian Duncan Here to Stay.”

  “Well, I know a good real estate agent,” she said. “If you need a place to stay.”

  “You tell me.”

  She didn’t answer, not immediately, but she did pull herself up from the grass, not bothering to brush herself off. She came toward me, her footsteps hesitant. So I bridged the distance myself, and soon Annie and I were face-to-face, only a breath of air separating us. We both waited for the next words, whatever they might be and from whichever of us they would come, but neither of us knew what to say.

  I reached up and stroked her rosy cheek, still flush from her dash down the hill. She craned her neck, kissed my fingers. And then I pressed my lips to hers and the sensation I felt was like the first tender kiss we’d shared that Memorial Day evening back at Connors’ Corners. A beginning then, a new beginning now.

  “I missed you,” I said, “incredibly. You and Janey.”

  “And the past?”

  “Where it belongs,” I said. “Annie, New York City is over. The final chapter has been written. It’s time to start a new book, the story of a windmill and the woman who loved it—she and the precious little girl who both inspire my world. I can’t wait to see Janey—where is she?”

  “At a friend’s house. She’s at an overnight play date. A bunch of girls, their last summertime romp before school starts up.”

  “Meaning . . . we’re alone?”

  Annie nodded, a sly smile on her face. “Gerta told me you were coming . . . home. So I hoped—”

  “I haven’t even been to the apartment. My first stop was you.”

  “Come, then,” Annie said. “Let me show you my windmill.”

  Annie led me through the door and up the winding staircase and into her studio, and it was there that the past was finally laid to rest. And the future was blessed with the belief that love, in all its passion and all its glory, could not be denied.

  That night, we never left the windmill.

  And that night, the storm moved in, the wind howling through the windmill’s giant sails and out on the open land. Inside, though, we were safe, together, like we were meant to be.

  At eight the next morning, with Annie opening up the antique shop and Janey still at her overnight play date, I returned to my apartment above Connors’ Corners—now called George’s Tavern. I dropped my bags, and before long, I was unpacked and back in the bar. I was immediately overcome by a musty smell and a quiet that had seeped into the walls. The taps were dry and the glasses even drier, and it occurred to me that Gerta had shut down the business completely during my absence. I found further evidence of this in the coating of dust along the brass bar and atop the tables. The jukebox was unplugged and silent. Darts had been left in the corkboard, and the chalkboard still said WELCOME TO SECOND SATURDAY.

  “Well, this is unacceptable,” I said to the empty room. The first thing I did was plug in the jukebox and get it going. Toad the Wet Sprocket’s “Fly from Heaven” filled the room and encouraged me to get down to work.

  So I toiled about the bar in the morning hours, the jukebox drowning out the sound of the rain that was still pouring down from the skies. After a couple of hours of work, I decided to venture out, to pick up supplies for that night’s party. Then I’d go meet Gerta for lunch at her home. So I got in my car and drove down to Hudson and spent a good piece of my savings and a couple hours of my time before I noticed I was running late for lunch.

  The rain had let up, but above me, the sky was a slate gray and getting darker and blacker by the minute. It was almost one in the afternoon, and I was beginning to feel uneasy. On this wickedly humid day in late August, there was little doubt that what was coming was a serious storm. I watched the trees and high green grass alongside the road waver in the wind. It wasn’t here yet, the storm, but it was coming, quickly.

  I flipped on the radio to hear what the local weather forecasters had to say. After a few songs and commercials, the fast-talking disc jockey turned to topical news and weather. The temperature was in the high nineties, humidity one hundred percent, and thunderstorms were expected to sweep through the Hudson River Valley about midafternoon, with violent, dangerous lightning probable. Stay indoors—and stay tuned—the DJ suggested, and then, his irony in check, he played Bananarama’s version of “Cruel Summer.”

  Twenty minutes later, I found myself cresting a small hill, and my senses were rewarded with the wondrous sight of the windmill. It was hard to believe that it was only last March—nearly six months ago—that I’d first seen this marvelous structure that was at once so familiar to me but still so very foreign. Pictures of Annie flooded my senses, of the nights we’d shared, weeks ago and just last night, too, and for a second I couldn’t imagine her anywhere but in that windmill. But I knew Annie was at work, even though a light seemed to be on inside.

  And I was now officially late for my date with Gerta. Third Thursday didn’t begin for another four hours and there was still a lot to be done in preparation for it.

  But as I drove through downtown Linden Corners on my way to Gerta’s house, I was struck by how empty the town was. The Five-O was locked up and the lights were turned off. Down the street, Chuck Ackroyd’s hardware store was equally deserted, and I began to wonder if something had happened in Linden Corners during the few hours I’d been away. Maybe it was a dream, and I began to wonder if this place even existed at all: It felt as though I were in the middle of a ghost town.

  I didn’t like this, not one bit. Where was everyone? I left the downtown area and headed down the county road toward the Connors house—maybe with this storm brewing, Third Thursday was canceled. The drive took little time, and soon I was parking in Gerta’s driveway and making my way up her front steps. I knocked once, waited, knocked a second time. There was no answer.

  Leaving the porch, I circled the grounds looking for any sign of activity, of life, and came up empty. Only Gerta’s car was there, parked in the garage. As I went back to my car, I heard the distant rumble of thunder and looked around as far as I could see. All I saw was a coming blackness, perhaps the blackest sky I’d ever seen. A flash of lightning laced the clouds with ribbons of yellow.

  It occurred to me that the residents of Linden Corners had, fearing the coming storm, gathered in a safe place. Which meant either a church basement or a school, the only two places large enough to hold the whole community. Back in the car, I pulled out easily onto the empty road and headed back toward the town, watching the storm as it came even closer and closer. I flipped on the radio and caught the DJ in midreport. Even so, it was simple to figure out his message.

  “. . . severe thunderstorm watch is in effect through six P.M. tonight. The National Weather Service is advising everyone to stay indoors. Dangerous lightning and strong winds are expected.” Then, before he went to commercial, he urged everyone to stay tuned because he’d be back with more updates and some “great music” to get us through.
r />   I flipped off the radio and concentrated on the road ahead of me. The DJ had a good idea—stay indoors, stay safe—and I resolved that if I didn’t find anyone at the church I’d return to the bar and wait out the storm alone.

  But once I arrived back in the village, I drove around the back of the church and found a parking lot filled with cars. Mine joined the others, and I got out and ran fast toward the rear entrance of the old-fashioned brick building, getting doused on the short trip. I grabbed the door handle and it opened easily. I was soaking and was met by a blast of cold air. How great it felt after the humid air outside. I followed the sounds of voices down the stairs and into the spacious basement. There must have been a hundred people there, families with children and lots of folks whose faces I recognized, all busy with something. Some listened to the radio, others had a television going in the corner, and the kids were busying themselves with video games or board games or were just plain running around.

  “Brian—over here, dear!”

  I’d found Gerta, or, more accurately, she’d found me. I waded through the crowd, seeing her arm waving like a beacon. She hugged me tight, which, I have to admit, sent waves of emotion up my spine.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she said, giving me a hard look, as though looking for a clue as to what had happened. “Welcome home. I’m so glad you found us. You haven’t been with us through one of these storms. They come every once in a while, and we all gather here or at the school. Whichever is closest.”

  “How’d you get here?” I asked. “Your car—”

  “I took care of her,” I heard from behind me. The voice belonged to Chuck Ackroyd. I turned to face him, trying my best not to pound the shit out of him, considering how he’d manipulated Maddie into coming between me and Annie. In Gerta’s presence, though, it was an urge I had to bury. Instead, I flashed him a fake smile but acknowledged him no further.