Tilting at Windmills

by Joseph Pittman

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  She poured herself more wine and then offered me a sip. “Just a little?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t. You know.”

  “Right. Hepatitis. Brian, you sure that’s not just another form of escape, a crutch that enables you to hobble along in this new existence of yours? It’s a reminder of what you left behind, and maybe somehow it strengthens your resolve.”

  “You missed your calling, Dr. Sullivan,” I said.

  There was no getting around the issue anymore, around the reason for my being in Linden Corners and the events that led up to it, so I continued my story by backing up to my move to New York City all those years ago.

  “I’d been in college, had been dating my high school sweetheart for five years. We were both graduating. We were all set to plan our life together when one day she just ended it, saying that she felt like she was still in high school and that as long as we were together, she’d feel that way. She needed to grow, and there was no way she’d grow with me attached to her.”

  “Attached?” Annie asked.

  “Like an anchor, weighing her down.”

  “Ouch.”

  “My friend John Oliver had just moved to New York City and I went to visit him for a weekend and ended up staying, getting a job and living the life of a single twentysomething in the big city. Lots of parties, bad dates, low pay, and long working hours, but it was fun and filled with an undeniable excitement. When Justin Warfield and his public relations firm came courting, the years of struggling began to pay off. I took this amazing job, met this incredible woman—who also happened to work there—and suddenly I was in my early thirties on the fast track for the kind of nice, family-oriented life I’d always dreamed of. Everything, the saying goes, was going great.

  “Then I got sick,” I told Annie, “and everything snowballed, culminating in Maddie’s betraying me. That was the catalyst that drove me from the city.”

  “So this Maddie, what did she say about sleeping with your boss?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t ask her about it.”

  “So you never gave her a chance to explain herself?”

  “What was there to explain? She was sleeping with the boss, and apparently she was good enough at it to get herself a promotion.”

  “That’s rather a simplistic take on the matter, don’t you think? Very black and white. Do you think you might have been hasty? Not giving her a chance to talk and maybe fill in some of the gray areas?”

  “Annie, what would it have changed? Nothing. The end result would have been the same.”

  “For the two of you, maybe, in terms of sharing a future together. But Brian, you threw your life away, all that you had worked for. Why? Because of a broken heart?”

  “Not broken,” I said, “wounded. And I guess I needed time away to allow it to heal.”

  “So you don’t call what you did running away?”

  I laughed, a short, sharp bark that took her by surprise. “A common theory. That’s what my friend John called it, too, and each time I talk with him, he reminds me of it. He wants me to come home.”

  “And?”

  “And I think I’m enjoying myself here.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “I think you’re going to tell me.”

  “That’s right—I am. You, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through, are hiding out.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong with it? Brian, it’s not living. You think having all this free time during the day and then spending what would otherwise be lonely nights tending bar satisfying? From the way you describe it, you had a pretty successful career. You’re smart and talented, and now look at you, wasting it all.”

  “To spend time with you,” I said. Actually, the words had popped first into my mind, but before I knew it, they were out of my mouth and hovering in the air between us.

  She looked away, toward the river, not saying anything, probably afraid to or uncertain of what to say.

  I decided to fill the void. “Annie, if I were really running away from my problems, I’d still be on the road, moving from town to town like I did for the first six weeks after leaving New York. I’d be dropping postcards to my friends and family, telling them what a great time I was having, all the while wallowing in my misery and feeling sorry for myself. But that’s not what happened, not when I passed through this valley. I like Linden Corners; I like being able to take it easy after so many years of working so hard. Call me spoiled, but even I know it can’t last. I can’t keep draining my savings and I certainly can’t live on what George is paying me at the tavern. For the summer, though—for now—I’m content.”

  “Is that what I am, then, a summer distraction?”

  “Truthfully, Annie, I’m not sure what you are. Meeting someone like you—no, not someone like you—meeting you, that’s not anything I planned on. But I do enjoy the time we spend together, and I like playing with Janey and being invited to your holiday picnics and your special places, like here, up on this bluff. . . .”

  Annie hugged herself close, her arms around her knees. As though she were cold. But she wasn’t, not with the afternoon sun creating a warm circle of light around us. No, it was a defensive move. Clearly, our innocent picnic was venturing into uncharted territory, and for both of us, it was dangerous territory, too.

  “Brian?” she asked, still not looking at me.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not ready.”

  “Sshh,” I whispered. “Neither am I.”

  She turned to me, and in her eyes I saw the pent-up loss and sorrow, as though they wanted to leave her, seep through her tear ducts and drop into the river far below. I found myself wanting to kiss away those tears, so I leaned in, watched as her eyes closed, and pressed my lips to her eyelids, first one and then the other, tasting salty tears as they trickled down her cheeks.

  I pulled away, and our eyes met. And then we kissed again, our lips meeting and touching and our tongues searching and longing. For a time, on a fresh summer’s day, two souls who had known sadness and betrayal found solace and friendship atop a rocky bluff while below, the mighty river surged on, and above, the wispy clouds drifted by. Nature was alive all around us, enlivening us.

  “What are you like when you are ready?” I asked as we parted. “Wow.”

  Annie couldn’t help it—she let out a giggle that reminded me so much of Janey, of her sweetness and her innocence.

  “Must have been the wine,” she said.

  “Or things more intoxicating,” I said, staring deep into her eyes.

  And then the moment between us passed, and Annie and I gathered up the remains of lunch and headed back to the truck with the picnic basket. But thankfully, our afternoon was not yet over. I helped her carry her easel back to the bluff, and there she set up her makeshift studio and began to work her magic on the canvas, while I sat and alternately watched her and watched the river, and eventually I drifted off into a sun-induced slumber, and the hours slipped away.

  Later, when she dropped me and my bicycle off in front of Connors’ Corners, I asked her if she’d take me back there someday.

  “I . . . that’s not an easy question to answer, Brian,” Annie admitted to me. “School is ending soon and Janey’s going to be home with me, which means my hands will be full, full time. So . . . well, let’s just remember today. We’ll see each other, I’m sure. Linden Corners, it’s real small.”

  I tried my hardest not to look away when I said, “Sure. No problem.”

  And as abruptly as our day had begun, so did it end. Annie drove off to meet up with Janey’s school bus, and I went upstairs and sat alone on my bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling the constant thrumming of my heart.

  Life holds so many precious moments that if you’re fortunate to recognize them for what they are, they become keepsake treasures of the mind and heart, something to keep close, so
when you’re down or lost you can call them up, like files on a computer, to get you through the darkness. I was grateful for that day on Annie’s Bluff, especially in light of the unexpected tragedy that was to sweep through Linden Corners in a literal heartbeat.

  For three days, I heeded Annie’s words and remembered our day together in my dreams; I saw moving pictures that were splashed with rich, vibrant color, images that returned to me whenever I was alone or in the dark or facing a sudden case of doubt about our burgeoning relationship. If indeed that was what our friendship was becoming.

  Wednesday passed, and Thursday, and suddenly it was Friday night, opening weekend of the summer solstice and payday for many of the folks who lived and worked in town. So it was going to be a night for celebration, or so George had warned me the night before.

  He arrived earlier than usual, three o’clock, and I was upstairs in my room when I heard him tooling around the bar. I went down to see about helping him set up. He had put every glass on top of the sleek bar and was busy washing them, one by one, then setting them on a series of cloth dish towels until they dried.

  “Hey, want some help?” I asked.

  “No, no—I’m enjoying myself very much. It’s a tradition started by my grandpa, oh, long, long ago. You see, today is sort of a mini-holiday. We call it First Friday, and the bar never sees a busier night all year. As a young lad, I’d come every year and start washing all the glasses and sweeping the floor, and even shining up the brass in later years, and I gotta tell you, Brian, it feels good doing it all again. Real good.”

  “Well, surely I can help with something.”

  He put me to the task of checking the kegs and bringing up some cases of bottled beer and stocking and storing them so they’d be nice and chilled for the long night. As we worked, George whistled and hummed and said very little, and I didn’t engage him in conversation but merely let him go about his happy business, heartened to see a man still take such pride in his life’s work.

  Before too long, it was four in the afternoon and George went over and turned the lock on the front door. Soon the cars and trucks started pulling up. Folks entered the bar and ordered up the first round, and that got the night off on the right foot, a night of time-honored tradition, kept out of respect for folks who lived nearly one hundred years ago. As happy hour segued into early evening, the crowd grew, until there were probably forty people in the tavern, a large turnout, George said with pride, and went busily back to his station behind the bar. Happy-hour prices, he instructed me, were in effect all night.

  At seven-thirty, Gerta showed up with a couple plates of dinner, one for George and one for me, and she hung around for about an hour, alternately cleaning glasses and telling George to take a break and take it easy, but he barely listened, so involved was he in his business. Finally Gerta bade her good-byes and the whole bar waved back, and then the party continued.

  The jukebox played and folks danced, and I saw the pool table get more action than I’d ever seen, with quarters lining the rim, a bunch of patrons eager to play eight ball. Conversation flowed as much as the beer, with the topic changing more often than the keg—though that, too, needed to be changed, and I lugged a couple fresh ones from the basement at about nine o’clock.

  Me, I didn’t notice the hours passing, since there was no time to watch the clock, and aside from taking part in little bits of chatter here and there, I’d been working steadily alongside George, enjoying watching a true tavernkeeper at his peak. He showed me a thing or two about keeping the patrons satisfied.

  At ten, he urged me to take a break. “Ten minutes, Brian. Go ahead; I’ll be just fine.”

  I wanted to refuse, but before I could, he pushed me away from the bar and then closed the counter that separated the bartenders from the customers. True, I hadn’t worked this hard since George had offered me the job, and I decided a quiet break would reenergize me. I went outside, past a small group that had assembled on the porch for a breath of fresh air, and sat myself down on the steps.

  Someone wasted little time in joining me. I turned and saw Chuck Ackroyd, a bottle in his hand and a sneer on his face.

  “Whatever you’ve come to say, Chuck, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself.”

  “You know what I was doing this time last year?” he asked me. He obviously wasn’t waiting for an answer, because he told me. “Working behind that bar. Yup, George always said First Friday was his busiest night, and in the past couple of years, he’d call me up, ask for my help. And I gave it; didn’t ask for any money, either.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, not wanting to antagonize him any further. His message was clear, even if his beer-sodden mind wasn’t.

  “Now you come along and George doesn’t need me.” He drank from his beer, a long, loud gulp. “Didn’t even call me to say he wouldn’t be needing me. Nope, not even a phone call.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Chuck. But look, I’m not trying to bust a friendship at all. You and I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, but any antagonism between us has come from you, not me. So why don’t you do us both a favor—stop looking for trouble where it doesn’t exist. I’m not a threat to your friendship with George. I’m the hired help.”

  He laughed over that one, sputtering beer as he did. “Sure thing, Mr. City Boy, if you say so.”

  I had a feeling he wasn’t done, and I don’t mean with the beer.

  “You still seeing that Sullivan chick?”

  I could have punched him, but instead I played it cool. “Annie and I are friends; that’s it.”

  “Everything fits into a neat little box with you, doesn’t it? To George, you’re the hired help. To Annie Sullivan, you’re the friend. What about me—you got me in one of your little boxes?”

  “Hopefully, one with the lid closed.”

  “Yeah, that’s it, Mr. City Boy, play the smart ass with me. You know, you say Annie’s just a friend, but I’ve seen you two, like that night . . . heck, Memorial Day. Had the bar all to yourselves. Tell me something—do you always kiss your friends?”

  “Chuck, I’m ending this conversation now. I’m going to go back inside and help George, and the next time you and I see each other, we’ll forget we had this unfortunate little chat. Sound advice, don’t you think?”

  I was getting up to leave when he said words that stopped me in my tracks.

  “It’s Annie’s fault my wife left me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She couldn’t keep her man satisfied, if you know what I mean. Dan Sullivan, that prick, wasn’t happy at home, so he went wandering and found what he wanted with my wife. She took off, and it’s all Annie’s fault.”

  I wondered if there was any validity to this story, and then discounted it. Consider the source.

  “Look, Chuck, if your wife left you, the reason is probably a lot closer to home than the Sullivan farmhouse.”

  “Superior assholes, all of you,” he said. “Started with Dan, and now you.”

  “You know, Chuck, maybe it’s not that others have a superior attitude. Maybe it’s just that you have an inferiority complex. If you want your life to improve, start assigning the blame where it belongs and then move on.”

  Then I was gone from the porch, away from his belligerent accusations, resuming my place beside George for what turned out to be the remainder of the long night, a four-hour stretch that saw George stop only once to pee. No break, and definitely no leaving until the clock struck two.

  Which it finally did, and the last group of folks filed out and crossed the street, where Martha had opened up the Five-O for the special occasion, serving earlier-than-usual breakfasts and lots of hot, steaming coffee, a responsible end to one of the most joyous parties I’d ever been in the thick of.

  George turned the lock on the door and wiped his brow with a washrag. “Wow,” he said. “That was one big, spectacular blowout. The best First Friday yet. Oh, Pop and Grandpa, they’re looking down proud from the heavens—and probably
raising a few in honor of tonight. Makes me a happy man. And Brian, I couldn’t have done this without you, that’s for sure.”

  “Thanks, George. I had fun.”

  “Saw you looking around once or twice,” he said. “Looking for a certain someone?”

  “You mean Annie? No, I figured she was home with Janey, especially when I saw Cynthia and Bradley come by around eight. Besides, I don’t see First Friday as Annie’s scene.”

  “Oh, I remember another Annie, and her first First Friday with us. It was just after she saved the windmill from being torn down, and we had a special kind of celebration that night, surely. In fact, I think that was the night she and Dan—well, started going together.” His eyes panned the bar, soaking up memories of the atmosphere. “Yup, this bar has seen lots of times, good ones mostly, and I was witness to them, night after night.”

  “Beer after beer.”

  “That’s for certain.”

  “George, can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything, my boy.”

  “Annie and Dan—were they happy?”

  “You been listening to Chuck?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look, Brian, you’re a nice man, and Annie, she’s a nice lady. Defines the word nice, really. And whatever has happened in the past is just that, the past. You’ve had your troubles; so has she. But somehow you two found each other, and even though I don’t presume to know exactly the nature of your relationship, I do know you’ve helped her emerge from a two-year funk. That’s Cynthia’s word, mind you, and she passed it along to Gerta and so I’m passing it on to you.”

  “She’s helped me, too.”

  “Good. Then that’s all that should matter. The future, Brian, keep looking to it. Think of Annie’s windmill—you ever see its sails go backward?”