The four of us settled into the living room and talked genially, Janey enjoying a glass of apple juice and me a seltzer with ice, while my father and mother drank their Manhattans. Their attention remained focused mostly on Janey. They asked her questions about school and friends, nothing about her mother Annie or the difficult times this girl had already known in her life. There was no mention of the windmills that had brought us together. As they chatted, I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting anxiously for any misstep.
At about ten o’clock, the excitement of the long trip and of Janey meeting my parents finally taking its toll, it was decided we had best get Janey to bed. I retrieved the suitcases from the car and attempted to get Janey settled into her room. She’d gotten her second wind apparently, so busy was she looking at the old photographs my parents had hung on the walls.
“Is that you, Brian?” Janey asked, pointing to a geeky teen posing for his high school graduation picture. I was seventeen. I looked twelve. When I told her it was, she laughed. “You look different now—better.” As I thanked her, she pointed to the other two similarly styled portraits that hung above mine, one of a dark-haired, handsome young man, the other a young woman with eyes that dominated the frame. Again, high graduation pictures. “Who are they?” she asked.
“Well, one is Rebecca; she’s my sister.”
“She’s pretty. And who’s the other guy? He doesn’t look so. . .”
“Geeky? Like me?”
“Yeah,” she said, with an impish smile.
Before answering her question, I stared at the photograph that was up for discussion, thought of the memories his rugged good looks inspired. For a second I looked around for the trophies and awards, the ribbons and framed citations that adorned his walls, and then remembered this was no longer his room. Not even the house he’d grown up in, any of us, actually. Suddenly I was surprised that the photos had been placed on the walls here, not packed away like other memories. I wondered how my parents had felt packing up the old house, saying good-bye to a room that had remained fixed in time. Then I answered.
“That’s my brother, Philip.”
Our conversation was quickly interrupted as my mother came brushing through the doorway. She cleared her throat knowingly. Photographs were not something she wished to discuss. When she saw what little progress I’d made in getting Janey to sleep, she summarily tossed me out.
“Honestly, what do you know about caring for little girls, Brian?”
My mother liked to ask questions, but she seldom waited for answers. Tonight was one of those occasions, despite the fact I could have answered her with easy confidence. Because I knew a lot, Janey had helped me in figuring out the curious mind of a growing child. Oh she had helped me plenty. But I let my mother enjoy her fussing over Janey, said my good-nights, receiving back a huge hug from Janey and a polite smile from my mother, and finally retreated to the other guest room. And as I fought to find sleep that night, I hoped that tomorrow and in the coming weeks I would be able to reciprocate the feelings behind Janey’s warm hug. She was in a strange house, meeting strange people, and even though they were my relatives, being here couldn’t have been the easiest thing. And it was only the beginning of the holiday season. How much she would need me nearly scared me. How much I would need her terrified me.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2001 by Joseph Pittman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7385-7
ISBN-10: 0-7582-6673-1
Tilting at Windmills Page 27
