Tilting at Windmills (30 page)

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 and 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.

A
t 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.

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.

“So, what’s this storm—a hurricane or something?”

“Nor’easter,” Gerta said, “which can be worse. Especially given the kind of heat we’ve been having.”

“It’s the same in New York City.”

“You were back in the city?” Chuck asked.

“For a short while,” I said. “Had to rid myself of the apartment, you know?”

A stricken look crossed his face, which was exactly my intent. He excused himself and went to see if he could be of help somewhere else. Hopefully somewhere in Siberia.

I followed Gerta through the room, scanning the assembled folks for any sign of Janey or Annie. I came up empty. Perhaps they were at the school. Or—a light went off inside my brain as I recalled the light I’d seen inside the windmill a short while ago—perhaps Annie had gone back there. But why? I dismissed the thought; she wouldn’t be there with a storm like this brewing. Suddenly a crash of thunder rattled the windows, and my gut churned with nervous energy. I had a bad feeling about this storm; maybe it was my inexperience with them, since everyone else seemed calm, even unconcerned.

Gerta stopped at the television, where the local weatherman was detailing the path of the storm. From what he said, the northern portion of the Hudson River Valley was going to be the hardest hit, with possible power outages and the touching down of lightning bolts. He couldn’t repeat himself enough: Stay indoors. And again, an unsettling feeling overcame me.

“Gerta, have you heard anything from Annie?”

A puzzled look crossed her face. “Well, surely she’s here, somewhere. Just a half hour ago I saw little Janey playing with some other children,” she said reassuringly. “Relax—it’ll be over soon. Though it does look like nature has put a damper on our Third Thursday—not much you can do but listen when God speaks up.”

She took a seat then and settled in to wait out the storm.

I told her I’d be back, and I waded through the room, asking after Annie and Janey. No one had seen Annie, but Marla the twin said she’d seen Janey with a couple of other kids upstairs, playing in the vestibule. I dashed up the stairs two at a time, bypassing folks who were coming down the stairs with trays of piping hot food, a small town’s answer to riding out a storm. It smelled good, making me realize I hadn’t eaten all day. But food would have to wait. My heart was near bursting knowing Janey was nearby. I needed to know she was okay.

There were five kids running around the altar, and I suppose on any other day Father Burton would have put a stop to it quickly, but today the kids had the run of the place. Janey, I saw, was among the happy group, oblivious to the coming storm.

I called out Janey’s name, and she stopped short and peered out from behind the lectern.

“Brian!”
she cried loudly, and as she came running toward me, a loud clap of thunder shook the room and I turned with sudden surprise, only to be knocked off my feet as Janey came racing into my arms. The two of us fell to the floor in a happy reunion. This little bundle of joy, my God, how I’d missed her presence, her exuberance. She was a true gift, and for a moment I felt a sadness at having lost her even for a brief amount of time. But here she was, giggling and laughing, an infectious combination that got a similar response from me.