Tilting at Windmills (10 page)

I quickly discovered how it was possible this town got started at five in the morning—by nightfall, the streets were deserted and a quiet lull had settled in the air. My car was the lone one on the road, making me think that maybe it was later, like 2:00
A
.
M
.
, and that the clock at the motel was wrong. The clock tower above the Hudson Valley Savings Bank, however, confirmed the time. As I drove on, I saw just one lively burst of life, at a local tavern called Connors’ Corners, which looked like it was once someone’s house, complete with a wraparound porch and a second floor. As if someone who used to have a lot of parties just gave up and started charging his friends, putting in neon BUDWEISER and SARANAC signs in the windows for ambiance. There were four other cars in the small lot, and mine joined them. I hopped aboard the porch, opened the screen door, and entered a dimly lit room that smelled just how it should—like a bar.

There were five other people inside, not counting the bartender, who was a tall older gentleman with a thick shock of white-gray hair and spectacles. He wore an apron and a smile, and he welcomed me with the hackneyed line, “What’ll it be?”

For lack of something better to do, the other patrons watched as I ordered, making me self-conscious when I asked for just a plain seltzer. I skipped the wedge of lime. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the patrons turned away, clearly uninterested. The bartender, however, seemed unfazed and poured the drink.

I took a seat, took a sip, and sampled my surroundings. Nothing much out of the ordinary. A long, smooth wooden bar, a series of stools keeping it company. Behind it, a row of colored bottles. Over it, a deer’s head. There were a couple of tables with chairs scattered throughout the room, and in the corner was a large pool table, currently being ignored. So was the jukebox, the regulars opting instead for television, which had a ball game on ESPN. The boys of summer, playing at the height of springtime.

“Who’s playing?” I asked.

“Mets. Winning of course,” said the bartender. “So, how do you find the Solemn Nights?”

For some reason, I wasn’t surprised he knew about me. Small-town life—the only thing that travels fast is gossip. A newcomer in town, even for just a day or so, caused a burning up of the phone lines. So I just replied that it was fine.

“George Connors,” he said, introducing himself.

“Brian Duncan,” I said.

“Just Passing Through.”

Then I smiled. “Let me guess—the five-o’clock dinner special at the Five O’clock.”

He nodded with approval. “You’ll do just fine here. Except those in the know just refer to it as the Five-O.”

I felt a pleasant sensation ripple down my spine. These uniquely friendly folk were doing their best to make life here comfortable for me—unusual, since just over eight hours ago I’d never heard of their town or met any of them. Suddenly, though, Linden Corners and the Five-O and the Solemn Nights and even Connors’ Corners were more familiar to me than the nineteenth-floor offices of Beckford Warfield and my apartment on East 83rd Street. Now, Martha Martinson and Richie Ravens and George Connors acted like new best friends, easygoing and approachable. Faces from New York faded from memory, as though a great deal of time were slipping by.

So we chatted, George and I, in between pitches and hits and strikeouts, and the occasional distraction of another patron wanting a refill on a draft. George pulled the tap with the style of someone long practiced in the art of serving beer, and I said so, launching George on the history of Connors’ Corners. Turned out that he was a third-generation bartender—lived his whole life in Linden Corners and took over running the bar twenty years earlier when his dad retired, only to die a year later from boredom, or so George claimed.

“Heck, I’m sixty-nine, believe it or not, nine years older than my dad when he gave me the place. Nowadays the wife is bugging me to retire, but I just can’t do it. Maybe cutting back on hours someday, but until that day comes, I’m here until midnight, every night except Sunday.”

“Where’s the fourth generation?” I asked.

“Humph. Good Lord saw fit to give me four beautiful daughters, none of whom showed any interest in pouring drinks and then watching folks pour ’em down their throats. But that’s fine, since I’ve got grandchildren galore.” He paused a moment, saw my empty seltzer glass, and asked if I wanted a refill.

“Sure.”

“So, what’s the problem?” His head nodded toward the booze, and my surprised reaction must have been pretty obvious. “Oh, there are no secrets in Linden Corners, so you might as well come clean.”

“It’s not what you think . . .” I started to explain.

“Not thinking anything,” he said. “One thing I’ve learned in my years behind this counter—never assume too much about a man. And forget that ‘you make an ass of you and me’ baloney—only makes
me
the ass.”

“Health. Six-month sabbatical from alcohol.”

He nodded. “Liver stuff, huh? Gotta be careful there.”

And that was that. He dropped the subject and directed his attention back to the Mets. They were still winning.

Time passed and a couple of people left; a couple new ones showed up. I sat alone and content, enjoying the congenial atmosphere, the sense of belonging that George had effortlessly instilled in me. Finally, around ten o’clock, the game ended (the Mets won) and I’d had my fill of seltzer. I got up to leave. I realized, though, that I was feeling a bit restless.

“You’re a man in search of something to do,” George said. “Beware my daddy’s lesson in boredom.” A smile brightened his craggy features. “You know, just occurred to me, this great idea. How’d you like to close up shop for me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Clean a few glasses, turn the lights off, and then lock the front door. It’s real simple.”

“But . . . you don’t even know me.”

“Call me a good judge of character, Brian. Look, the wife’ll be pleased to see me early, and truth be known, I’m tuckered out tonight. Grandkids were visiting this past weekend and they ran me ragged. What do you say? I can’t trust any of these fools”—he pointed to the three men who also sat at the bar—“’cause they’ll help themselves to the tap. You—I can trust you, Brian Duncan.”

And before I could answer yes or no, he tossed off his apron, came around the bar, and handed me a key.

“Midnight, kick these boys out.” Then he told his regulars that Brian Duncan Just Passing Through would be tending bar the rest of the night and to be nice, to try not to rook him. He patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine, son. All they drink is beer, three bucks a draft, no tabs. Good luck. Come by tomorrow to return the key; we’ll see how you did.”

“But George . . .”

I was still sitting on the bar stool, watching as George ignored my pleas on his way out the door and into the dark night. The screen door closed with a loud
thwack
that reverberated through the quiet bar. I spun around and found the patrons looking at me, all of them with empty or near-empty glasses.

“Refill, guys?” I said, attempting a smile and failing miserably.

They pushed their mugs forward expectantly, and suddenly, I was put to work. I was gainfully employed in Linden Corners.

F
IVE

B
efore I knew it, two days had passed and still Linden Corners held me in its appealingly quaint grip. It was Thursday afternoon and I’d just returned from a trip up to Albany, where I’d done some shopping and enjoyed a quick lunch in the downtown area of New York’s capital. Though not a renowned urban center like New York City, Albany showed itself to be a serious town with serious issues to contend with, and the sight of the state government in action, men and women dressed up in power suits, cell phones practically glued to their ears, made me long for the small-town pace of Linden Corners.

Truth be told, I’d been having a good time in Linden Corners and was eager to return. I’d taken Martha up on her suggestion, trying her scrambled eggs and easily finding much to rave about, though I confess I hadn’t exactly arrived for the five-o’clock rush. I’d also filled in at Connors’ Corners Wednesday night, not a spur-of-the-moment decision but something planned the night before, so George could have more than a couple hours off. In fact, he showed up only to open up at four in the afternoon, then left me alone for what turned out to be a very long eight-hour shift. Word had gotten around about the new guy, so folks showed up for a drink, a game of pool, and a little bit of small-town gossip, of which I was the big topic. Well, it ended up being a fun night, with Sara the waitress stopping by after work, glad to have me wait on her, all the while batting her eyelashes at me. Turned out she was twenty-two, but as the saying goes, Thanks but no thanks.

This morning I’d bypassed the major highway, opting for the backroads tour through the countryside all the way up to Albany, memorizing the route for the return trip. There were a couple places that had attracted my eye, including a roadside fruit stand a couple miles north of Linden Corners. It was coming up again, on my left, and I decided to check it out. Hanging around the motel, it was nice to have a snack handy, and given the lingering effects of the hepatitis, fruit was the right choice. There was a small wooden sign posted alongside the road, reminding drivers that the fruit stand was just over the next hill, and indeed it was, a series of four connected buildings, with wide wooden doors held open by white-painted stands overflowing with vegetables and fruit. With about a dozen cars in the lot and a couple more pulling in and out, it was clear this was no well-kept secret.

KNIGHT
’
S
FRUITS
, read a hand-painted sign on the building’s roof.

I milled about with the other locals, picking out ripe red strawberries and grapes and cherries—some apples and oranges, too. Adding a plastic container of freshly squeezed orange juice to the basket, I decided I had plenty and headed to the checkout area. The woman behind the makeshift counter smiled pleasantly at me and asked if this was my first time at the market. She, too, had a friendly demeanor, with a smile full of white, gleaming teeth and a big pile of blond hair that curled naturally around her pretty face.

“First—maybe not last. We’ll see.”

“You must be Brian Duncan,” she said. “I’m Cynthia Knight; my husband and I own this place. We live down the road from Annie Sullivan.”

I couldn’t hide my surprise, since I figured my encounter with Annie Sullivan had long gone off her radar. A mother with a seven-year-old girl had other things to think about. But still . . . the windmill flashed in my mind, and so did Janey, running through the field, her mother trying to catch her.

“Annie Sullivan told you about me?”

“Sort of. More like Janey.”

“Ah,” I said, handing over money for my purchases. We exchanged a bit more small talk, then I let her get on with the customers behind me, none of whom appeared upset or annoyed by the lack of movement in the line. Once it was their turn, Cynthia was all chatter with them, too. Good food, good service, good people. Could be Linden Corners’ motto.

I was back at my car when I heard someone call out my name. I turned and saw little Janey Sullivan stepping out of the passenger side of a beat-up old pickup. She jumped down to the ground, waving wildly at me.

“It’s Brian! Wow! It’s Brian!”

Then, without looking, she darted out into the parking lot and started to run toward me. I sensed something was wrong, something dreadful, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a car backing up, the driver unaware of what—
who
—was behind her. Neither was Janey, meaning the two were headed for a collision. Annie wasn’t even out of the truck yet, but she saw what was happening, and her mouth opened in terror.

“Janey!” she screamed out.

But that only made the situation worse, because Janey came to a sharp stop at the sound of her mother’s frightened voice. I acted fast, dropping my sack of fruit to the ground as I raced forward, calling out to the driver to stop. To no avail—the radio was turned on loud, and besides, Janey was standing in the woman’s blind spot.

I reached Janey just in time, scooping her up into my arms, which caused her to scream out. But it was not with alarm. Janey thought this was just an extension of the game we’d played the other day, and that’s when it occurred to me that she wasn’t even aware of what had almost happened. The car missed us both by about six inches, then drove off the lot and onto the highway. An oblivious driver like that had no business being on the road.

But at least Janey was safe.

I carried her over to the pickup, let down the back latch, and stood her on the flatbed. She jumped up and down with delight, as the other people in the parking lot watched with great relief. Seems Janey was the only one who missed all the excitement. A few folks came by, offering up kind words, thanking me for being in the right place at the right time.

One person who seemed not to share this gratitude was Annie Sullivan.

“What is it with you, mister?” she said to me.

Why was she angry at me and not at the idiot driver? “In case you don’t realize it, I just saved your daughter from being hit by that car.”

“Well . . . it seems lately that every time I have reason to panic over my daughter, you’re nearby.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be panicking,” I suggested, angry all of a sudden over her accusation. She appeared about to say something and then changed her mind. Instead, she pushed past me and looked up at her daughter, who was watching the two of us with confusion. “Honey, are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Honey, how have I told you to answer?”

Janey rolled her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. No ‘yup’ or ‘yeah’ or ‘uh-huh.’ ”

“Wise guy,” Annie said.

“I’m a wise girl,” Janey said, trying to lighten the mood. “Why are you mad at Brian?”

Annie hesitated and stole a steely glance at me before replying. “Janey, I don’t want you to ever run so carelessly again—in a busy parking lot, you should know better. And I know you think Brian is nice—and I’m sure he is—but he’s a stranger, Janey, and what have I told you time and again? What did I tell you the other day, after the incident by the windmill?”