Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman

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?”
    Janey’s bright round eyes dimmed. “I’m sorry, Momma; I won’t do it again.”
    “Okay, baby; it’s okay. Let’s just go inside and say hi to Cynthia and get you some strawberries.” Annie held out her arms and Janey went to them, a tender embrace that showed just how close they were. A team once again, they headed toward the fruit market. Annie said nothing further to me.
    As for Janey, she turned and smiled at me and said, “We’re having strawberry shortcake for dessert. It’s my favorite.”
    Then they disappeared inside the store, and I returned to my car, picking up the ripped bag of produce. Tossing it in the back, I hopped in the car. As I was about to pull out, an older woman with gray hair wrapped in a tight bun placed her hands on the driver’s door and peered in. Her face was familiar, but from where I couldn’t remember.
    “You did the right thing, Brian, and Annie’s just overreacting.” She nodded her head as she spoke. “I’m Gerta Connors—George’s wife. We haven’t officially met, but I saw you from the car window when George dropped by the tavern the other night.”
    “Oh—you’re all George ever talks about, Mrs. Connors. It’s very nice to meet you. And thanks for your supportive words just now. Don’t blame Mrs. Sullivan; it’s a natural reaction on her part, don’t you think? She was more scared than anything. She didn’t mean what she said about me, I’m sure.”
    “Probably you’re right,” she said, again with that insistent nodding. “Still, haven’t seen Annie Sullivan so riled in . . . well, not for a long time.” Then, in a quieter voice, Gerta said, “Annie’s a widow, you know.”
    “No, I didn’t realize that. I’m sorry to hear it.”
    “Coming up on two years, I think. Thank goodness for Janey—she’s Annie’s pride and joy, and I guess maybe today put a little scare into her. Poor dear. Well, I must hasten. I’m making a strawberry pie for George. If you’re going to be at the Corner tonight, I’ll bring you a slice. Do you like strawberry pie?”
    “I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” I replied.
    “Then you’re in for a treat, especially with the Knights’ berries. Cynthia’s got the magic touch, her berries being so ripe and full of juice.”
    “You folks sure do know your passions,” I said. “Thanks, Gerta; I’ll be there.”
    “Passion, young man,” she said, “is the energy of life.”
    I drove off then, with the promise of sweet pie in my near future.
     
    “ T hey call her the woman who loved the windmill,” he said, taking a puff of his pipe and sucking in the sweet, smoky aroma. A cloudy mist circled above his head and then dissipated in the cool night air. It was Sunday night, and I’d been in Linden Corners for nearly a week.