“Of course, that’s not exactly the right nickname, ’cause it makes it sound like she doesn’t care anymore for the windmill, and to say so would be a falsehood.”
“So she’s actually the woman who loves the windmill,” I stated. “Present tense.”
George Connors gave me a quick nod as he continued to rock in his chair. “Second only to that bundle of energy.”
“Janey,” I said.
Again, that quick, agreeable nod that seemed to run in the Connors family.
George and Gerta Connors were people of habit, good, upstanding citizens who regularly attended church, living life like good Christians, and that included opening up their home and their hearts to a stranger in search of something he couldn’t quite name. Sunday was George’s one day off; he’d decided years ago that in observance of the Lord’s day, his corner tavern would lock its doors on Saturday night and remain closed all the next day, until four o’clock on Monday afternoon, when it was time again to go to work.
“On Sundays, there’s other spirits at work,” George told me.
I’d been helping out all week down at Connors’ Corners, and I’d refused any sort of remuneration for my duties, which resulted in George’s thinking me a damn fool and Gerta’s taking a keen interest in my well-being. So when the invitation came for Sunday dinner, there was no refusing. Not that I would have, mind you. These were good folk with big hearts, and aside from some home cooking, company was probably what I needed most. With them, there was no hidden agenda, just a long-married couple whose kids had grown up and moved away and who were happy now to open their home to a soul in need.
It was dark now, after seven, and dinner was over by a couple of hours, the dishes all put away. (I’d insisted on cleaning up, despite Gerta’s protests.) Gerta had gone to take a hot plate of food to a friend, a woman in her late seventies who lived alone. George explained this was part of Gerta’s routine, giving him a few spare moments to himself on his one day off, a chance to enjoy his pipe without complaint. He and I retired to the porch, where we sat in wicker chairs and watched the sun fall and the stars emerge in the wide-open black sky above.
We’d talked for a while, then sat in silence enjoying the chirping of the crickets out in the field. George and Gerta lived in a small, two-story clapboard house, having moved in when they’d gotten married nearly fifty years earlier. Four girls had grown up here and gone and were now all married with children of their own. The Connors were proud grandparents to eleven kids; while dinner cooked, Gerta had proudly showed me photo albums filled with memories. Beyond the house was a small open field, a rusting swing set at the edge of the field the last reminder of the kids who’d once filled this house with laughter. Seeing the field had brought the windmill to my mind, and so began the conversation that would tell me so much about the woman named Annie Sullivan.
“Gerta tells me Annie’s a widow,” I said. “Can’t be easy for her, raising a young daughter all alone.”
“She does okay, Annie does. A good mother—and that Janey? A parent couldn’t ask for a happier, more well-adjusted kid. Especially considering the tragedy she’s had to know at such a young age.” He hung his head low in obvious respect for the dead.
I was uncomfortable discussing Annie in this manner; it felt too much like idle gossip, and I said as much to George.
He puffed on his pipe, saw that it had gone out, and dug for his lighter. Once he had stoked the flame again and round puffs of smoke encircled him, he spoke again. “Well, Brian, I guess some might call it gossip, but you’re going to learn all about Annie Sullivan anyway. Whether you learn it from me or Gerta or from someone else in town, or even Annie herself, it’s not information that will evade you long.”
“First of all, the idea of talking with Annie about
“So she’s actually the woman who loves the windmill,” I stated. “Present tense.”
George Connors gave me a quick nod as he continued to rock in his chair. “Second only to that bundle of energy.”
“Janey,” I said.
Again, that quick, agreeable nod that seemed to run in the Connors family.
George and Gerta Connors were people of habit, good, upstanding citizens who regularly attended church, living life like good Christians, and that included opening up their home and their hearts to a stranger in search of something he couldn’t quite name. Sunday was George’s one day off; he’d decided years ago that in observance of the Lord’s day, his corner tavern would lock its doors on Saturday night and remain closed all the next day, until four o’clock on Monday afternoon, when it was time again to go to work.
“On Sundays, there’s other spirits at work,” George told me.
I’d been helping out all week down at Connors’ Corners, and I’d refused any sort of remuneration for my duties, which resulted in George’s thinking me a damn fool and Gerta’s taking a keen interest in my well-being. So when the invitation came for Sunday dinner, there was no refusing. Not that I would have, mind you. These were good folk with big hearts, and aside from some home cooking, company was probably what I needed most. With them, there was no hidden agenda, just a long-married couple whose kids had grown up and moved away and who were happy now to open their home to a soul in need.
It was dark now, after seven, and dinner was over by a couple of hours, the dishes all put away. (I’d insisted on cleaning up, despite Gerta’s protests.) Gerta had gone to take a hot plate of food to a friend, a woman in her late seventies who lived alone. George explained this was part of Gerta’s routine, giving him a few spare moments to himself on his one day off, a chance to enjoy his pipe without complaint. He and I retired to the porch, where we sat in wicker chairs and watched the sun fall and the stars emerge in the wide-open black sky above.
We’d talked for a while, then sat in silence enjoying the chirping of the crickets out in the field. George and Gerta lived in a small, two-story clapboard house, having moved in when they’d gotten married nearly fifty years earlier. Four girls had grown up here and gone and were now all married with children of their own. The Connors were proud grandparents to eleven kids; while dinner cooked, Gerta had proudly showed me photo albums filled with memories. Beyond the house was a small open field, a rusting swing set at the edge of the field the last reminder of the kids who’d once filled this house with laughter. Seeing the field had brought the windmill to my mind, and so began the conversation that would tell me so much about the woman named Annie Sullivan.
“Gerta tells me Annie’s a widow,” I said. “Can’t be easy for her, raising a young daughter all alone.”
“She does okay, Annie does. A good mother—and that Janey? A parent couldn’t ask for a happier, more well-adjusted kid. Especially considering the tragedy she’s had to know at such a young age.” He hung his head low in obvious respect for the dead.
I was uncomfortable discussing Annie in this manner; it felt too much like idle gossip, and I said as much to George.
He puffed on his pipe, saw that it had gone out, and dug for his lighter. Once he had stoked the flame again and round puffs of smoke encircled him, he spoke again. “Well, Brian, I guess some might call it gossip, but you’re going to learn all about Annie Sullivan anyway. Whether you learn it from me or Gerta or from someone else in town, or even Annie herself, it’s not information that will evade you long.”
“First of all, the idea of talking with Annie about
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