Free Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman

umm . . . I forget, but it’s a big word. She says it makes her feel better.”
    “I can see why. It’s already made me feel better, and I didn’t even know I needed cheering up. Well, Janey, it was very nice to meet you, and thank you for telling me about your windmill.”
    I shook her hand and was enchanted as she curtsied for added effect.
    I turned to leave when I heard the little girl say, “ ’Bye, Brian,” making me sneak a peek back, where her tiny hand energetically waved in the wind. I returned her good-bye, and that’s when I saw another figure appear over the hill. A woman, one whom I surmised was Janey’s mother.
    She quickened her pace, and a hysterical pitch caught in her voice as she repeatedly called out her daughter’s name. That’s when I realized she couldn’t see Janey, whose little body was blocked by the windmill. Just me, a strange man on her property. I couldn’t blame her for panicking. I thought it best to stand where I was, not run away. Startling her was bad enough; I didn’t want to scare her, too. Janey, meanwhile, had decided this was a game, and she opened the door to the windmill and hid behind it.
    The woman reached the windmill, emerging between two of the sails as they passed down a few feet above her head, and looked squarely at me. We were separated by no more than twenty feet.
    “Where is she? What have you done—” The woman hurtled her accusation while trying to grab her breath and ended up stopping midsentence.
    I pointed to the door, slightly ajar. A small face peered through the diamond-shaped window and then quickly dropped out of sight. I offered up an innocent shrug, like a child might do when caught red-handed, which only seemed to infuriate Janey’s mom further.
    “Don’t move,” she warned me, and I stuck my hands in the air like a criminal caught in the act, a poor attempt at lightening up the situation that went unappreciated. Then she opened the door to the windmill and stood her ground. “Janey, get out here this instant.”
    A mother’s tone of voice can dictate the direction of any scene. Looking contrary, Janey emerged from her hideout. Truthfully, the girl hadn’t done anything wrong, except for maybe scaring her mother, but she saved any explanation for later. Right now she knew to let the fear run its course.
    “Are you okay, sweetie?” her mother asked, crouching on her knees. Yet she kept an eye on me, making sure I didn’t move. I didn’t.
    “I’m fine, Momma. Just playing.”
    Her mother frowned. “I’m not sure I approve of this game . . . and who, may I ask, were you playing with?” She gave me a steely look that said that if she heard one wrong word, I was toast.
    “I was playing with Brian—he’s nice,” Janey said, and there was a cute lilt to her voice that hinted at the curious and friendly girl I’d met just moments ago. Her mother seemed to hear it, too, and she lessened her grip on her daughter’s arm.
    “I didn’t mean—” I started, only to be cut off.
    “Who are you and what are you doing on my property ?” she asked, walking toward me with cautious determination. I had to admit she seemed pretty gutsy, considering the circumstances. Intruders on her land weren’t an everyday occurrence for her, no doubt, but here she was protecting not just her territory but also her child. Fear and anger overtook rational behavior. Good thing, as Janey had pointed out, that I was nice.
    “It’s an easy explanation,” I said, and with her now just a few feet before me (with her hands planted firmly on her hips), I launched into my short, innocuous tale of pulling to the side of the road and wanting to see the windmill up close. “Truth was, I hadn’t considered that it could be someone’s property. I guess I thought it was county land or something. Anyway, that’s when I saw your little girl take a tumble down the hill and I went to see that she was okay . . .”
    Janey had come up beside her mother, grabbing hold