Free Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman Page A

of her arm. “That’s why he’s nice, Momma, ’cause he came to my rescue. Maybe what if I was hurt? Which I’m not,” she quickly added, to stave off an attack of the worries. Janey and I exchanged smiles. Her mother failed to join in our exchange.
    “Look, Mrs. . . .”
    “Sullivan. Annie Sullivan,” she said.
    “No wonder she likes names ending with a y sound,” I said to Janey, “because her name does.”
    Janey started to giggle, and I let out a short laugh, too. Annie looked at the two of us like we were coconspirators, which in effect, we were. For someone not looking for trouble, I seemed to be doing a good job of inviting it now. I sensed a little blond-haired devil’s influence.
    “You learned an awful lot about my daughter in a short amount of time.”
    Again, I raised my hands in innocent protest. “I only asked her name. Janey volunteered the rest.”
    “And I didn’t catch your name,” she said.
    “Yes, you did, Momma; he’s Brian. And he’s nice.”
    “Brian Duncan,” I said, and this time I extended my hand to Annie. She accepted only because Janey pressed her to. Our hands touched, fingers suddenly interlocked by a firm grasp that seemed to hide unspoken words. She had a strong grip and held my hand for a moment. It gave me the chance to gauge her anger level. There was a slight gleam in her eyes that could have been a reflection of the sun. Maybe her fear was dissipating.
    Annie Sullivan, anyone could see, and it happened to be my privilege to do so at the moment, was a beautiful woman. Her soft face was rounded and highlighted by bright cheeks, and her eyes were brown, filled with limitless expression. Her hair, shoulder length, was noticeably darker than her daughter’s, a rich chestnut brown with hints of auburn highlights, depending on the slant of the light. She, too, wore dungarees, along with a blue print blouse that was untucked and splattered with what appeared to be paint.
    “Well, Mr. Duncan, it appears I owe you an apology . . .”
    “No, no—you were completely justified in your reaction. Heck, I’m just some strange guy who suddenly appeared on your land. You’ve been very understanding. I won’t take up any more of your time.” I bowed slightly to Annie, and then to Janey. “Good-bye, Janey. I have to leave and you need to eat your lunch.”
    She put a hand to her mouth in surprise. “I forgot! Thanks, Brian. ’Bye.”
    Annie instructed her daughter to go on ahead, that her sandwich was ready and the soup would have to be reheated. She’d join her in a moment. Then she turned back to me, shook my hand again, and thanked me for being so nice and thoughtful and caring.
    “There aren’t many people in the world you can trust these days,” she said.
    Annie was speaking my language.
    “There are a couple of us left,” I said, and our hands parted. She turned away and so did I, both of us going our separate ways.
    To my surprise, she called out my name—not my last but my first.
    “Yes?” I asked.
    “You really like my windmill?”
    The windmill. I’d nearly forgotten it in the face of such mortal beauty. For a split second, my eyes returned to the old mill before falling back on Annie’s sun-touched face. I recalled the man from the jewelry store in New York, and his enigmatic phrase about tilting at windmills, how his lesson had come from nowhere, not unlike the windmill itself. And Annie, too, appearing from atop that faraway hill, plucked from some magical world and dropped into mine.
    “I like your windmill very much. I’ve never seen something quite so majestic.”
    Her face lit up as though I’d complimented her, and she thanked me before we again turned our backs to each other. I was certain I could still see that smile, somewhat reluctant but spreading with an exponential warmth, which happened to mirror my own.
    I returned to my car, and by the time I drove away, Annie Sullivan had disappeared from view. So, too, had the windmill.
    But both