C
HAPTER
9
Gerta, it seemed, was having a busy Sunday. As I turned the car into the snow-coated driveway, the porch light was suddenly turned on, bathing two figures in a soft glow. Gerta was easily discernible, the man less so. His familiar figure was hunched over, and as he moved slowly down the steps, his face became visible. A quick embrace of Gerta, then he headed toward the other parked car in the driveway. I pulled in right beside his, shut off the engine. As I suspected, it was Father Eldreth Burton, the quiet-voiced, longtime pastor of St. Matthew's Church and a good friend of the Connors family. Actually, to most families within the friendly confines of Linden Corners, the Sullivans notable among them. Janey and I hopped out of the car just in time to say a quick hello.
“Ah, Miss Janey, and how are you on this fine snowy Sunday?”
“Fine.”
“I didn't see you at mass today,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance.
Janey gave me one, too. Both of them looking to me for an explanation. Okay, my fault. Her sleepover at Ashley's had not included church, and frankly, I had forgotten. So I offered up an apology. “Next week, we promise,” I said.
“Let's not forget the reason for this very giving of seasons,” Father Burton said. “But I know how busy a time it can be, especially with young, excitable children. As long as we see you Christmas Eve for the children's pageantâwouldn't be the same without your smiling face, Miss Janey.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Good night, Brian. Good night, Miss Janey.”
The old pastor headed off, his taillights like glowing Christmas ornaments encased in the floating darkness. We went inside, out of the cold. Gerta greeted us with kisses, and then got us settled inside her comfortable home.
Gerta Connors lived on the far side of the village of Linden Corners, a good two miles away from the farmhouse, in a white clapboard house she had shared for nearly fifty years with her husband, George. It was a home that had seen four girls grow from infants to adults to parents themselves, all while surrounded by lots of love and some of the best cooking and baking I've ever tasted. Tonight was no exception, as Gerta prided herself on her home-cooked meals and her warm brand of love. As she explained, “I don't get much opportunity these days to whip up something special, so I welcome the chance to cook for others. I extended an offer to Father Burton, but he begged off, claiming another invitation, which may or may not be true.”
“What was he doing here?” I asked, suddenly concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Of course, I'm fine, Brian. We were discussing the annual St. Matthew's holiday fund-raiser. George was such an early supporter of those events, and Father Burton wanted to know if this year I would like to be included. So kind of him. But that's for another time. For now, we eat.”
She had made a turkey breast with stuffing and vegetables, and said for dessert there was a fresh-baked strawberry pie, her summer specialty and one of my new favorite sweets. Folks in Linden Corners, they knew their pies. Annie had learned her peach pie from Gerta.
“It's like Thanksgiving all over again,” Janey said.
I think the choice of meal had been deliberate on Gerta's part. Upon returning from Philadelphia, I gave her the details of the Duncan family holiday, and as a result I think she wanted to give Janey a chance to celebrate a Thanksgiving meal in a place that was closer to her mother's heart. The only fact I had kept from Gerta was the monetary gift from my father. No one other than my parents and I knew about it, and I preferred to keep it that way. So, grace said, drinks served, we feasted on food and company and the welcome feeling of a blended family. After dinner I helped clean up, while Janey went into the living room to watch
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
on DVD. That gave me and Gerta an opportunity to talk.
“How are you doing?” I asked, drying a pan.
“Oh, Brian, you know me. I get by.”
“With a little help from your friends,” I said, realizing such a sentiment applied to us both. “That's the good thing about Linden Corners, we can't help but look out for one another. I don't know what I'd do without you all, you and Cynthia and Bradley. Heck, even Markâhaving him take some of my hours down at the tavern has made a huge difference. Janey and I, we need that extra time together.”
“Of course you do,” Gerta said with authority. “Now, Brian, be honest with me, are you making enough money at the bar, you know, to be paying Mark? I know you're not paying him a lot and you rely on tips a lot, but you've got such responsibilities now. It's not just the amount of time you spend with Janey, but how you can provide for her.”
“Now you sound just like my father,” I said, deciding it might be a good idea to share what he'd done for me. Get a second opinion on what I should do with all that money. “My father gave me a check at Thanksgiving, said it was his way of helping.”
She nodded. Said nothing.
“What aren't you saying?”
“I don't want to know how much,” she said.
“Yes, you do.”
“Fine, I do. But not because the amount is important. It's the reason behind it.”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“Wowâthat's very generous.”
“But I don't want to accept it, Gerta. I realize what a help it would be, but . . .”
She said nothing again. I hated it when she did that. She waited for me to answer my own question.
“I'll figure out what's right.”
She pointed toward Janey. “You always do.”
“Okay, but what to do about the check can wait until after the holidays,” I said. “Then I'll start to figure out what the future holds. You know, New Year, new life, all that stuff about resolutions. Maybe this year it's time to make some and actually keep them. I've thought that I need to find myself some additional form of employment with more regular hours and better pay. The question daunting me is what to doâand where. Don't get me wrong, Gerta, I love running the bar, and I enjoy the sense of freedom it affords me. But in reality, it's probably not the most suitable long-term solution given the current circumstances.”
Gerta finished loading the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, then poured soap into the dispenser. “Has Janey said anything about it?”
“No. But I'm not sure she would. Janey's a constant marvel ; some days I'm amazed at how composed she is. Still, she's a kid and she reacts like one. If something's bothering her, she's more apt to shut down. She reacts by not reacting. Last night, she had her first sleepover since . . . since Annie died, and all night long, both at the bar and when I returned home, I couldn't concentrate on anything, not the customers or on falling asleep. Alone in the farmhouse, I never felt more like an intruder. I think part of me was waiting for the phone to ring, and it would be Ashley's mother asking that I come and get Janey. Or hoping it would ring. But the call never came, and I can't figure out whether I was glad or sad.”
“I think you didn't like rattling around that farmhouse all by yourself.”
“I kept the bar open until two a.m., got home after three.”
“Oh, Brian. Avoidance never solved anything.”
We had finished with the dishes and Janey was absorbed in the movie, so Gerta escorted me upstairs to the attic so I could find the decorations I'd originally come for. My second attic visit of the day, this trip went quicker because I was left to my own devices and easily found the cardboard box marked
CORNER X-MAS
. There was no history lesson behind its discovery. I carried the box downstairs and loaded it into my trunk, returning to the kitchen to find coffee and slices of strawberry pie set out on plates. Janey ate hers in front of the televisionâthe movie headed into its final half hour. So I sat opposite Gerta at the kitchen table. I took that first bite, allowing the sweet berry flavor to burst inside my mouth, the luscious juice taking me back to the tastes of summer. Pictures flashed of the Memorial Day picnic that had signaled an upward change in my burgeoning relationship with Annie. Gerta noticed the smile on my face and said, “You're welcome.” I had a second slice.
“You know, Gerta, I could use some help at the tavern tomorrowâduring the daytime. Martha Martinson's been giving me such a hard time about the bar's lack of decorations, and I've got to get them up as soon as possible. Maybe you can show me the way George used to hang the lights. I want the bar to be decorated on the outside just like he did.”
“If you like,” she said, a surprisingly noncommittal response for her. When I called her on it, she confessed that too much of our lives were already mired in the past. That's why they call it tomorrow, she said. “So decorate the bar the way you want, Brian, it's yours.”
“No, Gerta,” I said, shaking my head. “I'm merely the barkeep. Hired help.”
“You're not merely anything, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through.”
I laughed at the mention of the old nickname I'd been given this summer. An ironic name for sure. “Hey, that name's been retired.”
“Nothing's ever retired, Brian,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “Things, events, they just lie dormant, waiting for the right time to come back. Like spring, it'll be back.”
“After a long winter.”
“Yes. Winter's Just Passing Through.”
“Like traditions,” I said, my mind suddenly flashing back to my own family. My parents and their desire to spend Christmas away from their fancy new home. My sister, Rebecca, who seemed equally adrift during the holidays, running from relationship to relationship, the years passing but the men somehow growing younger. And what of myselfâwas I ready to leave behind all the traditions I had known, those that had helped shape me? I thought of the ornament that was mysteriously missing, and that unlocked in my memory bank pictures of my brother, Philip. He'd been the oldest of the three Duncan children, twelve years senior to me, an older brother to look up to. A championship athlete, he had had the world at his feet.
Gerta was right, as always, nothing goes away forever. Not things we think we lost, that we forgot. Certainly not memories, they rise back to the surface when you least expect them.
“You still with us, Brian?”
I looked up and found Gerta staring at me. “Yes, sorry. I was daydreaming.”
Janey had just entered the kitchen with her dirty plate when she heard what I said. “It's nighttime, Brian, you can't daydream at night.”
Gerta just chuckled. “Out of the mouths of babes,” she said.
We did the last of the dishes and thanked Gerta for her warm hospitality and wonderful food, and then bade her good night. As we left her driveway, I paused, took a look at the quiet house. Gerta lived alone, a widow, and I hoped she found comfort in her solitude.
Janey and I returned home shortly after nine o'clock and she fell fast asleep, exhausted from our very full day and even fuller meal. I retired to the living room, where my eyes rested upon the bright, ceramic windmill I'd taken down from the attic. Again, my mind whirled with thoughts, not unlike a windmill's sails, thinking about Janey and about the wonderful day we had shared, about how the two of us had seemingly leaped over the hump that had impeded us this past week. And then I thought about Annie. I could feel her spirit with the mere presence of the windmill. I sat for hours, just thinking, planning, wondering. Always worried about the next day, anticipating what tomorrow might bring. It dawned on me that nothing ever goes as planned, not tomorrow, not holidays, not our lives or the lives of the children who inspire us. I had to just let things happen as they happened.
I flicked off the lamp beside the sofa, but I left on the small light inside the windmill. Annie's spirit, glowing against the walls.
That night, I slept better, feeling as though there were two Sullivans within these walls.
But only one Duncan.