C
HAPTER
10
Even though I'd called the farmhouse home since September, my New York friend John Oliver never called me there, opting instead to phone me at George's Tavern. I had a cell phone, but it was really only used for emergencies. Linden Corners wasn't a bastion of modernity. John knew when he could catch me; usually the call came during the day while Janey was at school and I was doing upkeep at the bar. Which meant the company he theoretically worked for was picking up the tab for the call. He could talk for as long as he wanted. Ten o'clock that Monday morning, it appeared John had all the time in the world to spare. I'd just arrived at the bar, leaving the box of Christmas decorations on the bar to answer the phone.
“Corporate drone, that's all I am. They expect me to wake up after a whole weekend of partying and playing and just start working right away? Clock strikes nine, get to work. I don't think so,” John was saying, his usual mantra. When I offered up no response, he asked, rhetorically, “I mean, whatever happened to easing into your workweek? Checking the scores from the night before?”
I answered anyway. “Maybe you should ask them if you can have Mondays off.”
“Nah, sounds good in practice, but that would only mean I'd have to go through the same ordeal every Tuesday,” he said matter-of-factly. My friend, so practical. “Man, Brian, it's just mornings, they're killers. I can't imagine what it's like to get up to milk cows before the sun comes up. How do you do it, farmer boy?”
He was convinced that, because I lived in a farmhouse, I had chickens and cows and all sorts of barnyard animals running around. He had yet to visit me here, not that I had extended any invitation. Janey Sullivan was not ready to meet John Oliver, and vice versa. Still, it was nice to know John hadn't changed at all since I'd left New York.
We chatted back and forth for a good twenty minutes on any number of topics, and when things shifted to the week's coming forecast, I informed John that I had work to do. “Is there a point to this phone call?”
“You slay me, man. Can't a friend just call his friend? Okay, well, you got me. Look, I was wondering, am I going to see you this month? You know, are you coming down to the city anytime soon? I mean, it's been too long. We gotta go for some beers, like we always did.”
Frankly, I hadn't given a trip to the city any thought. I had closed the chapter of my life that was New York City months ago, and aside from occasional thoughts of its steel canyons and its crazy pace and its memories, both good and bad, the city that had once kept my pulse racing had faded away to life support. Another life, experienced a lifetime ago. Still, I had to wonder why John was asking about a visit. I decided a direct approach would get me off the phone faster.
“I'm in love,” he announced.
Good thing I wasn't cleaning a beer glass when he made that pronouncement, or I might just be picking up shards of glass from the floor. “You want to repeat that? I think we've got a bad connection.”
“Hey, it happens to you all the time, Bri, why not me?”
“Because you're the kind of guy who thinks love is a four-letter word.”
“That part hasn't changed,” he replied with a knowing smile I could somehow visualize.
“That's not exactly what I meant.”
“Brian, you have no idea, she's amazing. Come on, drop on down this way for a weekend. We'll revisit all the old haunts, maybe even find you a nice girl . . .”
“You're forgetting one thing.”
“What's that?”
“I've got a girl already. A certain eight-year-old named Janey,” I said. “John, I can't just go running off to New York for a buddy weekend. I have responsibilities, people who count on me, and I'm not just talking about Janey. As it is, she and I only get one day a week to ourselves and that's precious time . . .” Suddenly a random thought popped into my mind, cutting off my own speech. I considered my idea quickly while silence ate up the phone line between us. Then I said, “What are you doing next Sunday?”
“This coming Sunday? I don't know, it's only Monday.”
“Keep it free.”
“Yes! We going barhopping?”
“Not at all. You say you're in love? I need proof, that's for sure. I want to meet this woman who has transformed your life. And John, I want you to meet the one who changed mine. Though mine is an eight-year-old girl who will charm your socks off.”
“Mine charms off more than that,” he said.
“Okay, no comment like that ever again. Please.”
Still, John's juvenile joke reassured me that his proclamation of love hadn't affected his foul sense of humor. We talked a few more minutes about possible scenarios for the coming weekend's visit and then we signed off with a laugh, John getting in one last dig about the farmer lifestyle he thought I'd adapted to.
“I am not a farmer,” I exclaimed into the phone. It was no use, he'd hung up already, no doubt already dialing another friend. Heck, it wasn't yet noon, how could he be expected to be working?
As for me, there was a lot of work ahead of me, notably the Christmas decorations to be hung around the outside of the tavern. I grabbed the box from the edge of the bar, headed out to the porch where I'd already set up the ladder, leaving the staple gun on the top step. Buttoning up against the cold air, I began the task at hand. There were plenty of lights, and after an hour's work I had barely made a dent in stringing them along the building's perimeter. An assistant would have been helpful, but Mark was busy at his other job today. I would have taken anyone at this point, as long as they had previous experience. Something I lacked. At one point I found myself tangled in a mess of wires and when I tried to clear myself, I only made more of a mess of the situation. In other words, I lost my footing on the ladder and fell to the snow-covered ground. Quickly I brushed myself off and resumed my holiday work, glad no one had seen what had just transpired. A few minutes later cars started to pull into the parking lot of the Five-O across the street. I realized it was lunchtime. I'd been working for a couple of hours. I put down the staple gun, locked up the tavern, and walked over to the diner, where I took a stool at the front counter.
“Hey, Brian, sorry you stopped putting up those lights of yours,” Martha said, stifling a laugh, “though we did have to get back to work. You put on a good showâlots of comedy.”
So much for no one witnessing my tumble from the ladder.
“Gee, didn't know you were that bored, Martha.”
“Oh, anything for a laugh,” she said.
“I know what you mean, I certainly don't come here for the cooking.”
I heard a series of chortles from the other customers, from Sara, too, who was pouring me a cup of coffee.
“Good one, Bri,” she said.
Martha, feigning injury to her chef's pride, turned her back to me. It wasn't often someone got the best of her and as good-natured as she was, she still wouldn't admit I'd finally gotten one over on her. She returned to the kitchen, and Sara put in my order for a cheese and mushroom omelet. Ten minutes later Martha emerged from the kitchen with a steaming plate of food and set it before me, grinning as she did so.
“Come on, Windmill Man, take a bite.”
“Should I trust you?” I asked kiddingly. I ate anyway while Martha stood nearby, watching me.
After I'd taken a few safe bites, she leaned in and said, “So, Brian, you're setting up the Christmas lights just like George did; does this mean you'll be hosting the annual party, too?”
I chewed, anxious to get my question out. “What party?” “Week before Christmas, George Connors would open up the Corner for any and all, play Santa to all us needyâand thirstyâchildren. Heck, it's a Linden Corners tradition. Gerta sets out a nice buffet, something I always appreciated since it gave me a day off from cooking. Can't tell you how many First Friday celebrations I was serving up meals at two in the morning after the close of his summer party. You drink a few, you get hungry, that's the way it goes. But the Christmas party at the Corner, it ain't Christmas without it.”
“First I've heard of it,” I said. “Gerta never said a word. I was just there last night.”
Martha shrugged. “Who knows? We've seen a lot of change this year in our fair village, so maybe Gerta wants to move on.”
I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. We'd all lost people we'd loved, their deaths tragic, sorrowful, remorseful. And as difficult as loss was, at this time of year you couldn't help but recall them with a greater intensity. I was an expert at such feelings; it was part of the Duncan family, too. I wouldn't have expected Gerta to feel the same and was surprised that she had failed to mention the Christmas party to me. Wouldn't it be her way of remembering George by resurrecting one of his time-honored ways?
“Maybe a party is just what we all need,” I said to Martha. She nodded in agreement.
“ 'Tis the season,” Sara said, refilling my coffee cup.
“Just don't say anything to anyone, not just yet,” I asked them both.
“Not a word,” Martha agreed.
“But if we don't tell anyone, how will anyone know to come?” Sara asked.
“For now. Let me do the telling,” I said, explaining that I wanted to first run the idea past Gerta anyway. She might have had her own reasons for not speaking up about George's traditions. If she wanted to skip the party this year, I would respect her wishes.
I polished off my meal, leaving nary a crumbâ“nothing for the mice,” Martha liked to jokeâand returned to the tavern, where, inspired by the spreading of holiday cheer, I attacked those darn lights with a vengeance. Before long they were all up, lining the porch and the outer trim of the old house. It had been a major undertaking, and thankfully I had accomplished it before the sun had gone down. I had an hour to wait, actually, before true darkness fell and I did so with great impatience, ready to see my handiwork brightly displayed. At four thirty, as night began to fall, the colorful lights went on across at the Five-O, at the bank, and down the street by Marla and Darla's Trading Post. Linden Corners was suddenly a burst of reds and greens and oranges and blues, silver, gold, a holiday rainbow that shimmered against a black sky. I was just ready to contribute to the village's holiday glow when a car pulled into the parking lot, tires crunching in the snow. It was Gerta.
“Oh good,” she announced. “I'm not too late.”
“I was just about to flick the switch,” I told her. “Unless you'd like to do the honors.”
“It's your bar,” she said.
“So all decisions are mine?”
“Certainly, Brian.”
I ran inside, quickly flipping the switch. Gerta's gleeful exclamation called to me. I dashed out, backing up to the sidewalk where Gerta now stood in full appreciation. So it was there that she and I admired the explosion of color that encircled George's Tavern, reborn with the glow of a new life, new light.
“It's beautiful, Brian, like nothing has changed. See, it's just as we discussed last night, traditions cannot be denied. They take on a power all their own. You've brought back George's spirit, and I appreciate it so much. In fact, there's this other tradition George had . . .”
“And I hope you'll be able to make it,” I said.
Gerta smiled and I hugged her. I sent a silent thank-you across the street Martha's way. It was true; everyone in Linden Corners seemed to look out for one another, and this was just one more example of our extended family hard at work. As the Christmas lights shed bright, colorful shadows upon the snow, a silver tear trickled down Gerta's cheek.
“The Corner Christmas party lives on. Oh my, Brian, I guess I have some cooking to do,” she said happily, anticipation energizing her smile.
C
HAPTER
11
Our good friends Cynthia and Bradley Knight lived half a mile away from the Sullivan farmhouse, just up Crestview Road on a farm of their own. They grew a wide assortment of fruits and vegetables and sold them (in season) at their stand located just on the outskirts of Linden Corners. It was Wednesday, just two days after I'd put up the decorations at the tavern, and I had been busy shopping for gifts. I had instructed Janey to go to Cynthia's after school, promising to pick her up when I was done with my errands.
“Why can't you wait till school is over and take me with you?” Janey had asked that morning.
“Because I'm going Christmas shopping,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, and tried not to giggle. She failed. “For me, yay, for me!”
Well, that was the truth, and by the time six in the evening rolled around, I thought I had accomplished a good deal. So I headed home, stopping at Cynthia's to pick up Janey. Bradley was working late and wouldn't be there for another two hours. I found Cynthia and Janey concocting a casserole in the kitchen, and I readily accepted the invite to dinner. We ate happily, Janey inquiring about my shopping spree. I remained mum. She didn't really want to know what I'd bought; she could wait. Still, she was an eight-year-old girl and thus had to act like one. Afterward, Janey went to the living room to watch television, leaving me a moment alone with Cynthia.
“Kids,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What is it about Christmas with them?”
“You don't remember.”
“I never had a kid before.”
“Brian, I meant you. You were a kid once.”
“Okay, good point. Yeah, I used to drive my mother crazy, I'd try and find all her hiding spots. One year I did, found my big gift stuffed in the back of the bedroom closet. Christmas morning was a total letdown,” I said. “What about you, were you an impossible girl?”
“Let's just say my mother said she'd get her revenge one day.”
I didn't understand and said so.
“When I have to deal with my own kids,” she said. “You're kinda thickheaded tonight, aren't you, Bri? Everything okay? Something bothering you?”
I looked away a moment. Then I turned back and said, “Everything okay with Janey today?”
“Why wouldn't it be?”
Okay, might as well get her perspective and insight. “We've had a couple of difficult nights, that's all. A bit of attitude in her tone, asserting her independence. This coming holiday season, Cyn, I'm guess I'm just worried about her. She and Annie shared so much, I don't think I can possibly live up to their Christmas memories. And as much fun as I had today buying her gifts, they're just trinkets. The real spirit of the holiday may just elude us.”
“Oh, that's where I think you're wrong,” said Cynthia. She shushed me while she peeked around the corner. Janey was watching the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. “All day long, Janey kept asking me what she could get you for Christmas. Something special, she kept sayingâher words. She was quite insistent. I had a quick doctor's appointment; Janey came with me. Then afterward we stopped at Marla and Darla's. Janey spent so much time in the card section, looking at ornaments and such. Oops, I promised Janey I wouldn't spoil the surprise . . . well, I haven't given anything away. Just don't go peeking inside her closet.” She patted my arm. “Brian, you've done a remarkable job with Janey these past few months, and she knows it. So don't worry about Christmas. Just keep doing what you've been doing; that's the best gift of all.”
So Janey had been looking at tree ornaments at the store. For a second I contemplated telling Cynthia my fears about the missing ornament and then thought better of it. Explaining the situation would require explaining its significance, and I wasn't prepared to get into that story, not now.
So instead the three of us watched the remainder of the Christmas special together, Janey clapping at the iceskaters, and once the big tree at 30 Rock had been lit, I gathered her into my arms and we left Cynthia's warm home. As Janey hopped into the car, I turned back to Cynthia.
“You said doctor's appointment. Everything okay with you?”
“Brian, do you really want to start learning about certain women's needs?”
“Uh, no, not yet,” I said, and then giving her a quick peck on the cheek, I thanked her again for watching after Janey and returned to my car.
On the quick ride back to the farmhouse Janey kept stealing looks into the empty backseat. Puzzlement covered her face.
“You were gone a long time, Brianâwhere are the packages ?”
“In the trunk, silly,” I said. “I see I'm going to have to find a good hiding place, so you don't accidentally on purpose uncover them before Christmas.”
“Brian, you can't do something accidentally on purpose.”
“Oh, I think you could,” I said, which made her giggle.
I left the packages in the trunk and joined Janey inside. It was already past nine, so I told her to get ready for bed. A few minutes later I went upstairs, found her already tucked in bed and reading a book to her frog. I sat on the bed's edge, smoothing her hair out of her eyes.
“How can you read with your hair covering your eyes?”
“It's not a very good book,” she said.
“So why not read something else?”
“Because, Brian, I started this book and I have to finish it. Because that's what you do, you finish what you started.”
It was good advice.
“Well, don't read too long, tomorrow's a school day.”
As I readied to leave a few minutes later, Janey said, “I know where you can hide my gifts.”
“Where is that?”
“Inside the windmill. That's what Momma used to do, every year. She would tell me the windmill was off-limits from Thanksgiving to Christmas. âYou never know what kind of project I'm working on, Janey.' That's what she would tell me. I remember, because even if I sledded down the hill and got too close to the windmill she would remind me of our deal. So go ahead if you want, Brian, it's another tradition.”
“It certainly is, thanks, Janey.”
I kissed her good night, shut off the light, and then wandered downstairs. As I fixed myself a cup of tea, I thought of Janey's suggestion. Wondered if it was less a suggestion and more a passive-aggressive command on her part. Whichever, I decided that's what I would do. I checked on Janey, who was sound asleep, and then, feeling like I could spare a quick fifteen minutes, I snuck outside into the cold night, gathered up the three large packages, and carried them from the driveway and through the field to the windmill. The sails were silent on this calm evening. I opened the door and set the bags down on the ground floor. Should I just leave them here in the corner, or was there a better hiding place? Then I remembered the closet upstairs in Annie's old art studio. So I wound my way up the circular staircase, the bags bulky in my arms. But eventually I stuffed them into the closet, closing the door with just enough room to spare. Then I impulsively sat down on Annie's stool.
Not much had changed inside the studio. Annie's easel was still set up, though no canvas adorned it. Her paints were laid out, though capped. Dried brushes occupied a jelly jar on the shelf. Surrounded by these tools that had revealed the inner workings of Annie's heart, I was suddenly enveloped by her presence. This room was special, as it was the first place Annie and I had made love, where we had poured out our troubles, where we had bonded over mutual sorrow, mutual betrayal, and later, mutual healing. In this room we had tried to forge a future.
Common sense told me I should return to the farmhouse, but I was caught up in the moment, allowing Annie's spirit to seep beneath my skin. I didn't want to let go; so little time had passed since she'd left us, but in other ways it had seemed an eternity. Being responsible for Janey, it was by far the most demanding role of my life, and also the most rewarding. I had wished for Annie and me and Janey to be one and instead I'd had to settle for the knowledge that not all wishes are granted. My desires, though, meant nothing. Everything was about Janey.
Wiping away a tear that had crept out of my eye, I stood from Annie's stool, walked to the cabinet where she had stored her paintings. She had loved to paint the windmill over and over again, and had even given me one of them. As I flipped through several of the canvases, I smiled at the memory of first seeing these wonderful landscapes. How shy Annie had been, how modest she'd been of her talent. Before I realized it, I had settled onto the floor and was going through each of the drawers, coming upon many paintings, sketches, and pencil drawings that I had never seen before. I had never felt the need or the desire to intrude upon her secrets, sensing that I was going where I wasn't welcome. These represented Annie's past, her life before I had accidentally (on purpose?) stumbled into it. One painting in particular caused my heart to skip a beat, and that tear that I had wiped away earlier returned, this time bringing others with it.
In the bottom drawer I'd found a family portrait, Annie and her husband, Dan, and in the middle of them was an infant Janey, probably no more than three months old. Just like the photographs I had discovered in the attic last week, here now was further proof of the daunting task before me. Janey had once belonged to a loving family, a whole family, and circumstances, maybe destiny, had taken that from her, leaving her alone in the world, except for me. Was I constantly to be haunted by these memories, by all that Janey had lost? The past was a place you couldn't avoid, the littlest reminiscence able to spark them into the present. Like a painting, a ceramic windmill, even a shiny glass ornament. How was I supposed to respond to these memories? Try and hide them from her as a way of protecting her? Or was I just protecting myself, avoiding the pain? My own history claimed me as an expert at avoiding issues.
That's what I did, at least for now. I returned the portrait to the drawer, closed it to my eyes, though not my mind. Then I closed off the windmill, too, locking the door behind me as I retreated back up the snowy hill. Once I returned to the farmhouse, a surprising sight awaited me. Janey was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, clutching at her stuffed purple frog.
“Hey, Janey, what's wrong?”
“You weren't here.”
“Oh, honey, I'm sorry,” I said, immediately going to her side. “I went to put away the gifts and wasn't planning on being gone long. I guess time got away from me. But, Janey, you were sound asleepâand you never wake up once that happens.”
She nodded her head slowly. “I know, but, well, I felt bad, Brian, that's why I couldn't sleep. I keep telling you these things, you know, ways Momma and I celebrated Christmas. But maybe you have your own ways of doing things. You don't have to hide the gifts in the windmill, and you don't have to chop down a tree for me, it's okay. I'll be fine.”
“No, no, Janey, that's the last thing I want. I want to do what makes you happy. I enjoy learning about your Christmas traditions,” I said, my mind blown by what she'd revealed. Here I had let slip my responsibilities by getting lost in the past, leaving her alone, and she was apologizing to me. I hugged her tight, trying to figure out a way I could take back my mistake. And then an idea came to me. “I'll tell you what, Janey, if it will make you feel better, how about I show you some of my holiday traditions?”
Her eyes brightened. “Like what?”
“Well, remember that big tree in New York we just saw being lit on the television?”
“Yes?”
“How would you like to see it for real?”
“That big tree, really?”
“It's where I used to liveâNew York City. I saw it every year when I lived there,” I said. “So what do you say?”
She didn't answer immediately, but then said, “Can we go ice-skating?”
“Janey Sullivan, we can do anything you want to do,” I said, silently adding that I would do anything for her. No matter what.