On Windmills

“Don’t ever ask me to do that again!”

Jim heard the message: “Loud and clear, bro! Loud and clear!”

“I’ve never seen him so angry” he would later confide to Dorothy. “It is as though the whole thing was some sort of violation of his person.”

Jim was one of those poor souls who always meant well. Kind to a fault, his endeavours were sometimes not well chosen; the outcomes, not always as planned.

Dorothy knew that well. It had been a pattern over their marriage: Jim would throw his heart and soul into causes – often lost – and, often – but not always – things would turn sour. She had long ago lost any sense of frustration at this pattern. She loved Jim and that was that.

In high school Jim had been what the other boys called ‘a chick magnet’. He was tall, slim and good looking and with a natural wave in his hair that all the young women envied.

Everything about Jim was an open book. From his posture to his gentle voice, the dignified way he treated everyone – especially women – and yes, his huge capacity for empathy, all made Jim naturally attractive. For Dorothy, it was his warm, huge heart that convinced her.

“For the girls in my year, Jim was a safe person to be with; an honest guy who was good to be around. For me, though, it was his vulnerability. He gave totally of himself to everyone in every conversation. He made everyone he met feel important, including me.”

She looked at him. He was hurting; hurting bad. Dale was his life-long pal and he’d done it again; led him down a dead-end; a cul de sac of pain instead of gain.

Jim looked at the floor. Crestfallen, he sat open legged in their kitchen, leaning forward, sobbing. An occasional tear dripped to the tiled floor.

“Jim! Jim! Look at me!” Dorothy cradled his face and lifted it to her gaze. She was crying too. Not for this turn of events and not for the many others before them or to come, but simply out of concern; her gaze of love willing somehow to draw Jim’s pain away from him and to herself.

She gave him courage. She always had. He had always known that. He let her eyes soothe him in the depths of his soul. Gratitude brought another wave of tears as he wondered where he might have ended up if not with her.

“I love you, Dot!” Of all the ‘what-ifs’ and his thoughts of Dale; of all the turns he might have made, all the decisions along the way that might have avoided this crash, nothing mattered now. The love of his life filled his vision; there was nothing else to say.

Dot smiled as she stroked his hair. She adored this man, this good man. What others saw or experienced as failure in him, she saw as virtue. The world needs dreamers, dreamers who put flesh on the bones of their dreams and make hope real. ‘The world needs more Jims’ she thought.

Dorothy ended the uneasy silence: “Jim, you know Dale will be fine.”

“I suppose so” said Jim trying to convince himself.

Since Kinder, Dale and Jim had been inseparable. Their childhood games would always feature one or the other in a lead role in some fantastic adventure; their imaginings so vivid that all the neighbourhood children would always want to join in.

As they grew older summer holidays were spent looking after others. Making billycarts for the younger ones to race or organising to spruce up Mrs. Stedman’s garden, there was always a project of some sort to occupy the long daylight hours.

In high school, after a term of studying Cervantes, their peers would playfully call them ‘Don and Sancho’ whenever they would develop some scheme or another.

Jim knew deep down that Dorothy was right; Dale was not about to walk away from his life-long friend. The three of them had grown so close, so intertwined and interdependent.

“Coffee Dale?” A familiar face at the backdoor on a routine Saturday morning. Jim shook with delight at Dot’s words. There he was; like clockwork – so reliable.

“Any more bloody windmills today, Don?” said Dale. “No, none today, Sancho!”