Of Water, Wind and Wine

Puffy purple clouds were rolling across the Oklahoma landscape, and Kyle wondered if he would finally witness a live tornado. Weather across the plains had been unpredictable all spring, not that anything on the prairie was typical. The songs of birds and calls of elk had gone silent, as if in expectation of being interrupted in their play upon the still prairie grass.

Kyle restarted the engine of the Toyota truck, a loaner from his sister, Jesse, who was undoubtedly waiting impatiently for him back at the water tower in town. He turned around on the old dirt path and headed back to Leary.

Jesse was the mayor of Leary, Oklahoma, a growing city that was named after their great grandfather, Buster Leary. Buster had settled in the community almost 90 years ago, landing in the community just before WWI. He had left the heavily-settled fields of Ireland, dragging his wife and four children to the sparsely populated Oklahoma prairie, and had promptly become a leader in the isolated little "village," as he called it.

Now, years later, two of Buster's descendants had moved back to Leary after growing up in Charlottesville; Jesse arriving after a long, protracted divorce, and Kyle, after retiring from the air force with a smart, but unremarkable record.

Kyle was proud of his sister's ability to spring back after her divorce. She was raising two sons who had become resentful toward her after their family split, and Kyle stepped in as a helpful bachelor uncle when the boys got out of hand. Jesse was deeply involved in the development of Leary, spearheading the stubborn community into expanding the industrial base while running her own business.

The ride back to town was bumpy on the dirt road, and Kyle made a mental note to nudge Jesse about the grading along the city boundaries. He disliked city politics, but did his part by keeping an eye on roads and utilities upkeep.

Building of the new water tower was a huge feather in the cap for the City of Leary. Water pressure throughout the city had become an almost dire issue. Not only were household and irrigation systems affected, but the fire department was at risk, depending on water from the old, rusty utilities about town. Kyle had stepped up to help in the design of the tower. His background in aviation engineering had been a unique skill that was scarce in the territory.

He parked in front of Jesse's restaurant, "The Mossy Rock," and walked the two hundred yards through the city park to where his sister was waiting at the tower. As usual, she was pacing with her hands in her pockets, sunglasses askew, and short brown hair flapping in the wind. But standing nearby was someone that Kyle had never seen. As he drew closer the woman turned toward him.

Her eyes were shielded by an old, dark blue baseball cap and sunglasses, but what caught his attention was her imposing posture. He sensed that she was sizing him up from head to toe, and became instantly piqued with curiosity with what she was doing here. Jesse interrupted the closing distance between them with an impatient tone in her voice. "I've been waiting 20 minutes for you. There's a storm brewing and we need to have a discussion with this lady before the clouds burst." Kyle couldn't imagine what this woman would possibly have to do with the new water tower, and inwardly rolled his eyes at his sister's rushed comment on his punctuality.

Jesse continued, "Constance, here, is an artist from Austin. The city has commissioned her to paint the water tower and I want you to walk her through the surface materials and how to access the walkways. I want this project complete by the end of fall, which gives us only five months to make this happen."

"First I've heard of this," Kyle replied shortly. "Am I donating my time for a city project, or is this a new contract that I'm being roped into?" Honestly, sometimes Jesse took his time and civic responsibility for granted. He was not a city employee, and had a demanding job as an engineering contractor for a company in nearby Holcomb. He designed airports, control towers and cell towers all over the region, and volunteer time was expensive.

“Then I think it’s up to me to pay you for your time,” the silent artist spoke up. “We need your help in estimating the scaffolding and supports to paint the tower. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking that your help will be free. I’ve dealt with enough of that in my own craft, and wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you.”

Kyle exhaled, somewhat embarrassed for appearing to be a miser in front of this new acquaintance. He extended his hand to the woman and introduced himself. “Kyle Leary, local friend of the city and sandpaper for my sister. Pardon my abrupt response.”

“Constance Whitcomb,” she grasped his hand in return. “Regional Landscape Designer and former Trapeze Artist. Just kidding. I’m just a glorified housepainter, really,” she smiled, removing her sunglasses to reveal shocking blue eyes. Kyle quickly withdrew from their quick handshake, suspicious of a woman who carried herself with such confidence. It was usually a sign of either understated arrogance or a veil for insecurity.

“Let’s grab a seat at the Mossy Rock and roll out the design,” said Jesse. “Honestly, Kyle, I’m sorry for assuming you into this project. You know that you’re my best advisor, and the tower will be a landmark over the city for years. I owe you a strawberry pie.” Kyle softened at her confidence in him, and especially over the strawberry pie. He would definitely hold her to it.

They reached the restaurant just as the storm broke. The staff was rolling back the front canvas awning, and the whiskey barrel planters seemed to cringe as the heather and marigolds bent from the heavy raindrops. People were ducking into the restaurant for protection from the wind, and within moments hail was hammering the sidewalks and roofs of parked cars. Inside the building, muted lighting added to the overall mystery of the atmosphere. Music of Celtic harps trickled from the speakers, and the scent of warm chocolate mingled with fresh bread drifted from the kitchen. Jesse had quickly forgotten their meeting and was ushering customers to booths. The place was suddenly alive with the sound of voices, people speaking their worries over crops, livestock, and property exposed to the hail.

Constance took the lead, selecting a booth near the side window, and Kyle followed. She seemed undisturbed by the storm, and even cheerful.

But Kyle was unhappy. If the storm did manage to produce a tornado, he wanted to be ready to spring, not chained to the indoors with a would-be art project. He kept a vigilant eye to the sky and drummed his fingers restlessly against his kneecap. It was nearly 6 pm and not far from sunset.

“How about a nice Irish whiskey?” Constance broke his attention from the storm. He realized that he could smell the scent of cinnamon and oranges nearby, and wondered if she was some sort of alchemist. You never could tell with artists. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was unusual in some manner, and her appearance just before this storm was a coincidence that stood out as untimely and disturbing. Kyle was scientific in practice, but the old mysticism from his ancestors still lurked in his blood. He shivered a bit from a bolt of lightning that reflected against the window.

“Thanks, no.” he said. “But I’d like to order us a bottle of merlot. The Mossy Rock is respected for the wine selection, and Jesse has even developed a private label. If you’re going to be working here in town, you should know about it’s treasures.” Constance inclined her head toward him, and he waved the waiter and placed the request. “Of course, Oklahoma is not a wine-growing state, but that doesn’t mean that we resist the gifts of California,” he smiled slightly. “I lived in Italy for nine years in the service. The wines there are excellent, but call me a patriot for choosing domestic. And that includes whiskey, as well.”

She didn’t reply, but merely smiled and nodded, and he couldn’t tell if she agreed or not.

He felt himself becoming distracted from the storm to the person in front of him, not sure if either of them would bear fruit. Kyle felt his usual guard mellow, and became curious about Constance Whitcomb. He estimated her to be in her early 30s, about ten years younger than himself. He noted that her hair was almost black, after she removed the cap from her head. It was tied in a loose band at her neck, and frizzy curls popped out in uneven waves. Her nose was red from the warmth of the booth, and for the first time he noticed that she had yellow and blue paint splotches on her lower arms. “Not a very neat painter,” Kyle thought. He began to imagine spilled paint trickling down the side of the water tower in many hues and colors, staining the clean, smooth lines with wild, accidental splashes, and explained away as “artistic interpretation.” He shuddered again, but not from the storm outside.

Kyle looked around the restaurant for Jesse, wondering if she would rescue him from having a serious discussion with this person who was probably a weirdo. The wine and two glasses arrived, along with a small platter of warm bread and butter. Kyle poured, skipping the formality of tasting first. Constance raised her glass in a subtle toast. “To art,” she said. He nearly choked on the words during his first sip, and the waiter returned with napkins and a glass of water.

“Let’s take a look at the plans,” Constance said, opening a notebook with grid paper and mechanical drawings inside. “The city council wants a design that is simple, organic, and with the town’s history in mind. I have my own ideas, but naturally, input from the locals will help carve out the idea,” she said. Kyle suddenly had images of a longhorn steer in a pasture with Irish potatoes growing nearby.

Constance studied him for a few minutes and then closed the notebook.

“I can see that you are skeptical about this project,” she said. Perhaps you would be satisfied with a nice even tone of white for the tower. That’s fair. I’ll be gathering ideas from lots of people, but let’s just restrict your input to logistics.”

Kyle settled back in his seat. “If this were a first date, it would be a major fail,” he thought.

Jesse finally slid in next to Constance, a little breathless from hurrying.

“I’m too busy now,” she said. People are pouring in and we’re short staffed. Let’s continue this meeting tomorrow at five.”

“Can’t meet again till next week,” said Kyle. “I’ll be back on Thursday. I’ll be prepared to give you a list of scaffolding dimensions, angles of approach for cranes, and even the length of bungee cords, if that’s what you want,” he said. Without another word, he slid from the booth, left cash on the table and went out into the storm.

His home was about a half-mile away, on the very outskirts of town, and he was on foot. Kyle buttoned his denim jacket, shoved his hands into his jeans, and walked home amidst the heavy rain and thunder. It didn’t take long for the standing water on the sidewalks to seep through his boots, but he didn’t mind. Rain was precious here. The short-lived hail had melted quickly, and he hoped that the local farms and towers had not sustained damage. Always the towers.

Kyle felt bad about walking out of the restaurant in front of Jesse and Constance Whitcomb. He could feel his sister raising an eyebrow at him from this distance, and that he probably made a bad impression on the new artist. In spite of himself, he was curious about her, and even looked forward to meeting her again. He tucked these thoughts away and cast his attention to the storm, which seemed to be abruptly interrupted. Judging from the feel of the atmosphere, he knew there was more to come, and he hurried his steps to home.

Five minutes later, standing at the end of his long gravel driveway, Kyle saw a tornado touch ground just at sunset. It was a mile away, and seemed to be moving toward Leary from the opposite side of town. Suddenly, sirens around town began to scream, and Kyle jumped into his jeep and headed straight to Jesse’s home, where the boys were probably scared out of their wits. He called Jesse on her cell, told her to stay at the restaurant, and that he was headed toward the boys.

One year later. The new water tower was rebuilt after being destroyed by the tornado. It was strange that the rest of the town saw little damage from that storm, and hardly anyone was hurt.

The tower had been a huge loss, and the damage had been almost complete on the above-ground portion. But the insurance had fortunately paid off. The rebuilding had commenced almost immediately. Once again, Kyle was at the start of the engineering of the project, this time with even more respect to resilience to high winds.

Kyle was returning from a contract job in South Korea, which had kept him away for the last six months. He had flown in to Oklahoma City and was making his way to Leary by interstate. His imagination took him to what the replaced tower would look like with the new painted design that Jesse had been bragging about by long distance. She had stubbornly kept drawings and photos from him, telling him that Constance Whitcomb had hit upon artwork for the tower that was incredibly appropriate for the history, landscape and future of the community. In fact, Jesse bragged, Constance had decided to re-settle in Leary, bringing with her a new gallery of respected American artists, no less.

Kyle was nearing the city of Leary on this clear, late summer afternoon. He cleared a long, rolling hill and the community stretched before him on the horizon. The sun was setting behind the water tower, and he couldn’t immediately see it through the glare.

Kyle took the last exit which brought him adjacent to the tower, and turned left for a full view of Leary’s new water tower. It was a massive swirl of painted blue wind. On a creamy ivory background. In the shape of a tornado.