The singing trees, p.17
The Singing Trees, page 17
The first try was beyond embarrassing; someone could have fit a motorcycle between her and the curb. Her nerves fired at the possibility of finally finding a place, and this parking challenge didn’t help matters at all. The second try was a little better but still way off the mark. Maybe you could squeeze a moped in the space between. She pulled ahead and attempted, as Thomas had taught her, to line up her tires with those of the armored car. A line of cars piled up behind her, forcing her heart into overdrive.
On the third attempt, as the particularly angry driver in the sedan pressed on his horn while simultaneously yelling out the window something that sounded like, “Take the bus!” Annalisa committed to doing it right. She matched up the tires, swung the steering wheel all the way right, then eased backward. She tasted a bit of confidence as she watched through the rearview mirror and saw that she’d finally done it. Thomas would have been proud, and for an instant she heard his voice from the passenger seat, urging her on. There you go, Anna. Take your time.
His voice echoed into the emptiness in her chest, making her long for him. If only he could be here.
The driver behind her slammed on his brakes and held the horn down, turning her memory of Thomas into a ball of flames. Love was so damn messy! Burning with frustration, she decided to stop the car to collect herself. Forget the obnoxious jerk and his stupid horn!
With too much force, she pressed down the wrong pedal, reversing directly into the fancy blue car. Her head slammed into the back of the seat as the sound of metal on metal tore at her ears.
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, quickly moving out of reverse and pulling away from the car. With the Beetle sticking out into the middle of the street, she pulled the brake and stepped out of the car.
Without a lick of compassion, the asshole driver behind her sped past with an ugly shake of the head. Annalisa couldn’t stop from giving him back a five-fingered flick off the chin, followed by a string of Italian that could have come straight from Nonna.
As the other cars passed by, she inspected the damage. The blue car’s hood read PLYMOUTH in big silver letters. Showing only a long scratch in the bumper, the car had fared much better than Thomas’s Beetle, which had a huge indentation to the right of the shattered rear taillight.
Annalisa knew next to nothing about cars and absolutely zilch about getting them fixed, but the first thing that came to mind as she picked up the pieces of her scattered thoughts was that this accident was an omen, telling her that she’d screwed up everything, that maybe she shouldn’t even be here—certainly not after betraying him. And then the money it would cost—there went her savings.
She glanced down the street, searching for her destination. Part of her wanted to get back in the car and return home. Who was she kidding, an eighteen-year-old from the Mills trying to make something of herself? Was it a sign from up high for her to go back to where she belonged? And why in the world had she taken Thomas’s car in the first place? What a fool she was.
Glancing at her Timex, Annalisa decided she still needed to make her meeting with her potential landlord. First, though, she had to figure out what to do about the damage. Considering the Plymouth was only scratched, she decided it would be best to avoid the police and an insurance claim. Jumping back into the driver’s seat, she finished parking. It turned out she was much less nervous after the damage had been done. She wrote a quick note with Nonna’s phone number on it to the owner of the Plymouth and then placed it on the windshield. She cringed at what Nonna might think, but what could she do now?
Trying to forget what had happened, she wandered along Congress Street and followed the addresses until she found her destination. On a small brown awning above a large display of fancy watches and clocks read: WALT BURZINSKI’S WATCH AND CLOCK REPAIR. The three-story brick building seemed out of place, like it was left standing from a forgotten era, more modern efforts towering over it. She raised her eyes past the awning to the small balconies on the second and third floors. Two apartments per floor. She wondered if one of those would be hers.
The bell above chimed as Annalisa pushed the glass door open. She’d never seen so many clocks in one place in her life. They covered every wall and almost all the available floor space. They collectively ticked and tocked, this wonderful and mesmerizing army of metronomic movement coming from every direction, a sound that momentarily drowned out her frustration about Thomas’s car. As she bounced her eyes from one clock to the next, she recognized the smell of Murphy Oil Soap, which was what her grandmother and she used to clean the floors.
A man called out, “I’m back here. Better not be selling anything. I’ve no time for such things.”
Following the throaty and obviously cranky voice, she wound her way past two tall grandfather clocks and past a long glass display of shiny gold and silver watches. Though the glass had been polished, she fought off a sneeze as the heavy dust in the shop crept up her nose.
Behind a glass counter with an antique cash register, Annalisa found a man who looked to be in his seventies. She saw his side profile, and he was hunched over a busy work desk, tinkering with the insides of a watch under the light of a lamp. Keys and watches, both with white tags attached to them, dangled from hooks behind him on the corkboard wall. The surface of the desk was covered with tiny screwdrivers and what looked like an oil dropper and dozens of other tools she didn’t recognize.
The old man wore a tattered cardigan over a dingy white shirt and tie. He had a big nose and big ears, and what was left of his gray hair formed the shape of a horseshoe across his scalp. Stray hairs sprung out in random directions. His eyebrows were thick, gray, and unkempt too. He wore circular glasses with a magnifying glass extending from the right lens.
“I’m not interested in buying your things,” he muttered, never breaking his focus from the watch. He had knobby and gangly fingers, and they shook slightly as he worked.
“Are you Mr. Burzinski?” Annalisa asked, stopping in front of the cash register.
He side-eyed her and then went back to work. “Either you’re selling something that I’m not interested in or your name’s Annalisa.”
She gave her best smile. “Yes to the second one, inquiring about the third-floor apartment. You can call me Anna if you like.”
Mr. Burzinski lifted the watch and used the lamplight to analyze it. “What brings you to Portland?”
Wasn’t that a loaded question? “I’m an artist, a painter, to be exact, hoping to break into the art world. There’s a teacher I’m coming to study with.”
“The art world, huh?” He chuckled to himself. “I didn’t know there was much of one here.”
“Compared to back home in Payton Mills, there is. I just graduated and have been planning this move for a long time.” Ever since my parents died and I left Bangor, she thought.
“You’re young. I don’t want parties up there. If you’re looking to bring home a big swath of your loony tune friends and make a bunch of racket, it’s not the right place for you. I live on the second floor right below, and I won’t have it.”
Annalisa told him that she was laser focused on honing her craft and wasn’t interested in late nights or partying.
“Fair enough,” Mr. Burzinski said, finally looking at her for more than a second. “I think I’ve priced the place fairly. I won’t put up with late rent. Where will you be working?”
“I’m not exactly sure yet, but I’ll have a job soon.” She listed some of the places she’d applied (Bernie’s, Benoit’s, Rines Bros. . . .), and he looked at her skeptically. In that moment she recognized something wildly familiar in this man. He was cold, but he was warm, too, just like his shop was covered in a layer of dust but charming at the same time. Nonna was the same way. She could be intimidating but had a heart of gold. Annalisa did well with these kinds of people and decided to push him.
“I’ll be a great tenant, Mr. Burzinski.”
He didn’t respond, only kept working. She wondered how long he would continue this game. Little did he know, Nonna had practiced these same intimidation tactics, so Annalisa could wait in the uncomfortable silence all day long if she had to.
Just as she dug for her confidence, the shop came alive in a cacophony of sounds. The clocks had struck noon, and cuckoo birds poked out of their holes to chirp, and the grandfather and grandmother clocks clanged, and the other clocks on the walls chimed and pinged and dinged. Annalisa spun her head around, drinking in the magic of this place. Mr. Burzinski was a grumpy old watchmaker from a fairy tale, and he had a shop that sang at noon.
When his clocks had quieted, she said, “I’ve never even imagined such a thing. That was . . . wonderful.”
Ignoring her, he said, “Rent’s seventy dollars a month. I’ll need first and last month’s, a security deposit, and a one-year commitment.”
There went all her money for art classes, Annalisa thought. An hour in the city and she was already broke. She knew what he was charging for rent but hadn’t anticipated the additional asks. She wondered if she should mention the car she’d hit. God, she didn’t want to lose this place. The location was dreamy. “Mr. Burzinski, here’s the thing. I just got in a wreck.”
He looked at her. “A wreck?”
Talking with her hands, she said, “Well, I backed into an expensive-looking car and messed up the back end. Not that it’s anything you need to worry about, but I have to get it fixed. My . . . my friend who loaned it to me loves that car. So would you please allow me to only pay the first month’s rent for now?”
He gave a look like she’d just asked him if she could live for free.
“I am incredibly hardworking,” she assured him. “I don’t know how much getting his car fixed will cost, but I need to do that before he comes home from Fort Dix. If you’ll give me a little leeway, I’ll find a job as quickly as humanly possible and give you every dime I can until we’re square. This is the perfect location and price.” The truth was it was the only place she’d found that was affordable near Congress Street.
“I don’t even need to see it,” she said desperately. “I just need a break right now. Please. I’m quiet, respectful—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “And verbose, no doubt. Take a deep breath, young lady.” As she followed his suggestion, he continued, “Why the desperate need to get out of Payton Mills? Can’t you paint there?”
She thought about her response carefully as she set a hand on the counter by the register. “Because this is where it all happens. For a girl who grew up in Bangor and Payton Mills, Portland is the big city. This is where the artists are, the galleries, the teachers. The museum. I can’t become the artist I want to be in Payton Mills. It doesn’t inspire me.”
He gave a closemouthed chuckle. “Well, you sure make it hard to say no. You’d be a good saleswoman.”
Annalisa said a quick prayer, hoping he would give her a chance.
Mr. Burzinski put down the watch and reached for one of the keys on the wall behind him. “The place is yours if you want it, but I’ll expect you to make good on your word.”
“Yes, I will,” Annalisa said, wishing her mother were there to see her now.
He led her out of the shop, and they walked toward the side of the building. “I hope the driver of that Plymouth doesn’t kill me,” Annalisa said. “I left a note and—”
Mr. Burzinski froze. “You hit a Plymouth?”
“A very nice and polished one too. I put a big scratch on the bumper. Oh God, I was nervous and people were honking and—”
“A blue Belvedere? On Congress?”
“Yes, Mr. Burzinski.”
The realization struck her a second before he spat, “That’s my car you hit.”
“No.” Her throat tightened. She wanted to run away, to disappear.
Without another word, he marched toward the accident. She ran to catch up with him. “This can’t be happening.”
He mumbled something under his breath and stomped around the corner and up Congress Street, moving so quickly that he lost his breath and broke into a cough. That didn’t slow him down, though.
When they reached the two cars, he went straight to the front bumper of his Plymouth and shook his head. He raised his hand to his forehead and lifted his eyes to the sky, saying either a prayer or a string of curses—she wasn’t sure.
After quite possibly the most uncomfortable minute of her life, Walt lowered his head. “I’ve had this car for eighteen years,” he finally said with abundant frustration, his Polish accent becoming stronger with each word. “It has barely any miles on it. I just so happened to take it out of the garage for a spin this morning. Never once has this had so much as a scratch and now this. Now you come along.”
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Burzinski, but I’ll pay for it—one way or another. They can fix that pretty easily, right? It’s just a—”
“Who in the world issued you a driver’s license? You kids these days. Don’t even know how to park a car.”
She stared at the damage she’d done, wondering if she was ready to handle the city. Even in between the beeping horns and loud chatters of those passing by, there was a constant noise here. A hammering over there, a screeching tire there, a machine kicking on down the street. “I’ve been learning for a while now. The parallel parking thing gets me, though.”
“Clearly,” he said, bending down and running his hand along the scratch.
She apologized again, thinking this accident had cost her not only a good bit of her money but also her chance for a place to live. Had it also been a sign that she’d made a mistake leaving Thomas? Or was this punishment for dragging him along in the first place? She didn’t want to cry, but the tears and apologies came all at once.
“Oh, don’t do that.” He took her note off the windshield and crumpled it.
She wiped her cheeks. “I can write you a check right now.”
“How am I to know how much it will cost? Did you see a crystal ball in my shop?”
“Do you have a mechanic?” she asked, thinking Mary Cassatt would find a way through this. So would Sharon Maxwell.
“Oh, I’ll take it from here, and yes, I’ll get my car to him straightaway.”
She dared to ask through her tears, “Does this mean you won’t rent me the place?”
He let out a loud cackle and then a big sigh. “You aren’t one of those people that breaks everything they touch, are you? Do I need to worry about you burning my building down?”
“Not at all. I was nervous coming here. Moving to Portland has been my dream for as long as I can remember, and I . . . ugh.”
“Oh please. Really, you must stop that. I’ll still rent you the place, but I’ll expect you to find a job posthaste. You owe me quite a lot of money.”
“Absolutely. Thank you so much.” A thread of hope worked its way into Annalisa’s frustration and sadness.
“I’m just glad to find someone who won’t annoy me with noise. You artist types are always so quiet.” He glanced at the bumper of his car one more time and then looked at the Beetle. “My guy will be able to make your friend’s car look good as new. It’ll cost you, but such is life. Now let’s go take a look at the place.”
She put her hands together in prayer. “Thank you so much. I love your car, by the way.”
He moved his head ever so slowly until he was looking at her. No words were needed. He read right through her compliment.
Chapter 18
ONWARD AND UPWARD
Walt opened up a door that led into the stairwell and ushered Annalisa inside. A set of mailboxes hung on one of the white concrete walls that could have used a touch-up.
He moved slowly, and it took them a long time to wind their way up the steps. “A woman by the name of Eleby lives in the other one on the third floor. She keeps to herself. A little scattered, I think.” His voice echoed.
“Scattered?”
He fell into a coughing fit and paused on the steps.
“Are you okay, Mr. Burzinski?”
He waved her off and started up again. “Yes, yes, yes, I’m fine.” A few steps later, he said, “Scattered . . . I think that’s a good word for her.”
Annalisa smiled as they went down the hall to the apartment. He swung open the door and invited her in. To her delight, the small one-bedroom apartment was clean. As she breathed in the space, she felt like she was walking into the rest of her life. The walls were white and refreshing. The old furniture—the cracked leather sofa, the dated fabric chairs, and the wobbly table—would do.
The kitchen made up one corner of the main room. It was small but clean. Opposite the couch was a small television with rabbit ears stretching toward the ceiling. She peeked into the bedroom and saw the double bed, a mild upgrade from her twin back in the Mills. There was enough space by the window that it could be her studio in the colder months.
Mr. Burzinski stood in the kitchen and watched her as she poked around, eventually making her way to the little balcony, which couldn’t have been more than three feet by six feet. Sliding open the door, she stepped out into the gorgeous day and put her hands on the railing. She felt like she was Cleopatra looking out over her city.
Across the street, there was a candy shop, a law office, and a bakery. Next to a fir tree that leaned heavily to the left was a phone booth with a person pushing in coins. She was a block off Congress Street, away from the madness, but it was lively enough here—enough subjects to keep her painting for years. She could already see her easel set up there against the railing, her trunk of paints just below. She looked up and saw a fern with brown leaves swinging on a hook, and she thought that her mother’s chimes would hang wonderfully there. Another hook hung on the opposite side, and Annalisa thought making another set wouldn’t be such a bad idea. This little balcony was an artist’s dream.
“What do you think, young lady?” Mr. Burzinski asked as she walked back inside.
