The singing trees, p.3
The Singing Trees, page 3
A man burst out of a door with a bag of trash in his hand. As he slung it up into the large dumpster, Annalisa scurried away. Just like her grandmother, she hated for people to see her cry.
Though there had been happy moments in Bangor, her father had never failed to stomp on them. She’d seen her father twirl his mother around the kitchen floor and not thirty minutes later scream at her with spit spraying out of his mouth. If he’d had enough to drink, he would hit her. Though he never hit Annalisa, he’d certainly lashed out at his daughter a thousand times with words that cut so deep she could still hear them when she closed her eyes at night. She was living in a town she hated, nearly broke and surrounded by her father’s family, and all of it could have been fixed if Jackie had just said yes.
After taking a seat on a bench and spelunking through the dark caves of her mind for half an hour, repeatedly revisiting every single word Jackie had said, Annalisa found herself disgusted by her own thoughts.
What would Mary do? she wondered, thinking of Mary Cassatt, the American painter her mother had first introduced her to. Coming of age during the American Civil War, Mary left the closed-minded and male-dominated confines of Pennsylvania for France so that she could expand her mind, find independence, and home in on her creative voice. Yes! Annalisa had always thought when pondering Cassatt’s story. That’s me!
She stood and started along Congress Street to the Portland Museum of Art, which was a bit dated but displayed a few inspiring pieces that Annalisa visited on occasion. If she was to ever become great, it wouldn’t be from that bench, nor wallowing in grief. She had to keep fighting. Art was in her DNA, as Jackie had suggested, and a life without a brush in her hand seemed like a life not worth living.
Deep within the museum, in the center of a quiet room adorned with masterpieces, she sat on a black leather-cushioned bench, sketching an ocean scene by Winslow Homer, who had traveled all over the world but in his later years had lived on the coast of Maine, where he’d explored the power of nature over man.
As part of her lessons on the side porch in Bangor, Annalisa’s mother had urged her to emulate the work of the greats. It was a practice Annalisa did often back in the Mills with the art books she’d check out from the library, and she’d done it a few times here, when she’d been lucky enough to get a ride.
Though she was partial to female artists—anyone from the great Artemisia Gentileschi of the baroque period to the ultimate modernist, Georgia O’Keeffe—Annalisa had taken a fondness to Winslow Homer, in particular his intimate takes on solitude. Often feeling alone herself, she empathized with his subjects, the men who warred with the ocean in their wooden boats, like Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea.
As she shaded the waves with her charcoal pencil, someone sat beside her. Slightly agitated, considering there was another bench next to this one, she scooted toward the left edge without looking up.
She put her pencil back to work, noticing Homer’s impressive use of value in summoning movement out of the waves. She thought she might try painting an old woman in a boat, paddling through an angry sea. Why did it have to be a man?
“It’s interesting,” the person next to her said, invading her space. “The juxtaposition of this composition conflicts with the atmosphere that he’s trying to create.”
What in God’s name is he talking about? Annalisa wondered.
Apparently, he wasn’t done. “But the precarious nature of his brushwork is too impressionist to allow for any real ethereal motives.”
Cracking a slight grin, Annalisa twisted her head at the ridiculousness. “Let’s hope you’re not studying to be an art critic.”
It was a guy about her age with shaggy blond hair and eyes the color of blue topaz, perhaps a shade lighter. His long-sleeved cotton shirt was unbuttoned enough to reveal blond chest hairs. A couple of wooden beads dangled from a leather necklace. He was coastal Maine preppie, with maybe a little edge, almost like the guy from Barefoot in the Park. What was his name? Robert Redford. If she’d been forced to admit it, the guy was a hunk.
“Maybe not impressionism but certainly pointillism,” he said, crossing his arms and studying the Homer painting with intense interest. “He’s left no impression on me. The abstract nature goes exactly against what watercolor is trying to be.”
Annalisa set her pencil down and looked at his attempt to bury his smile. “Oil,” she corrected him. “Not watercolor.”
“Ahhhh,” he said. “I’m a sculptor myself, so I’m not as familiar with these mediums.”
She tried her best not to reward his absurdness with her own smile, but her lips apparently had a mind of their own, turning up just enough to urge him on. “A sculptor, huh?” Annalisa asked with a dipped chin. “Somehow I doubt that.”
He gave a smirk. “Nothing gets past you, does it? I’m Thomas.”
She wondered what color blue she might start with if she attempted to paint his eyes. “Good to meet you, Thomas. I’m going to get back to work now.”
He peeked at her sketch pad before she could flip it over. “You’re good. Are you a student in town? I’d love to see more of your work.”
“I bet you would.” She sounded much colder than she’d intended to as the nature of his intentions showed itself. “Thanks for the laugh. Now I gotta go.”
As if he hadn’t heard her, he asked, “What’s your name?”
She closed her pad and ran the pencil through the spiral binding. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not interested.” Sometimes honesty saved agony. Dropping the pad into her purse, she collected her tote and stood. “Take care.”
He held out a hand to stop her. “What if we were meant to have met right now?”
She would have rolled her eyes if he hadn’t been so serious.
“I don’t know about you,” he continued, “but one day, hopefully sooner than later, I’m going to meet the love of my life. I want to remember that moment forever. What if that is us? Right here, right now. What if you’re walking away from your best chance at love?”
Annalisa looked down at him, seeing through his confidence a gentle sincerity. For a second, she thought he might actually be a good guy. But that thought didn’t last. She knew better than anyone how destructive men—and love—could be.
“I’ll take my chances,” she said, backing away.
The game seemed to end as his smile straightened into defeat. “Take care,” he said with honest disappointment.
When she finally broke eye contact and turned away, she smacked right into the wall, shoulder first, knocking the tote out of her hand.
He rushed her way to help. “You okay?” he asked, as he leaned down to retrieve her tote.
Her face flushed hot as she snatched it from him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Please tell me your name,” he said, as if he now deserved a treat for helping her. “At least I could think about you if we never see each other again.”
Annalisa noticed his eyes had turned green. “My name’s Alice,” she lied.
“Alice,” he said. “I’ll be thinking about you, Alice.”
“Take care, Thomas.” She pivoted and raced out of the museum, refusing to allow herself to make the same mistakes her mother made.
Chapter 2
NONNA’S HOUSE
They reached the Linden River Bridge leading into Payton Mills just in time, a testament to how seriously even Nino took Nonna’s rules. She was not the kind of grandmother you messed with. Nino and Sara had spent the day shopping and eating—and probably fooling around in one of the more wooded parks.
The tall smokestacks of the redbrick textile mill defined the unimpressive skyline of the Mills. Constructed in 1827, the mill had been set on the river to make use of the running water as the main energy source. Even her earliest memories of visiting her grandmother had provided barely a glimpse of a thriving town. One didn’t have to listen long to find disgruntled mill workers talking about losing textile production to countries overseas.
In her neighborhood on the other side of town, trees hovered like giants over the tiny homes that had been housing mill employees like her father’s family and other working-class Mainers for more than a century. Fishermen and lobstermen who couldn’t afford to be closer to the coast formed part of the population too. To Annalisa, Payton Mills was a town whose inhabitants dreamed of taller buildings they’d seen only in the movies. Heck, half the people in her church had never even been to Portland, that long hour-and-a-half drive too daunting a journey. Portland was full of trouble, anyway, many of them thought, no one more so than her grandmother.
Annalisa said goodbye to Nino and Sara and stepped out into the night. It was barely seven and eerily quiet. With the exception of Friday nights during football season, when Payton Mills played their home games, the town rolled up the sidewalks with the falling sun.
She crossed their tiny dooryard, which Annalisa dutifully mowed each Saturday morning per Nonna’s command. Up the three steps to the front porch was Annalisa’s outdoor studio, complete with a chair, easel, and her trunk of paints. A set of wind chimes that she and her mother had made with antique spoons and silver bells hung from the center of the ceiling. It was a windless night, and the chimes were silent. Still, Annalisa could feel their power as she thought back to those countless hours on their side porch in Bangor, when the tinkling of the chimes had been the soundtrack to her time with her mother.
Finding strength from her renewed commitment to her dream, she dashed through the door, calling for her grandmother. Nonna was where she always was: the kitchen. Though the floors in most of their tiny home were in good shape, the linoleum in the kitchen was worn down and showed the scuff marks of Nonna’s black orthopedic shoes. The salty and herbal smells of a simmering chicken soup on the stove reminded Annalisa that she hadn’t eaten dinner yet.
“How’d it go?” Nonna asked, standing in front of the sink, where hot water steamed up behind her. Her entire English lexicon was drenched in her native tongue’s bounce.
Annalisa stood right behind her, towering over her. “Jackie says I’m good—she loved the one of me at the funeral—but that I haven’t found my voice yet.”
Nonna shut off the water and turned, drying her hands on the apron wrapped around her little waist. “I see.” Her short white curly hair sometimes looked to be a pale shade of lavender in the right light, and a mole above her right eyebrow called attention to her receding hairline. She wore thick-framed black glasses that were decades out of fashion.
“But you’d be proud of me,” Annalisa said. “I’m not letting it get me down. She really was excited, says I’m very talented.” She hoped Nonna was in a good enough mood to hear what was coming next.
“Of course you’ll be a big deal,” Nonna agreed, always one of her biggest fans. Long before Annalisa had lost her parents and moved to the Mills, Nonna had started the single largest collection of Annalisa art in the world. Now nearly every wall was covered. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re good before you’ll believe me?”
Here goes nothing, Annalisa thought. “She said something else too.”
Nonna’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”
“She says I need to move to Portland. That’s the only way I can get any better.”
Nonna reached up and grabbed a handful of her own hair. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this again.”
“Yes, this again.” Her grandmother should have gone to Hollywood with her drama skills. To give her credit, though, she had a long list of reasons she’d always discouraged the idea, but it came down to the fact Annalisa’s father had picked up his drinking habit in Portland.
“Jackie’s right,” Annalisa pressed, hoping this time to convince Nonna. “How else am I going to get better?”
“It’s not your location that makes you a better painter. It’s hard work.”
“And enriching experiences,” Annalisa argued. “Great teachers. New scenery.”
Nonna brushed her hand through the air. “There are plenty of teachers here. You just don’t like any of them.”
“Oh, you’re right. Mr. O’Ryan is amazing.” She rolled her eyes at the thought of her high school art teacher, tapping into her own dramatic potential.
“If you want a new teacher,” Nonna said, “maybe we can find someone in Davenport. Nino can take you to lessons.”
Davenport was no doubt beautiful—and certainly ritzier—but just like the Mills, it was a long way from the real world. “So I can paint rocky cliffs and lobsters and lighthouses in between my bridge group and spa session? No thank you. I want to be in Portland, where the action is. I need some grit, some reality. I’m tired of living in a bubble.”
Nonna reached for a hand towel and began to dry the dishes on the side of the sink. “So you mean where the derelicts are? Is that it?”
Annalisa’s whole body drooped. “Oh my God. Says every Mainer north of Portland. You all think the rest of the world is crazy.” This is exactly what made her unglued about small-town Maine. It was always us versus them.
“It is,” Nonna assured her, stacking one dry plate atop another. “The world is a dangerous place. Believe me. And Payton Mills isn’t as bad as you make it out to be.”
“I’m not going to end up like my father, Nonna. I’m not going down there to party. And as far as Payton Mills . . . to me it’s hell on earth.” As quickly as she’d said it, she regretted her words.
Smacking down the wooden spoon she’d just dried, Nonna said through gritted teeth, “Watch your mouth. This place is your roots. Never forget that.”
“Trust me,” Annalisa said, trying not to react, “I won’t. And I’m sorry I said that. It’s just that everyone is in everyone’s business. I can’t sneeze without the whole family discussing it. The whole town, even. And no one wants to admit there’s a whole world out there with people that have different views . . . views that aren’t all wrong.”
Nonna’s forehead wrinkled as she set down the towel and turned. “One day you’ll realize that nothing is more important than family, and you’ll regret hating the Mills like you do.” Then she poked Annalisa’s head. “Sometimes it’s what’s in here that’s causing the problem.”
Annalisa sighed; Nonna was the only one on earth who could get away with poking her in such a way. “It always comes back to family, doesn’t it? Our family is great, but I need some space every once in a while. You might not understand it, but I have to go. I’m going to keep saving every dime I can, and I’m going to paint every darn minute, and when I graduate next year, I am moving to Portland.”
“I don’t know about that,” Nonna said.
“It won’t be your decision. I’ll be eighteen.” Annalisa softened. “But I can’t bear leaving without your blessing. Maybe I’ll come back, but I know I have to go.”
Nonna crossed her arms and glared at her. More than once Annalisa had joked that Nixon should send Nonna to Vietnam if he really wanted to rid the world of communism. This was exactly why. It was a good thing Annalisa never brought boys home, because they couldn’t have gotten through the door before scurrying away in fear.
With the glare frozen on her face, Nonna asked, “So you’re going to move to Portland with your ice-cream savings?”
For more than a year now, Annalisa had been working at Harry’s General Store, scooping ice cream and weighing candy. “And from selling everything I paint between now and then to anyone who will give me a couple of dollars. I’ll shack up in a deserted warehouse in the Old Port if I have to.”
“I forbid it!” Nonna snapped, coming alive like a soldier snapping to attention.
Annalisa stood her ground. “You can’t. I’m not letting anyone hold me back. That’s exactly what my father did to my mother.”
Nonna struck the counter. “Hold you back? You’re the one holding yourself back with all this . . .”
“With all this what?” Though the soup was at a simmer, she felt like the top of the pot if she’d turned the knob to boiling.
“With all this anger,” Nonna finished. “You have to start moving on. It’s been more than two years, Annalisa. I’m tired of putting up with your rebellion.”
Even Annalisa would admit her disagreeable nature had a lot to do with losing both parents, but she’d been a wild child long before she was parentless. Maybe it was the Taurean in her—the stars having something to do with it. Whatever it was, probably an amalgam of her Italian blood, her April birthday, and her jaded and often furious father, who’d essentially murdered her loving mother, she was not making it easy on her grandmother.
Perhaps she and Nonna butted heads because they were so similar. Annalisa stood a foot taller, but there was no denying their resemblance. Whenever a guest of the house saw the black-and-white photograph of Nonna in Naples, Italy, as a young teenager, they’d never fail to compare her to Annalisa, mentioning the same big brown eyes (Enough with the big eyes! Annalisa always thought) and that thick, wavy hair. More to the point, the two women were as stubborn as anyone in Maine.
Annalisa backed away from the counter, as if in retreat. “I’m trying to move on. By getting out of here.”
Nonna leaned back against the sink. “Moving on from your grief doesn’t mean driving away. You don’t need to move to Portland to find yourself. You just need to find peace.”
“Peace?” Annalisa let out a cackle from the center of the kitchen. “What kind of peace is there anywhere in this world? You mean in Vietnam?” She felt so frustrated and sad, thinking that she’d actually found some excitement today, only to be knocked down once again. “Peace doesn’t exist,” she continued. “Happiness doesn’t exist. Sometimes, I don’t even know if God exists.”
Nonna pounded the counter so hard the dirty dishes in the sink shook. “Don’t you ever say that.”
Annalisa snapped her hands to her waist. “It’s true.”
Mimicking her, Nonna said, “Then you need God more than ever.”
