The singing trees, p.4
The Singing Trees, page 4
“He’s welcome to pop down for a visit,” Annalisa said. “He knows where I live.” She’d been going to church and praying to God all her life, but after losing her parents, God had a lot of making up to do as far as she was concerned.
Nonna took the wooden spoon she’d dried and stuck it into the pot of soup. “You’re not the only one who lost someone.”
“I’m the only one I know who lost both parents.”
“He was my son,” Nonna said, stirring the soup. “I lost him too. And then I lost my husband of forty-four years. Don’t pretend you’re the only one in this family who is suffering.”
“He was my father!” Annalisa yelled to her grandmother’s back.
“He was my son.” Nonna whipped around and slapped her hand against her own chest. “My son!”
Seeing and hearing Nonna’s pain cut to Annalisa’s core, and she got the point. Everyone in the family had lost her father. He was a father, a son, a brother, a cousin. They’d all lost him to alcoholism and then to that car wreck.
And they’d lost Annalisa’s mother, Celia, as well. From the first day her parents had met, the entire Mancuso clan had hoped that the talented, beautiful, and smart Celia Russo could rescue Tony Mancuso from continuing down his path of trouble. She’d done a pretty good job for a while, but eventually the whiskey had won.
Annalisa couldn’t take it anymore and turned away. With tears sliding down her cheeks, she stomped out of the kitchen. After slamming her bedroom door in frustration, Annalisa reached for her heavy Michelangelo book on the dresser and slung it across the room. The book crashed into her easel in the corner and knocked it, and her work in progress, to the floor. She collapsed onto the bed.
Through the thin walls, she could hear the crashes of her grandmother finishing the dishes, as if every collision further drove home her point.
Curling up, Annalisa lost herself in the lava lamp on the bedside table, letting the neon-green blobs absorb her anger. The drama of which her tiny grandmother was capable was extraordinary. She was the poster woman for fiery Italian nonne, and no woman could deliver a rant with such Oscar-worthy passion or issue a guilt trip with such sniper-like precision.
Even though they fought on occasion, she admired Nonna for being so strong and for being the cornerstone of the family. That being said, Annalisa certainly didn’t want to grow up to be like her grandmother. She didn’t want to be barefoot and pregnant, confined to the kitchen and shut out from the world. That life didn’t interest Annalisa at all. She could never stand for the way things were arranged, almost as if their lives were predetermined for the females in their family.
As much as Annalisa hated her father, she did like that he’d broken out of the Mills himself and actually chased his dreams. Even after hurting his back and discovering alcohol, he’d cleaned himself up and gone to college and landed a well-paying job at a bank in Bangor. By the time he’d met Annalisa’s mother, he was back on top. For a while, at least.
Like her father, Annalisa craved independence. She didn’t want to be told what to do, where to live, whom to marry, or what to believe. No wonder he’d gotten the hell out of this town. Nonna was probably drowning him.
She didn’t like spending much time comparing herself to him, though—or even thinking about him—but she could feel his presence here. She was living in his old bedroom, for God’s sake, where he and two of his brothers had been crammed in all the way through high school. Her indoor studio was in the very space where her art-hating father had slept! In addition, almost every face in the Mancuso family, with the exception of Nino and a couple of others, bore a strong resemblance to the man. Talk about holding her back. The bottom line was that she could never be the artist she wanted to be here, and nothing Nonna or anyone else said or did would change that fact.
When she finally calmed down twenty minutes later, Annalisa decided she’d better apologize. Though Nonna couldn’t care less, her mother had never let Annalisa go to bed angry, and it was a practice she’d held on to. Stepping into the hallway, she saw amber light shining through the crack in Nonna’s closed bedroom door. She walked down the hall decorated with family photos and some of Annalisa’s earlier works and stopped at the door.
She raised her hand to knock but stopped at the last second, putting her ear closer. Her grandmother always prayed for a long time before going to bed, and sometimes Annalisa had heard her talking to someone, probably her late husband or even Annalisa’s father.
Tonight, it sounded like she was crying.
Annalisa felt terrible. What kind of awful person had she become, being so nasty to the woman who had taken her in? Nonna was right anyway. Why did Annalisa always have to make it about her?
“Nonna?” she said, rapping lightly on the door. “Can I come in?”
After a moment, Nonna cracked open the door, dressed in her nightgown. “Yes, nipotina?”
Annalisa lowered her head. “I’m sorry.”
Nonna’s bottom lip jutted out as she pulled open the door and opened up her arms. “I know you are.”
Annalisa bent down and hugged Nonna’s shoulders. “I’m so confused.” She noticed fresh prints in the kneeling pillow by the bed.
Nonna patted her lower back. “It’s okay to be confused. I am too sometimes.” She let go of Annalisa and took her hands, looking up into her eyes. “You might not believe it, but I love having you here. It’s not easy being alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Annalisa assured her, pulling her grandmother back into one more hug.
After a long, loving embrace that Annalisa needed so badly, the two bid each other good night. Returning to her room, Annalisa knelt by her bed and prayed, asking God to forgive her for being such a mess and to give her some guidance, and maybe a little help. Leaving Nonna would be incredibly hard, but how could she deny herself the opportunity rolling out ahead of her? She wasn’t sure if He existed, but she thought she’d at least give Him a chance to prove Himself.
Chapter 3
ALICE AND THE WHITE RABBIT
Annalisa worked her tail off over the summer and into the fall as the temperatures fell. She pulled double shifts at Harry’s General Store, and even when school started, she worked any time he’d let her. What she didn’t spend on art supplies went straight to her savings to move to Portland.
Promising herself she’d do at least three pieces a week, she painted with every spare minute. To find new ideas, she caught rides with Nino or her aunts whenever they left town—sometimes to Freeport or Brunswick or Davenport—and, using her photographic memory, cataloged her experiences. Even when she was stuck in the Mills, the newspaper and television showed how extremely turbulent the world had become, and Annalisa could see its influence in her work. How could it not? Even Nonna had admitted these years might be the strangest of her long lifetime.
All in the span of a few months, so many crazy things were happening. Senator Kennedy had driven that woman off the bridge. Neil and Buzz had walked on the moon. Nixon continued to ship more soldiers to Vietnam, backing away from his pledge to end the war. The heartbreaking Manson murders happened less than a week before Woodstock. Talk about a juxtaposition to explain the times.
She had desperately wanted to go to Woodstock (it was only a few hours away) with a group of her friends from Bangor, but she knew that getting caught would doom her entire senior year and earn her a one-way ticket to becoming a Sister of Mercy. Still, she wanted to join this movement of young people desperate for the truth.
Annalisa would listen to her often-drunk and closed-minded uncles as they talked war and politics after weekend suppers. In her family, there seemed to be only one way, and that was strict conservatism and Catholicism. Any other opinions were wrong. The women in the family typically agreed, and that was why Nonna was still discouraging Annalisa from moving to Portland, the epicenter for sin. But like so many people her age, Annalisa didn’t want to mindlessly accept what she was told to believe. She wanted to get out into the world and form opinions of her own.
The only thing the country seemed to be in agreement on was the war. She’d never heard anyone argue for it. Sure, the US wanted to rid the world of communism—who didn’t?—but how was attacking soldiers and their families in a jungle thousands of miles away doing that exactly?
All these questions came out in her most recent works, where Annalisa explored themes of uprising. She painted protesters picketing against Nixon and the war. She painted scenes of women attempting to break through the infinite and impenetrable glass ceilings—and hippies and musicians and poets and artists expressing themselves through an endless array of mediums. Of course, many of these works weren’t popular in her family, so she kept them hidden under her bed.
On the fourth Friday in October, three months after being rejected by Jackie in Portland, Nino talked Annalisa into attending one of their high school football games. She wasn’t much of a sports fan at all. Quite the opposite, actually. Her father used to drag her to watch his alma mater’s team, the University of Maine Black Bears, play their home games, and revisiting those memories was never easy.
Still, even those rare Payton Mills residents who didn’t follow their team knew tonight was the biggest rivalry of the year: the Spartans versus the Davenport Eagles. When it came to great restaurants or golf courses, Davenport won. Prestige and money, it wasn’t even close. Beautiful scenery, Davenport excelled. But when it came to football, Payton Mills wore the crown.
In the sprawling grounds behind the very fancy Davenport High, Annalisa sat with Nino and their other friends in a sea of Spartan blue on the visitors’ bleachers. It was cold out, just over forty degrees, and many of the spectators had blankets draped over their legs.
Under the powerful bright lights, the Spartans’ star running back broke through the line. He ran to glory, and everyone in the visitors’ stands sprang to their feet.
Everyone except Annalisa, who stayed seated in both protest and shock, wondering how so many people could obsess over such a silly sport—especially with everything else going on in the world. It was a distraction, rooting for a victory in a conflict more controllable than war.
When Nino sat back down, she continued the conversation they were having about her departure after graduation. “You see,” she said, surveying the field. “This is exactly why I don’t belong here. I’m not sure a girl can live in Payton Mills and not care about these brutes running around tossing their weird-shaped ball. It’s not that I hate Payton Mills. Not exactly. It’s just not for me, you know? This is my father’s town. It was his school. I want nothing to do with it.”
Nino adjusted the crucifix dangling from his neck. “I get it, cugina mia. You’re not hurting my feelings. All I care about is having a couch to sleep on in Portland. Or maybe an extra bedroom so I can take a city girl home.”
She hit him in the arm. “Ew. You are definitely not bringing any girls back to my place in Portland. Besides, with the kind of money I’ll have, there won’t even be room for you to stretch your gangly self out on the floor.”
“Ha,” he said, keeping an eye on the kicker lining up behind the line. “Like I keep telling you, you’re so pretty; just marry a rich guy. All your problems will go away . . . and I’ll have a place to stay. Find a guy who has one of those big houses in the West End or a place on the water in the Cape.”
She shook her head in disappointment. “You would think my cousin would know me by now.”
“You wait and see,” he said. “A month in the city and you’ll be showing off your diamond and telling us all about your tennis lessons.”
She hit him on the shoulder. “You’re such an idiot, Nino. If I do that, please come kill me in my sleep. A relationship is the last thing I need. You might recall it was my father who destroyed my mother’s chances to make something of herself.” While the Spartans’ cheerleaders did a post-touchdown routine on the side of the field, Annalisa stood. “I’m gonna grab a Moxie. You want one?”
“No one ever wants a Moxie except you,” he said with repulsion. “I’ll take a Crush, though.”
Annalisa worked her way down the stands, past the cheerleaders, and around the end zone toward the concession stands on the home-team side. She noticed a younger girl sitting alone on one of the picnic tables lined up under a cluster of trees near the corner of the field. Her elbows were propped on her thighs, her hands clasped together, and she seemed to be staring at the ground, ignoring the game.
Annalisa had spent many hours since moving to the Mills with that same sad posture and lonely stare. She looked at the concession stands ahead, long lines of teenagers laughing as they waited to get their red snapper hot dogs and sodas. Surprising even herself, Annalisa cut toward the girl.
“Hey, are you okay over there?” she asked from ten feet away.
The girl looked up like a tortoise poking its head out of the shell, so timid she might retreat at any moment. Her brown hair looked ironed and was parted in the center. She wore a brand-new Bean jacket, revealing that she most definitely lived in Davenport and not Payton Mills.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, her breath turning to fog. She looked back down, as if a weight were tied to her chin. She was extremely skinny, too, as Annalisa had been right after the funeral, when she’d stopped eating. It was obvious the girl didn’t want to talk, but seeing her younger self in her made Annalisa not quite want to give up.
Hearing the crowd cheering behind her, she took a step closer. “I like your jacket.”
The girl’s eyes flitted up. “Thanks.”
Annalisa wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t want to pester her but didn’t want to leave her alone, either, thinking the girl might need someone to listen. Guessing she was probably thirteen or fourteen, Annalisa remembered how hard life had been for her back then.
“Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but you don’t seem fine. Unless there’s a riveting movie showing on the ground there that only you can see. What’s your name?”
She attempted to smile at Annalisa’s joke. “Emma.”
Another step forward, approaching like a hostage negotiator. “Is everything okay, Emma?”
The girl finally raised her head and kept it up. She put her hands where her elbows had been. “Everything’s just great,” she said sarcastically. “I’m so happy to be here.”
“What? You don’t like football?” Annalisa asked. Another step.
Emma looked left. “I hate football.”
Annalisa seized the opportunity to take a seat next to her up on the table. “You’re not the only one. Seriously, look at them.” As they both looked at the field, where the teams lined up near midfield, she said, “They’re a bunch of sweaty grunts running into each other. And then the fans. They’re even worse. You might be an Eagle, so I don’t know if it’s the same, but the Spartan fans, they live and die by this sport. As if anyone on that field is doing anything that actually mattered.”
A series of grunts on the field was followed by clashing helmets and more cheers.
The girl let out a small smile, which served to spur Annalisa on. “Seriously, what are they doing that matters? Oh, far out. They just threw a ball in the air, and another guy caught it. Then he ran over a line. Oh God, let’s give him the Medal of Honor.”
The girl laughed, and Annalisa decided she would tell Father Laduca during confession Sunday that she’d made a sad person laugh. He might give her absolution for being nasty to Nonna.
“You’re funny,” the girl said, glancing over.
“Well, thanks, but football’s an easy target.” Annalisa put out her gloved hand. “I’m Annalisa.” After shaking, Annalisa asked, “So why are you even here then? If you don’t like it.”
A shrug as Emma found a spot to look at on the ground again. “Because being here is better than being at home.”
Annalisa hurt for her but wasn’t sure how much she should pry. “Can I . . . help?”
Emma shook her head. “My brother’s here, but thanks.”
Annalisa looked toward the concession stands, smelling hot dogs and popcorn. “Where is he?”
Emma crossed her arms and shivered. “He’s up in the stands with all his friends. He’s always nice to invite me, but I just didn’t feel like being with them anymore. They’re all older.”
“And they’re all football fans,” Annalisa added, “which doesn’t give them much hope for being great conversationalists.”
Emma let out another smile, and Annalisa thought she could get used to this, dragging girls out of their misery. She wished someone had done that for her. Or would do that for her now.
“So what are you into?” Annalisa asked, deciding she’d much rather talk to this girl than return to the stands. “You don’t like football. What is it you do like? I’m an artist. That’s all I do and what I should be doing right now.”
Emma leaned back on her hands. “I guess I’m into music.”
“Oh yeah, like who?” At that moment, something like a leaf dropped on Annalisa’s head. She tried to find it and wipe it away but gave up after a few seconds.
“The Beatles,” Emma answered. The crowd cheered again, another pointless play on the field.
“Yeah? Me too.”
“Really? Have you heard Abbey Road ?” Emma asked, coming more alive with each word.
“No, I haven’t,” Annalisa admitted. “I’m typically a little late to new releases. This’ll crack you up, but I still love Elvis.” Another something hit Annalisa’s head, and she looked up. They were under a tree, but it had shed all its leaves.
“I’m sneaking out to go hear Cold River at Fairhaven next Friday night,” Annalisa said. “Do you know them?”
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re worth checking out. Kind of Creedence-like, I guess.”
Something hit her head again and then fell into her lap. It was a piece of popcorn. “What the . . . somebody’s throwing popcorn at me.” She turned to see where it had come from, saying, “Cut it out!”
Up came a head from behind one of the other tables. He carried a bag of popcorn in one hand and waved with the other. It took her only a second to recognize him once the lights above caught his face. It was the guy from the museum: Thomas.
Nonna took the wooden spoon she’d dried and stuck it into the pot of soup. “You’re not the only one who lost someone.”
“I’m the only one I know who lost both parents.”
“He was my son,” Nonna said, stirring the soup. “I lost him too. And then I lost my husband of forty-four years. Don’t pretend you’re the only one in this family who is suffering.”
“He was my father!” Annalisa yelled to her grandmother’s back.
“He was my son.” Nonna whipped around and slapped her hand against her own chest. “My son!”
Seeing and hearing Nonna’s pain cut to Annalisa’s core, and she got the point. Everyone in the family had lost her father. He was a father, a son, a brother, a cousin. They’d all lost him to alcoholism and then to that car wreck.
And they’d lost Annalisa’s mother, Celia, as well. From the first day her parents had met, the entire Mancuso clan had hoped that the talented, beautiful, and smart Celia Russo could rescue Tony Mancuso from continuing down his path of trouble. She’d done a pretty good job for a while, but eventually the whiskey had won.
Annalisa couldn’t take it anymore and turned away. With tears sliding down her cheeks, she stomped out of the kitchen. After slamming her bedroom door in frustration, Annalisa reached for her heavy Michelangelo book on the dresser and slung it across the room. The book crashed into her easel in the corner and knocked it, and her work in progress, to the floor. She collapsed onto the bed.
Through the thin walls, she could hear the crashes of her grandmother finishing the dishes, as if every collision further drove home her point.
Curling up, Annalisa lost herself in the lava lamp on the bedside table, letting the neon-green blobs absorb her anger. The drama of which her tiny grandmother was capable was extraordinary. She was the poster woman for fiery Italian nonne, and no woman could deliver a rant with such Oscar-worthy passion or issue a guilt trip with such sniper-like precision.
Even though they fought on occasion, she admired Nonna for being so strong and for being the cornerstone of the family. That being said, Annalisa certainly didn’t want to grow up to be like her grandmother. She didn’t want to be barefoot and pregnant, confined to the kitchen and shut out from the world. That life didn’t interest Annalisa at all. She could never stand for the way things were arranged, almost as if their lives were predetermined for the females in their family.
As much as Annalisa hated her father, she did like that he’d broken out of the Mills himself and actually chased his dreams. Even after hurting his back and discovering alcohol, he’d cleaned himself up and gone to college and landed a well-paying job at a bank in Bangor. By the time he’d met Annalisa’s mother, he was back on top. For a while, at least.
Like her father, Annalisa craved independence. She didn’t want to be told what to do, where to live, whom to marry, or what to believe. No wonder he’d gotten the hell out of this town. Nonna was probably drowning him.
She didn’t like spending much time comparing herself to him, though—or even thinking about him—but she could feel his presence here. She was living in his old bedroom, for God’s sake, where he and two of his brothers had been crammed in all the way through high school. Her indoor studio was in the very space where her art-hating father had slept! In addition, almost every face in the Mancuso family, with the exception of Nino and a couple of others, bore a strong resemblance to the man. Talk about holding her back. The bottom line was that she could never be the artist she wanted to be here, and nothing Nonna or anyone else said or did would change that fact.
When she finally calmed down twenty minutes later, Annalisa decided she’d better apologize. Though Nonna couldn’t care less, her mother had never let Annalisa go to bed angry, and it was a practice she’d held on to. Stepping into the hallway, she saw amber light shining through the crack in Nonna’s closed bedroom door. She walked down the hall decorated with family photos and some of Annalisa’s earlier works and stopped at the door.
She raised her hand to knock but stopped at the last second, putting her ear closer. Her grandmother always prayed for a long time before going to bed, and sometimes Annalisa had heard her talking to someone, probably her late husband or even Annalisa’s father.
Tonight, it sounded like she was crying.
Annalisa felt terrible. What kind of awful person had she become, being so nasty to the woman who had taken her in? Nonna was right anyway. Why did Annalisa always have to make it about her?
“Nonna?” she said, rapping lightly on the door. “Can I come in?”
After a moment, Nonna cracked open the door, dressed in her nightgown. “Yes, nipotina?”
Annalisa lowered her head. “I’m sorry.”
Nonna’s bottom lip jutted out as she pulled open the door and opened up her arms. “I know you are.”
Annalisa bent down and hugged Nonna’s shoulders. “I’m so confused.” She noticed fresh prints in the kneeling pillow by the bed.
Nonna patted her lower back. “It’s okay to be confused. I am too sometimes.” She let go of Annalisa and took her hands, looking up into her eyes. “You might not believe it, but I love having you here. It’s not easy being alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Annalisa assured her, pulling her grandmother back into one more hug.
After a long, loving embrace that Annalisa needed so badly, the two bid each other good night. Returning to her room, Annalisa knelt by her bed and prayed, asking God to forgive her for being such a mess and to give her some guidance, and maybe a little help. Leaving Nonna would be incredibly hard, but how could she deny herself the opportunity rolling out ahead of her? She wasn’t sure if He existed, but she thought she’d at least give Him a chance to prove Himself.
Chapter 3
ALICE AND THE WHITE RABBIT
Annalisa worked her tail off over the summer and into the fall as the temperatures fell. She pulled double shifts at Harry’s General Store, and even when school started, she worked any time he’d let her. What she didn’t spend on art supplies went straight to her savings to move to Portland.
Promising herself she’d do at least three pieces a week, she painted with every spare minute. To find new ideas, she caught rides with Nino or her aunts whenever they left town—sometimes to Freeport or Brunswick or Davenport—and, using her photographic memory, cataloged her experiences. Even when she was stuck in the Mills, the newspaper and television showed how extremely turbulent the world had become, and Annalisa could see its influence in her work. How could it not? Even Nonna had admitted these years might be the strangest of her long lifetime.
All in the span of a few months, so many crazy things were happening. Senator Kennedy had driven that woman off the bridge. Neil and Buzz had walked on the moon. Nixon continued to ship more soldiers to Vietnam, backing away from his pledge to end the war. The heartbreaking Manson murders happened less than a week before Woodstock. Talk about a juxtaposition to explain the times.
She had desperately wanted to go to Woodstock (it was only a few hours away) with a group of her friends from Bangor, but she knew that getting caught would doom her entire senior year and earn her a one-way ticket to becoming a Sister of Mercy. Still, she wanted to join this movement of young people desperate for the truth.
Annalisa would listen to her often-drunk and closed-minded uncles as they talked war and politics after weekend suppers. In her family, there seemed to be only one way, and that was strict conservatism and Catholicism. Any other opinions were wrong. The women in the family typically agreed, and that was why Nonna was still discouraging Annalisa from moving to Portland, the epicenter for sin. But like so many people her age, Annalisa didn’t want to mindlessly accept what she was told to believe. She wanted to get out into the world and form opinions of her own.
The only thing the country seemed to be in agreement on was the war. She’d never heard anyone argue for it. Sure, the US wanted to rid the world of communism—who didn’t?—but how was attacking soldiers and their families in a jungle thousands of miles away doing that exactly?
All these questions came out in her most recent works, where Annalisa explored themes of uprising. She painted protesters picketing against Nixon and the war. She painted scenes of women attempting to break through the infinite and impenetrable glass ceilings—and hippies and musicians and poets and artists expressing themselves through an endless array of mediums. Of course, many of these works weren’t popular in her family, so she kept them hidden under her bed.
On the fourth Friday in October, three months after being rejected by Jackie in Portland, Nino talked Annalisa into attending one of their high school football games. She wasn’t much of a sports fan at all. Quite the opposite, actually. Her father used to drag her to watch his alma mater’s team, the University of Maine Black Bears, play their home games, and revisiting those memories was never easy.
Still, even those rare Payton Mills residents who didn’t follow their team knew tonight was the biggest rivalry of the year: the Spartans versus the Davenport Eagles. When it came to great restaurants or golf courses, Davenport won. Prestige and money, it wasn’t even close. Beautiful scenery, Davenport excelled. But when it came to football, Payton Mills wore the crown.
In the sprawling grounds behind the very fancy Davenport High, Annalisa sat with Nino and their other friends in a sea of Spartan blue on the visitors’ bleachers. It was cold out, just over forty degrees, and many of the spectators had blankets draped over their legs.
Under the powerful bright lights, the Spartans’ star running back broke through the line. He ran to glory, and everyone in the visitors’ stands sprang to their feet.
Everyone except Annalisa, who stayed seated in both protest and shock, wondering how so many people could obsess over such a silly sport—especially with everything else going on in the world. It was a distraction, rooting for a victory in a conflict more controllable than war.
When Nino sat back down, she continued the conversation they were having about her departure after graduation. “You see,” she said, surveying the field. “This is exactly why I don’t belong here. I’m not sure a girl can live in Payton Mills and not care about these brutes running around tossing their weird-shaped ball. It’s not that I hate Payton Mills. Not exactly. It’s just not for me, you know? This is my father’s town. It was his school. I want nothing to do with it.”
Nino adjusted the crucifix dangling from his neck. “I get it, cugina mia. You’re not hurting my feelings. All I care about is having a couch to sleep on in Portland. Or maybe an extra bedroom so I can take a city girl home.”
She hit him in the arm. “Ew. You are definitely not bringing any girls back to my place in Portland. Besides, with the kind of money I’ll have, there won’t even be room for you to stretch your gangly self out on the floor.”
“Ha,” he said, keeping an eye on the kicker lining up behind the line. “Like I keep telling you, you’re so pretty; just marry a rich guy. All your problems will go away . . . and I’ll have a place to stay. Find a guy who has one of those big houses in the West End or a place on the water in the Cape.”
She shook her head in disappointment. “You would think my cousin would know me by now.”
“You wait and see,” he said. “A month in the city and you’ll be showing off your diamond and telling us all about your tennis lessons.”
She hit him on the shoulder. “You’re such an idiot, Nino. If I do that, please come kill me in my sleep. A relationship is the last thing I need. You might recall it was my father who destroyed my mother’s chances to make something of herself.” While the Spartans’ cheerleaders did a post-touchdown routine on the side of the field, Annalisa stood. “I’m gonna grab a Moxie. You want one?”
“No one ever wants a Moxie except you,” he said with repulsion. “I’ll take a Crush, though.”
Annalisa worked her way down the stands, past the cheerleaders, and around the end zone toward the concession stands on the home-team side. She noticed a younger girl sitting alone on one of the picnic tables lined up under a cluster of trees near the corner of the field. Her elbows were propped on her thighs, her hands clasped together, and she seemed to be staring at the ground, ignoring the game.
Annalisa had spent many hours since moving to the Mills with that same sad posture and lonely stare. She looked at the concession stands ahead, long lines of teenagers laughing as they waited to get their red snapper hot dogs and sodas. Surprising even herself, Annalisa cut toward the girl.
“Hey, are you okay over there?” she asked from ten feet away.
The girl looked up like a tortoise poking its head out of the shell, so timid she might retreat at any moment. Her brown hair looked ironed and was parted in the center. She wore a brand-new Bean jacket, revealing that she most definitely lived in Davenport and not Payton Mills.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, her breath turning to fog. She looked back down, as if a weight were tied to her chin. She was extremely skinny, too, as Annalisa had been right after the funeral, when she’d stopped eating. It was obvious the girl didn’t want to talk, but seeing her younger self in her made Annalisa not quite want to give up.
Hearing the crowd cheering behind her, she took a step closer. “I like your jacket.”
The girl’s eyes flitted up. “Thanks.”
Annalisa wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t want to pester her but didn’t want to leave her alone, either, thinking the girl might need someone to listen. Guessing she was probably thirteen or fourteen, Annalisa remembered how hard life had been for her back then.
“Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but you don’t seem fine. Unless there’s a riveting movie showing on the ground there that only you can see. What’s your name?”
She attempted to smile at Annalisa’s joke. “Emma.”
Another step forward, approaching like a hostage negotiator. “Is everything okay, Emma?”
The girl finally raised her head and kept it up. She put her hands where her elbows had been. “Everything’s just great,” she said sarcastically. “I’m so happy to be here.”
“What? You don’t like football?” Annalisa asked. Another step.
Emma looked left. “I hate football.”
Annalisa seized the opportunity to take a seat next to her up on the table. “You’re not the only one. Seriously, look at them.” As they both looked at the field, where the teams lined up near midfield, she said, “They’re a bunch of sweaty grunts running into each other. And then the fans. They’re even worse. You might be an Eagle, so I don’t know if it’s the same, but the Spartan fans, they live and die by this sport. As if anyone on that field is doing anything that actually mattered.”
A series of grunts on the field was followed by clashing helmets and more cheers.
The girl let out a small smile, which served to spur Annalisa on. “Seriously, what are they doing that matters? Oh, far out. They just threw a ball in the air, and another guy caught it. Then he ran over a line. Oh God, let’s give him the Medal of Honor.”
The girl laughed, and Annalisa decided she would tell Father Laduca during confession Sunday that she’d made a sad person laugh. He might give her absolution for being nasty to Nonna.
“You’re funny,” the girl said, glancing over.
“Well, thanks, but football’s an easy target.” Annalisa put out her gloved hand. “I’m Annalisa.” After shaking, Annalisa asked, “So why are you even here then? If you don’t like it.”
A shrug as Emma found a spot to look at on the ground again. “Because being here is better than being at home.”
Annalisa hurt for her but wasn’t sure how much she should pry. “Can I . . . help?”
Emma shook her head. “My brother’s here, but thanks.”
Annalisa looked toward the concession stands, smelling hot dogs and popcorn. “Where is he?”
Emma crossed her arms and shivered. “He’s up in the stands with all his friends. He’s always nice to invite me, but I just didn’t feel like being with them anymore. They’re all older.”
“And they’re all football fans,” Annalisa added, “which doesn’t give them much hope for being great conversationalists.”
Emma let out another smile, and Annalisa thought she could get used to this, dragging girls out of their misery. She wished someone had done that for her. Or would do that for her now.
“So what are you into?” Annalisa asked, deciding she’d much rather talk to this girl than return to the stands. “You don’t like football. What is it you do like? I’m an artist. That’s all I do and what I should be doing right now.”
Emma leaned back on her hands. “I guess I’m into music.”
“Oh yeah, like who?” At that moment, something like a leaf dropped on Annalisa’s head. She tried to find it and wipe it away but gave up after a few seconds.
“The Beatles,” Emma answered. The crowd cheered again, another pointless play on the field.
“Yeah? Me too.”
“Really? Have you heard Abbey Road ?” Emma asked, coming more alive with each word.
“No, I haven’t,” Annalisa admitted. “I’m typically a little late to new releases. This’ll crack you up, but I still love Elvis.” Another something hit Annalisa’s head, and she looked up. They were under a tree, but it had shed all its leaves.
“I’m sneaking out to go hear Cold River at Fairhaven next Friday night,” Annalisa said. “Do you know them?”
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re worth checking out. Kind of Creedence-like, I guess.”
Something hit her head again and then fell into her lap. It was a piece of popcorn. “What the . . . somebody’s throwing popcorn at me.” She turned to see where it had come from, saying, “Cut it out!”
Up came a head from behind one of the other tables. He carried a bag of popcorn in one hand and waved with the other. It took her only a second to recognize him once the lights above caught his face. It was the guy from the museum: Thomas.
