The Singing Trees by Boo Walker
Chapter 23
FINALLY, HER VOICE
A confidence Annalisa had never known came to visit that October of 1970. She was given a giant pay increase, earning twice what they’d paid her in the Bargain Bin. She was the youngest employee in the Advertising Department and had her own slanted desk that looked out over the city. Along with finally achieving financial freedom, she found great joy in breathing life into the winter outfits with pen and ink.
After a long few years of hardship, things were working out, as if she were becoming one of the women she drew. More important, she took these lessons home to her studio. Armed with even more knowledge of the latest fashions, she painted these wonderfully fierce women strutting through life with determination. She painted so quickly, too, as if her confidence was her creativity’s caffeine.
In fact, she couldn’t keep up with the demand in Walt’s shop and had raised the price to ten dollars a painting. To her complete disbelief, she was now paying her rent with her art. For the first time in her life she allowed herself to indulge. She began to dress like her women on the canvas. That’s right, canvas. With her increased income, she was working on canvas more, which only made sense, because she’d found her voice, and it was time to take her art—every single piece—more seriously.
With her increase in income, she allowed herself more than a few indulgences. She first spent time down in the Bargain Bin, finally taking advantage of her discount, but she even spent money at the makeup and perfume counters and on the racks of new arrivals on the first floor. The next thing she knew, she was replacing pieces of furniture in the apartment and even treating Nino or Aunt Julia or Nonna to dinner when they’d come to town. This was how it all happened, she learned. Hard work eventually paid off.
She saved her favorite paintings, though, waiting for the day when she would burst into Sharon’s warehouse to blow her mind. Annalisa could already see her female subjects looking back at her from the walls of the warehouse in April. It wasn’t yet time, though. Having only just realized her potential, she wanted to make sure her new portfolio proved to Sharon that she’d finally learned how to connect and that she was more than one of her teacher’s talented students. How could Sharon disagree, for Heaven’s sake? Annalisa was her own embodiment of these paintings.
In her last lesson, Sharon had shared one of her favorite quotes, something Amedeo Modigliani had said. “‘When I know your soul, I will paint your eyes.’”
Annalisa had replied back, “Exactly! I know. I get it now. You just wait and see what I have coming your way.”
She went home for Thanksgiving and felt like a successful woman as she regaled her family with all the stories of her first five months in Portland. The most exciting news was that Patty had just offered her a full-time position as a fashion illustrator, giving her a generous salary with benefits. Nonna and everyone else was so proud of her, that she’d finally made it on her own. She knew even her mother was looking down at her with applause.
After such a long hard road, Annalisa had found her voice and was making good money, and life was beautiful and uncomplicated, and nothing could get in her way and then . . . Thomas called.
“I’m in New Orleans,” he said, “flying into Boston tomorrow. Coming home.”
It was December 12, and Annalisa was swamped with work at Pride’s and trying to get together her portfolio for Sharon.
Talk about having the wind knocked out of her. As much as she’d enjoyed their letters, the last thing she needed was to have an actual interaction with him in person. Forget about guarding her art; what about her heart? In the silence after his words, she forced herself to remember how their relationship had screwed up so many things.
“I guess you need your car, don’t you?” she asked, not meaning to be so harsh to him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I am slammed with work—finally landed a full-time position—and you caught me off guard. Wow, you’re coming home.” She hated it when she rambled, but he’d just dropped one heck of a bomb on her.
“Yeah, I’ve got three weeks of leave before I ship out. I’d love to see you if possible. And you’re right; I’d like to borrow my car, if you don’t mind.”
Ship out,she thought. He was really going to war. “Yeah, of course,” she said, not giving a damn about the car. All that she could think about was that she was the reason he was going to war. “It’s parked in my lot downstairs.”
Thoughts of losing him all over again pricked her eyes. As much as she wanted to see him, though, she couldn’t. The war didn’t change the fact that they were better off apart, so she tried to think of the best way to exchange keys without putting herself in a vulnerable position. “What time do you arrive?”
“My bus gets in at around one.”
She took a thankful breath. “Gotcha. I’m gonna be at work.”
“I figured.” She could hear his disappointment, and she couldn’t blame him. She was disappointed in herself. Why, after half a year, was he still so present in her heart?
“It’s Christmas season,” she said, feeling a need to explain herself. “We’re already working on the spring line, and I’m still trying to put together a portfolio for Sharon Maxwell. I know you remember her, the—”
“Anna,” he said, stopping her, “it’s no sweat. I just thought I’d try.” With a more chipper tone, he asked, “How are you, anyway? I’m jazzed to hear you’re busy.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Yeah, busy just the way I like it. When do you actually leave? Maybe we could connect after Christmas?” She didn’t just say that, did she?
“I leave from McGuire on the sixth.”
She wasn’t ready for any of this—his call, his voice. His going to Vietnam. The man she loved was coming home for a little while to very well say goodbye to his friends and family. A goodbye that might be his last. And here she was fumbling around with a way to avoid seeing him.
Kicking herself for being so . . . so . . . selfish, she said, “Yeah, let’s get together after Christmas. Maybe we can meet in the Mills for lunch or something.”
“Yeah, if you can find the time.” She could tell he was let down, and it reinforced her decision to avoid the meeting. She had to hold strong—for both of their sakes. She couldn’t just assume that he wouldn’t make it back. And when he did, they’d still have the same issues as they’d had originally. Or worse. The last time, Emma had ended up in the hospital, and he’d ended up with a draft notice. Their misfortune quite possibly had no limit.
No, they’d gotten through the first six months. Why cut open old wounds? Even as she thought that, though, she knew her own wounds hadn’t healed at all.
“You know what I can do?” she said, needing to get off the phone before she had a mental breakdown. “If it’s okay, I’ll leave the keys at the watch shop. Walt can give them to you. You can walk from the bus station.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask to come see her at work.
“Yeah, that’s great, Anna.” He didn’t sound angry at all but more bummed out. She wouldn’t dare tell him that it was her fault, not his, that she couldn’t allow herself to see him.
“And you don’t have to bring the car back,” she said. “I’m so appreciative, but I’ll be buying one soon.” Even the notion of buying a car with her own money was empowering and reminded her to stay strong.
“Save your money,” he said. “I’ll drop it back off on my way out. We don’t have to see each other.”
As much as she wanted to say, “I do want to see you; it’s just busy around here,” she didn’t dare. He knew exactly what she was doing, and she wasn’t about to deny it.
Regarding the car, she said, “If you really want to leave the car, then thanks.” She set the receiver down for a moment to collect herself. Then, “It’s good to hear your voice, Thomas.” It truly was, but no good would come of the two of them seeing each other in Portland. It was her city now, not theirs.
The transaction went down swimmingly, meaning Thomas had come the next day, met Walt and retrieved the keys, then headed home to Davenport without once seeing Annalisa. She certainly felt bad, especially since he’d been so kind to her by leaving her the car, but it was true: she had to focus on her career.
As much confidence as Annalisa did have in her new paintings, which were night and day from what she’d been doing before meeting Sharon, she was beyond terrified to show her teacher her progress. Thomas’s return was such a distraction that she’d gotten nothing of consequence done since their phone call. He might as well have been standing behind her easel, waving his hands and making bird sounds.
She laid out each of her top choices on the same big table in Sharon’s studio where she’d first introduced Sharon to her work and wondered if Walt’s father had felt like this when he’d slap a piece of meat in front of a customer. There was certainly a loss of magic as she began to make money with her art, an extra layer of pressure getting in the way of her creativity.
As often was the case, the Grateful Dead played from the record player. The same woody incense filled the air. Sharon studied each piece, and Annalisa waited as if her entire life was in the balance. It truly was. For Annalisa’s entire life to blossom, all Sharon needed to do was say, “You’ve done it. I don’t know how, but in six months, you have risen to the artist you’re supposed to be.” It would be a confirmation more than anything else, as Annalisa knew she’d done it.
“This isn’t you,” Sharon said, kicking the leg of the metaphorical stool upon which Annalisa stood.
The balloon of confidence that had been inflating since mid-October popped like Sharon had stuck a pin in it. Annalisa grew angry, as if Sharon had slapped her out of the blue, the red mark on her cheek the same as a failing grade stamped on a test. “What do you mean, it’s not me? Of course it’s me. This is me connecting with my subjects. These are the women I understand. This is my voice.”
Sharon looked at Annalisa, up and down, up and down, making her feel uncomfortable in her fancy outfit she’d bought the other day at Pride’s.
“I don’t think it’s you.”
“How would you know?” Sharon was wrong, as simple as that. Or she was jealous.
Her teacher went to the record player and lifted the needle off the record. The Grateful Dead gave way to a silence Annalisa wasn’t ready for. When Sharon turned back, she said, “I don’t think you can figure out all the answers in half a year.”
“I’m not saying I have all the answers,” Annalisa agreed, “but I know that you and Jackie have told me to find myself as a painter. Well, this is me. This is what I love, and apparently Portland likes them, because I can’t keep them on the walls.”
Sharon approached her and stopped when they were face-to-face. “What do you want me to tell you? That you’re ready for the big time? That you should be on the next bus down to Manhattan? Or that I’d like you to be part of my show? I don’t think you’re ready, and you’re not alone. None of the students in these classes or in my classes at the college are ready. It takes years, sometimes a lifetime, to realize our inner artist.”
Annalisa’s head felt dizzy with anger, disappointment, and frustration. She’d been painting her whole life!
“Only you can know what you’re meant to paint,” Sharon said, “but I told you in the beginning of our classes that I would give you everything I have. In this case, it’s the very difficult position of honesty.”
She pointed back at the women on the paper making up Annalisa’s portfolio. “I don’t think that those women are you, and I sense a great feeling of emptiness that hurts me inside. I don’t think this is where Annalisa Mancuso stops getting better. These are great, don’t get me wrong, and I’m not surprised you’re selling them. I’m telling you, though, as a teacher and as someone who greatly admires your talent, you can do better.”
Annalisa’s anger rose into her cheeks, and she felt her jaws bite hard against one another. This whole thing with Thomas had left her on edge, and she’d definitely found her inner tiger. “You know what it is, Sharon. You’re just going to push me no matter what. Because the minute you tell me I’m great, you’re worried I’ll drop out of your stupid classes.” Annalisa couldn’t believe she’d just said that, but . . . if Sharon was going to be honest, so would she.
Sharon dipped her chin. “I don’t think you mean that.”
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” Annalisa said, looking around the room at Sharon’s work, “and I do think that I’ve learned a lot, but I’m done here. You don’t get me. Jackie doesn’t get me either. And that’s fine. I can do it on my own.”
Her teacher crossed her arms and frowned. “Suit yourself.”
Annalisa collected her art and stuffed them into her tote. No doubt she would continue to get better. She wasn’t stupid, expecting to be a master at eighteen years old. But she was starting to think that Sharon might not be the right teacher. Maybe Sharon and her hippie ways and her damn art show weren’t the pathway Annalisa needed. She was doing fine just the way things were.
Feeling Sharon watching her, Annalisa marched out of the studio and started the long walk from the empty warehouses of the Old Port back home. The thing was she was a grown-up now, and she needed to trust her instincts. She had definitely reached a new level in her painting, no matter what Sharon said, and her instincts were now telling her that it was time to move on.