The Singing Trees by Boo Walker
Chapter 1
NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS
July 1969
Portland, Maine
Crammed into the back seat of her cousin’s brown beater, the Who playing “Pinball Wizard” on the radio, a wide-eyed Annalisa peered through the window at the skyline of the city she’d loved since she was a little girl. When someone from small-town Maine said, “Let’s go to the city,” she wasn’t referring to Boston or New York. She was speaking of Portland, a city that had been pulling at Annalisa long before she’d lost her parents and been forced to endure the rest of her high school years in Payton Mills, a town known for nothing but its football team and textile mill.
For Annalisa, Portland might as well be Paris, and Congress Street downtown resembled the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The buzz of the city: the museums and art galleries, the clusters of protesters pumping their signs, the psychedelic shops oozing incense, the exciting restaurants bustling with conversation, the concert posters plastered on shop windows promising wild nights, the hippies with their long hair and colorful clothes brushing past the businessmen toting their briefcases, even the honking of the horns, called to her as if moving here were her destiny. Here in this bustling port city, she imagined she’d never run out of creative inspiration.
Her cousin Nino, her best friend and one of the only reasons keeping her from hating Payton Mills, slid to a stop by Monument Square and turned back to her. The son of Annalisa’s paternal aunt, Nino was Annalisa’s age, had a baby face, and his wavy, slicked-back chocolate hair featured a little curl above his forehead. He was six three, could out-dribble almost anyone on the basketball court, and had a smile that lit up a room. It was no wonder that one of the prettiest girls in town, a cheerleader named Sara, sat shotgun, smacking on a piece of gum. Yes, she was Italian. Dating someone other than an Italian was not acceptable in the Mancuso family.
“All right, cugina,” he said, throwing an arm over the back of the seat, “we’ll catch you later. Don’t take no for an answer, all right?”
“When have I ever taken no for an answer?” Annalisa cracked open the door, and the sounds of the city—the car horns and police sirens, the hammering from a nearby construction site, the loud banter of the city dwellers, the arguing and laughter, the pure excitement—rushed over her. “Just don’t get too blitzed to drive us home,” she added.
“When would I ever?” Nino asked with a charming and devious grin. Annalisa wasn’t sure exactly what he and his girlfriend planned for their day in the city, but she could only imagine it had to do with booze and fooling around.
They had to be back to Payton Mills by seven, or her grandmother, who was a million times stricter than her parents had been, would ground her for her entire senior year. Though she was no stranger to breaking the rules, this was the first time Annalisa had ever been allowed to go to Portland without the accompaniment of her aunt or another adult, and she didn’t want it to be her last.
Annalisa stepped out of the car and immediately noticed Our Lady of Victories, the bronze statue of a woman holding a sword and shield, looking almost directly at her. Yes, let today be my victory, she thought. Popping open the trunk, she grabbed her purse with her sketch pad and the orange portfolio tote that had once been her mother’s.
After shutting the trunk and giving one last wave, Annalisa filled her lungs with the salty air blowing in from Casco Bay and crossed Congress Street, walking with determination toward the most well-known art gallery in town. Having been painting since she was two years old and selling her pieces since she was ten, she felt like she was finally ready to garner some attention here in the city.
The gallery was sandwiched between a boutique clothing store and a travel agency in a fancy brick building. Every Mainer knew about the great fire of 1886 and how Portland had been rebuilt with mostly brick and concrete.
Stalling, she wondered if she’d dressed too casually. She could have chosen one of the conservative and dull dresses that she wore to church, but that wasn’t her at all. Inspired by a green dress she’d seen in Vogue a few months back, she’d created a Butterick-patterned peasant top with a yard of green cotton she’d found on sale at Grants. She wore it with a caramel sash, blue-jean bell-bottoms, and hand-me-down leather boots. She had her mother, aunts, and home ec class to thank for her skills with a sewing machine.
Just as she put her hand on the doorknob, she paused. Somehow she’d managed to brick wall any fear that had arisen in the car, but it was hitting her hard now, burning her insides. It was no exaggeration to say her entire life was on the line.
Since her grandmother didn’t have a car, Annalisa rarely made it to the city and had been in this gallery only three times before, always taken aback by the curator’s eye. Jackie Burton was a strong supporter of female artists. Annalisa knew she was good and could probably find another gallery owner to take her on, but she wanted to be on this woman’s walls. A Jackie Burton stamp of approval was a ticket to the top of the artistic world in New England.
Before fear pushed her heart rate out of control, Annalisa pulled open the door and stepped inside, first noticing the polished sheen of the hardwood floors. Fighting a timidity that she rarely felt, she raised her head to the pieces adorning the bleach-white walls. She instantly recognized a very busy piece by Sharon Maxwell, a legend of the East Coast art scene.
Mrs. Burton herself was thumbing through a magazine on one of the modern fuchsia chairs that formed a circle in the center of the room. Her hair wasn’t quite jet-black, maybe more blackberry, as if God had used just a touch of violet when He’d created her. She wore a tight-fitting black dress with black heels, but her bright pearl-and-turquoise necklace rose out of the black of her outfit in a tasteful joust between dark and bright.
Annalisa gripped the handle of her tote as the two women’s gazes met. “Oh, hi.”
Mrs. Burton set her magazine down on her lap. “Sharon’s great, isn’t she?” She’d clearly been watching Annalisa.
Annalisa turned back to Sharon’s paintings. “As much as I don’t love abstract expressionism, I can definitely feel the emotion in her work.”
“Listen to you.” Mrs. Burton popped up from her chair. “Impressive. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
It didn’t take knowing that Annalisa came from a poor mill town for the lady to know she was out of place. This gallery wasn’t for teenagers, but she thought it was nice of Jackie to go along with the idea that Annalisa might be looking for something special to adorn one of the walls in her West End mansion.
Annalisa raised her tote, completely focused on making this woman love her. Not allowing any shake to be heard in her voice, she said, “I am a big fan of yours, Mrs. Burton. Of your eye and your gallery, and I wanted to see if you might be interested in taking a look at my work.”
“Oh, you’re a painter,” she said enthusiastically, taking away some of Annalisa’s fear. “Yes, I’d love to see what you’re up to. Call me Jackie. What’s your name?”
“I’m Annalisa.” She felt a bright light of excitement. Could it be this easy?
“Why don’t you come sit down with me, Annalisa? We’ll take a look.”
Annalisa thanked her and tried to temper her nerves with a deep breath as she took a seat next to Jackie in one of the stiff fuchsia chairs. All Jackie had to do was say she’d love to bring in her work, and the doors leading to Annalisa’s future would open wide. She wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that she couldn’t afford college. She wouldn’t have to worry about what she’d do to support herself for the rest of her life. All she’d have to do was capture the world with her brushes.
Like she’d done it a million times before (maybe she had), Jackie took the tote, unbuttoned the clasp, and reached inside. Annalisa had chosen ten of her favorite paintings from the past year of her work; some she’d done in art class, and a few at home.
The first piece was a scene of workers crossing the bridge over the Linden River to the textile mill in Payton Mills where her father had worked before he’d left for college in Bangor. Annalisa had waded through a tremendous amount of suffering in the days it had taken to finish this painting. When her father was her age, a brilliant young athlete with big dreams, he’d hurt his back in a forklift accident in the mill’s warehouse, which had led to his drifting to the bottle to kill the pain, and then to ultimately driving himself and Annalisa’s mother into a ravine—albeit unintentionally.
“Okay,” Jackie said, holding the piece out in front of her. “I wasn’t expecting this. You’re quite good. What exceptional detail.”
Annalisa muttered a barely audible “thanks.” Was “quite good” enough to get a few paintings onto these walls?
Flipping to the next piece, Jackie scrutinized the scene of her parents’ funeral. It was a bird’s-eye view of their friends and enormous family standing around the bodies that would soon be lowered into the ground. It was the first time Annalisa had ever inserted herself into a painting, and she stood there with her hand on her mother’s casket.
“You’re a realist, aren’t you?” Jackie asked, turning to Annalisa and ripping her from the memory. “Not afraid to paint the truth. These are quite . . . almost dreary. Is this you?”
Annalisa fidgeted with her hands before finally locking them down in a clasp on her lap. “I lost my parents two years ago.”
Jackie put her hand on the armrest of Annalisa’s chair and apologized.
“It’s been a long time. I don’t think about it much anymore,” Annalisa lied, seeing her grandmother standing outside of her school in Bangor that day, waiting to break the news.
After a reverent pause, Jackie flipped to the next painting. “I can’t get over your eye for detail. You’ve obviously been painting a long time.”
“All my life,” Annalisa said, hoping her experience made a difference.
Jackie glanced at her before continuing to the next piece. “You’re like a budding da Vinci. Do you like his work?”
It was the kindest compliment anyone in the history of her life had given her, and she had a sudden urge to wrap her arms around Jackie’s neck with thanks. “I’m Italian. Of course I love da Vinci.”
The curator went back to studying Annalisa’s pieces. Hopefully, she could see that Annalisa had put everything she had into them, the purging that she’d felt as she’d immortalized each subject with her acrylics. Jackie was right; many of them were on the sadder side, but how couldn’t they be? Sunshine was rare in her world.
When Jackie finished, she carefully slipped each one back into the tote. “What to do with you?” she asked herself. As if the answer were on the ceiling, she looked up for a while. More than anything in the entire world, Annalisa wanted her to say, “I think you are an extraordinary artist, and I’d like to bring your work into my gallery. You belong here.”
“I think you have a talent like I haven’t seen in a long time,” she said, finally lowering her head. “Art must be deep in your genes.”
Was she finally about to get a break for once in her darn life? She could see herself strutting into this gallery a week from today, seeing some of her own pieces mounted in gorgeous frames on the walls next to New England’s greatest. She could see herself collecting her first paycheck, knowing she’d finally made it after working her butt off for so many years.
Jackie bit her bottom lip. “You’re not where you’re supposed to be yet. I think you have what it takes to make it, but there’s something missing, a consistency. I’m not seeing your voice . . . maybe that’s what it is. Do you know what I mean?”
Unable to get a word from her constricted throat, Annalisa gathered her brown hair into a ponytail to busy herself. She could remember similar discussions with her mother, who urged her not only to try every medium but to experiment until something felt right. Well, the paintings in the tote in Jackie’s hand right now did feel right to Annalisa. She was not new to art. She’d played with watercolor, oil, charcoal, and even pen and ink. Then, when she’d gotten her hands on acrylics, she’d known it was her medium. She’d started with still lifes like her mother had, then gone on to landscapes, ocean scenes, and animals. It was people she enjoyed most, though, and that was what she’d been doing for at least two years now, as if she was subconsciously trying to understand them.
So why wasn’t Jackie seeing her transformation?
Jackie put her hand on the armrest again, making Annalisa feel slightly invaded. “The one with you at your parents’ funeral; that one hits me hard and shows me you have what it takes. Believe me, your ability with detail is first-rate, and I don’t mind the sort of realist, almost bleak outlook, but I don’t see your voice breaking through. If you look at works on my wall for even a second, you know exactly who did them. How old are you, anyway?”
Annalisa forced herself to perk up. “Seventeen.”
Jackie leaned in. “Seventeen? No wonder. You can’t have a voice when you’re seventeen. None of my artists did. You need to go to school, find some good teachers, and keep at it. Trust me, you’re going to be great one day. You just need to find exactly what you’re trying to say and then say it loud.” She finally sat back in her own chair, giving Annalisa the space she needed.
“Where are you from?” Jackie asked. “What’s your plan? Surely, you’ll be attending the art school, right? You know Sharon Maxwell teaches there.”
Annalisa straightened. “I wish. I’m from Payton Mills and live with my grandmother. We can’t really afford college, but I’d like to move after I graduate.” Truthfully, she wanted to grab her tote and run.
Jackie raised both hands, palms up, as if she were carrying a globe—the whole world balancing on her fingers. “You have to. What are you going to learn in Payton Mills? I mean, no offense to the place, but you need to be around other artists. You need teachers. You need inspiration that I’m not sure a small town can give you.”
“I totally agree; believe me.” Moving to the Mills, as many called it, had been a death sentence. Not that Bangor was this big metropolis, but she’d at least had some good friends and a wonderful high school art teacher.
The door swung open behind them, and they both turned to see a well-dressed older woman with fancy jewelry strolling in, carrying a large magenta purse.
Jackie called across the echo chamber of the gallery, “I’ll be with you in just a minute. I’m wrapping up with this talented young lady.” She scooted to the edge of the chair and faced Annalisa. “You just missed it, but Sharon Maxwell does a show every April in the Old Port. Very cutting-edge stuff, some even risqué, but everybody who is anybody is there. Do you know of it?”
“Art news gets to Payton Mills about as fast as new releases make it to the drive-in.”
“Trust me, you should check it out if you ever get the chance,” Jackie said. “I think you’ll find some of the answers you’re looking for.” She clasped the button on the orange tote and handed it back to Annalisa. “I want you to come back and see me. I’d be happy to help you along the way, finding a teacher or whatever it is. And please know that one day, if you keep working at it, I’d be honored to hang your paintings in here.”
Annalisa offered her best closed-lip smile, knowing that she should take Jackie’s words as a compliment, but the reality of the rejection was pulling her underwater, drowning her. “I really appreciate you taking the time to look through them.”
“Oh, the pleasure is mine.” Jackie set her hand on Annalisa’s knee. “I cannot wait to see your development as an artist. What’s your last name, by the way?”
Annalisa forced herself not to pull her leg back. “Mancuso.”
“I’ll remember your name, Annalisa Mancuso. Good luck to you.” With a last goodbye, Jackie was off to help her customer.
Annalisa pressed up from the chair and left the gallery with her portfolio in her hand and purse on her shoulder. Couldn’t she get a break? As if life were that easy. Even in the worst moments of her life, like when her father was drunk and attacking her mother, or when she’d moved in with her grandmother and had been hopeless, parentless, and afraid, painting had been the thing that had saved her. Not this time.
She rounded the corner and slipped down a quiet alley. Stopping near the back of a seafood restaurant that stank of used frying oil, she let her head fall and broke into a sob. Jackie was right. As confident as Annalisa could sometimes be with her talent, she still hadn’t found her voice. What if she never found it? Or worse, what if she did and it wasn’t anything extraordinary?
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.