The Singing Trees by Boo Walker
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.
He let loose the grin she remembered so well as he approached them. “Are you stalking me?” he asked.
“I should ask you the same thing,” Annalisa said, seriously considering that possibility.
He pointed to Emma. “That’s my sister you’re talking to.”
Emma shrugged. “Yep.”
Looking back at Thomas, Annalisa noticed his red sweater for the first time. “You’re an Eagle?”
“For the rest of my days,” he said, stopping directly between her and the field. “I graduated last year, go to Weston now,” he said, referring to the little Ivy League college a few miles away. “I was with my art class when we first met.”
“That’s right; you’re a sculptor,” Annalisa joked.
“A sculptor?” Emma said, as if he’d claimed that he was an astronaut. “He couldn’t sculpt a snowman.”
Thomas shot his sister a glance. “Don’t call me out. I thought you had my back, sis.”
Annalisa laughed loudly, both to poke fun at Thomas and to lift Emma up. Emma joined her and then finally Thomas.
“So you’re a Spartan, I’m assuming,” he said to Annalisa, wiping away his smile.
“For seven more months.”
“How about that,” he said. “What are the chances?”
He took a seat next to Emma’s feet and rested an arm on her thigh. “So you disappear for a minute and I find you talking with the enemy?” Then, more lovingly, he asked, “Everything okay? We’ve been looking for you.”
Emma shyly glanced over at Annalisa and then back at her brother. “Everything’s fine. I just don’t care about the game.”
Thomas patted his sister’s leg. “It’s all groovy, just making sure.” In an apparent effort to save his sister from further embarrassment, he said to both of them, “This isn’t allowed, you know, you two talking. Emma, this is the girl I was telling you about. From the museum in Portland. Can you believe that?”
“No way,” Emma said skeptically.
Annalisa instantly thought: Why was he talking about me to his sister?
“I hoped I’d run into you again.” He looked entirely too excited for this coincidence. “To think you’ve been living right down the road.”
Annalisa decided things were getting a little too mushy and that it was time to go. She turned to Emma. “It was good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, Annalisa,” Emma said.
Oh crap,Annalisa thought. She was busted.
“Annalisa?” Thomas said. “I thought your name was Alice.”
Emma nearly snorted with laughter. “Ha ha. Looks like you must have made a great first impression.” She turned back to Annalisa. “He’s not used to being turned down.”
Annalisa jumped to the ground. “I guess there’s a first for everything.”
Waving from a few feet away, she said, “Emma, good to meet you. So how can I convince your brother that he’s not my type?”
“Why not?” Thomas asked, standing and going her way. “Give me that, and I’ll let you go.”
She’d better end this for good, or he might show up at her doorstep one day. “For one, I’m not allowed to fraternize with non-Italian men. My grandmother would kill me. And she’d kill you too.”
He inched toward her. “How do you know I’m not Italian?”
“I bet you’re not even Catholic.”
His voice shot up an octave. “You can bet your sweet bippy I am.”
Annalisa turned back to Emma, who was finding all this very funny. “Is he telling the truth?”
“I can’t say.” His sister grinned ear to ear, a complete transformation from the girl earlier.
Back to Thomas, she said, “Say a Hail Mary.”
“Right now?” He was suddenly standing a foot from her.
Annalisa gave an if-you-think-I’m-worth-it shrug.
“Hail Mary,” he started, “full of mace, the gourd is in me . . .” He trailed off. “Okay, I’m not Catholic. I might not be Italian, either, but I love pasta.” He said the last part as if it was a question.
A laugh—nearly a cackle—escaped without her permission, and she started backing away.
Just as she opened her mouth to say goodbye, a burly guy about Thomas’s age, with a shaved head, approached. He said in a gravelly voice, “There you are, Emma. I went all the way out to the parking lot looking for you. You all right?” He assumed the same seat Annalisa had taken on the picnic table and put his arm around the young girl. “We not cool enough for you?”
“Alice, this is Mitch Gaskins,” Thomas said. She wasn’t sure if he meant to introduce her with the wrong name, and it niggled at her. “Despite being a pretty good mechanic,” he said, “Mitch is the dumbest guy you’ll ever meet. As you can see by his ugly scalp, he enlisted and just got back from basic training. He can’t get to Vietnam fast enough.”
Mitch shrugged. “It’s in my blood. What do I do? Good to meet you, Alice.”
“It’s actually Annalisa,” she corrected, feeling the weight of the war as she imagined this Mitch on his way to fight for his country. And he’d enlisted, so by choice.
Thomas slapped his head with gusto. “That’s right. Annalisa.” Then he gave her a grin, showing that he was messing with her.
She made a face back at him. He was too sly for his own good.
Turning to the visitors’ stands, where Nino was probably wondering where she’d gone, she said, “I need to go find my friends. Goodbye, Emma. Goodbye, Mitch.”
“What about me?” Thomas asked with a charming puppy-faced grin.
“Bye-bye, boy who loves pasta,” she said.
Boys could be so tempting at times, and Thomas was charming—but slick. The perfect example of how a girl could get reeled in and then hurt.