Page 3 of The Singing Trees
How strange we never spoke of Vietnam. Or the fall of the Berlin Wall, the war in the Middle East. Can you believe we all have computers? Can you believe Tom Brady? That’s right, I keep up a little. How about Portland’s evolution? I thought the Maine Mall would ruin our city forever.
I hope you know that after hitting rock bottom, I’ve dedicated my life to making up for my sins and attempting to honor you. I suppose it’s not much, but it’s the most I can offer. I love you, Thomas.
Always your sister, I hope,
Emma
Part I
JULY1969TOJUNE1970
Chapter 1
NOTLIKEOTHERGIRLS
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 herdestiny. 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 inVoguea 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.
