Page 61 of The Singing Trees
After five minutes, she raised a beautiful brass piece. “What’s this?”
He looked up from his desk, where he worked on a cuckoo clock. “That’s a pendulum bob that used to swing in an old grandfather clock damaged when a roof caved in from the rain back in the...fifties, I think.”
“Do you mind if I use it? It could be the perfect striker to put in the center.”
He gave her a look like she’d asked for one of his kidneys but then acquiesced. “Yes, go ahead.”
At that moment, the bells of noon rang and Annalisa smiled. It was funny how her life had come to beat to the sound of the noon and midnight bells.
She returned to the shelves and searched through the boxes. She found a spool of old black nylon cord and then a few old keys and some other parts that belonged to different timepieces. She grabbed a few tiny brass pieces that she thought might be fun to include in one of her newer paintings. That wouldn’t be very “old soul” of her, but maybe some new tricks might lead her even closer to her voice.
In the next box, she came across an old photograph in a fragile frame. It was a picture of Walt from maybe twenty years earlier. He looked so much livelier back then. He rested his arm around a woman Annalisa could only assume was his wife. She had long curly locks of red hair. They stood on a beach with the ocean behind them. She flipped the photograph over. In a faded cursive, it read:Graystone, 1951.
Annalisa entered the shop from the back room, waving the photo. “Was this your wife?” She set the photo down in front of him.
She saw a slight change in his body, a slump of the shoulders, almost a deflation as Walt slowly pulled his attention away from a watch to inspect her find. “Please return that instantly.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Had she done something wrong?
“It’s fine,” he said, handing the photo back to her. “Just put it back where you found it, and that’ll be enough snooping for the day.”
“Where’s Graystone?” she asked, too curious to let it go. “I want to go there.”
“Please,” he almost barked.
She tightened up, feeling how his past haunted him.
More calmly but no less deliberately, he said, “I’d like for you to put the photo back where you found it.” With that, he returned his attention to the watch.
Annalisa glanced at the photo one last time. She could see in the younger Walt’s expression how much he’d loved the redhead in his arm.No wonder he was still in pain. That was the way Nonno used to look at Nonna. For a quick flash of a second, she wished Walt and Nonna could connect; they were both in the same spot. When they’d met, though, the first time Nonna had—albeit reluctantly—come down to visit Annalisa, the two had barely spoken a word to one another.Eh, probably better that way,Annalisa decided. Then they wouldn’t be forced to endure even more loss down the line.
She collected her finds, feeling responsible for cutting open his wound. “I’m sorry for the photo.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, waving her off.
“What was your wife like?” Annalisa asked, thinking she was playing with fire.
Looking to be at his wit’s end, he plonked the watch onto his desk and removed his glasses. “I’ll not ask about the boy you broke up with if you don’t ask about my wife. Seems fair enough, yeah?”
She looked down at the ground hard.
“Good,” he said, “now bring me down some paintings tomorrow, and we’ll see what we can do about mounting them and finding some wall space.”
She thanked him and uttered not another word as she slipped out of his shop. On the way up, she stopped to check her mailbox and found a letter from Thomas. Her heart leaped every time she’d found one of his letters, as if nothing else could bring her so much joy. She’d been corresponding since she’d sent that first letter to Fort Dix, mentioning the nude model. He’d written her back with lighthearted humor, much like what he sent to his mother. Perhaps humor was his way of coping. He’d joked about push-ups and running and more push-ups and said he spent Zero Week washing dirty jungle fatigues. The worst part was the inoculations delivered with an air gun.Makes a measles shot feel like a kiss on the cheek.
In the previous letter, he’d told her he would be moving to Fort Polk, also known as Tigerland, in Louisiana for advanced infantry training. She knew nothing about army speak, but he was slowly teachingher. It was all about acronyms. His MOS code was 11B. She still didn’t know the meaning of MOS, but he’d explained that 11B meant he would be an infantryman and most likely ship to Vietnam and see frontline action. Reading that part had struck her harshly, and she could imagine only in her worst nightmares seeing Thomas as one of the battle-weary soldiers stationed in Vietnam, as shown on the news.
Not only was his MOS an indication of his trajectory, but he wrote that most everyone in Tigerland went to RVN. She did know what RVN meant from the news. Republic of Vietnam. Fort Polk shared similar weather with Southeast Asia, so soldiers were often acclimated there on their way. Knowing that she was in no small part culpable for his situation was enough to shatter any progress she was making if she let herself mull it over for too long.
Wishing he had written to say that he was coming home and that he’d heard word of the end of the war, she raced up the steps, sprawled out on the couch, and relished every word.
Louisiana is a hell hole,he started out in what was three pages of barely legible chicken scratch.The only good thing down here is the crawdads. They’re like little lobsters and remind me of home. It turns out I love Maine. And you know what I really miss? Snow. It’s so darn hot down here.
She appreciated his humor but could feel his unhappiness. He wasn’t built for war, and she could only imagine how Mr.Sunshine was losing his sparkle. All because of her.
He asked if she’d drawn any more naked men and wondered if Portland was getting cold. He also asked her if she’d sold any paintings yet and if she was still loving Portland. Instead of offering some weak apology for getting him into this devilish mess, she wrote him about her breakthrough and asked if he’d heard about Jimi Hendrix’s death. She also mentioned that she’d tried Emma again with no luck. As she signed her name, an idea popped into her head. She went out to the balcony with her sketch pad and drew him a picture of the view. Then, to please him, she made it snow.
Chapter 22
