The second picture Donna finds in Vincent’s sketchbook is one of him as a child playing the mandolin. She observes that his stance with one foot in front of the other somehow reveals his unassuming, humble nature, and marvels at how he was able to create complex emotion with simple lines. “With two black dots for eyes and a couple of lines for a mouth, he was able to convey his childlike innocence and spirit.” She recalls the time (in Chapter Five) that they drove to the music store in his big, old Chevy truck so he could get a new mandolin, and how happy he was once they got back to his apartment, just to sit and play it. Enjoy the following excerpt.
“Do you ever think of going for a job in the casinos?” I asked as I ate the last of my fries. I knew those glitzy shit-hole palaces were the complete opposite of him but thought there had to be something he could do there that wouldn’t be so awful. “I’m not saying getting a job as a Blackjack dealer but maybe something in one of the restaurants or something like security.”
“That cornball place?” He waved his hand in the air.
“It might not be so bad. You’d have more money and health benefits. Carmen worked there. Nancy worked there during her summers in college.” I was expecting him to tell me to can it, but instead, he asked me if I wanted to come with him to the music store in Pleasantville, where he wanted to buy a new mandolin.
“A new mandolin?!” I snapped back. “You haven’t worked in months.” He barely had money to eat. I forked over for Wendy’s. He wanted to pay, but I wouldn’t let him. Mom kept him stocked up with boxes of macaroni and cans of tuna fish or else he’d go hungry.
“I work. I paint houses. I have money to get a new mandolin.” The tone and volume of his voice remained the same even though he was defending himself. In fact, he even chuckled.
“You know if you worked at the casinos, you’d be able to buy more instruments.”
“I told you, those casinos are a lousy deal. I’d feel like a real horse’s ass working there.” He took a drag from his cigarette and blew smoke out towards the lake.
“I thought you were going to quit.”
“I am…one day.” He hunched over and laughed, half of his face hiding behind his hand.
I really started to get tired of trying to convince both him and Mom to quit. Surprisingly, Dad quit a few months ago. Cold turkey. I thought if Dad could quit, Mom and Vincent should have been able to do it too. I was wrong.
“C’mon,” he said, ignoring my nagging. “Let’s go to the music store.”
At that, we both got in the truck and drove off. Soon after leaving the cookie factory, he’d learned to drive and got the big old clunker that we were sitting in. Right after he got the truck, he wanted to drive to upstate New York to see Robin Williamson, the guy who started The Incredible String Band. He talked me into going, and we drove and drove as the surrounding mountains grew larger, and the winds outside grew colder.
“I thought you said it was just a few hours away,” I’d said, sitting in the passenger seat, freezing because the heater didn’t work so great. “I just saw a sign for Canada!” He’d laughed and told me we were almost there. We’d got to some little dark tavern with a bunch of old mountain hippies sitting around, and when Robin came out, Vincent was in his glory listening to him sing old Scottish ballads, tell stories, and play the harp. In between sets, the two of them talked like old pals, and I’d found out that they’d known each other because Vincent’s old landlady in Pennsylvania was good friends with the guy.
We were quickly approaching the music store that was in a crummy neighborhood on a busy street. There was nothing charming about this place, but according to Vincent, they carried top quality instruments. The salesman was an adorable old man dressed in a maroon suit and a bow tie, and he gave Vincent a break on the mandolin because he was a regular and could pay in cash.
This post is part of my latest blog series on the artwork that inspired the family saga, The Bird that Sang in Color. The art featured in these posts comes from a sketchbook that belonged to my brother, Vincent, which I discovered shortly after his death. It had pictures he’d drawn of himself throughout various phases of his life. This pictorial autobiography caused me to wonder what pictures I’d have of myself by the end of my life, which motivated me to live more fully. In writing this novel, I was able to share this powerful realization with the world. This novel is the third book in the Greco Family Trilogy. Each one of these family trilogy books is told from a different family member’s point of view. This one is told from the perspective of the Greco family matriarch, Donna.
Grace Mattioli is the author of the Greco Family Trilogy books, including Olive Branches Don’t Grow on Trees, Discovery of an Eagle, and The Bird that Sang in Color. These books are available from all major online book sellers, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Apple Books.
