Shout Down the Moon (4 page)

We’ve done four up-tempo things and now we’re slowing it down, doing a song that just came out on the radio a few weeks ago. It’s called “More Than Words” and it’s very lush the way Jonathan has arranged it. I’m on the second verse. The dance floor is packed with couples holding each other, smiling. I’m doing what Fred told me to, making eye contact with the men. When I look to the left, I look directly into his eyes for a second before I comprehend that this is real, he’s really standing by the edge of the stage, staring at me.

It isn’t Rick. I quickly glance around, thinking Rick must be here too, but no, he’s all alone. He towers over all the customers. He’s six foot four at least, with a neck as big as my waist. He calls himself Zeb; I’ve never heard his real name. He’s a dealer friend of Rick’s, and he was arrested the same night Rick was. Obviously he was paroled too.

I’ve always been afraid of Zeb. The rumor was they used him to mess with people, threaten to beat them bloody if they didn’t pay what they owed, threaten to kill them if the beating didn’t work.

Zeb’s arms are crossed, his mouth looks tight, mean; his eyes don’t move from my face. I freeze right in the middle of the verse. I freeze, and I don’t even know I’ve stopped singing because I’ve stopped thinking too.

Jonathan improvises, goes to the bridge, adds a solo. Harry and Dennis are right with him, but Carl is off a bit, trying to catch up. I hear all this but I can’t think what it means; Zeb still has me caught in his gaze. The band has gone on to the end; the applause is weak, but there. And then Carl talks to the audience, jokes about how hot it is in Omaha, asks if they’re ready to party, and so on.

Finally, Jonathan whispers my name and the spell is broken. I smile at the audience as I slowly walk back to him, and I’m still smiling as I lean over, put my ear by his mouth.

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry.” My hands are shaking; I hold them together, twist them, trying to calm down.

“Do we need to take a break?”

“No,” I say, too loudly, and Jonathan hushes me. I can’t take a break now. I have to stay on this stage all night. I have to stay right here until Zeb leaves.

Jonathan asks what’s wrong, but I’m moving back to my mic. I have to sing; I have to fix this. I have to, or I’m going to pass out.

Fred is talking to Peterson by the bar, probably calming him down. Carl is running out of amusing stuff to say to the crowd. Jonathan tells Dennis to count it off. And then we’re playing again, a loud rock song. I’m all right.

It isn’t until the set is over that I realize Zeb’s not standing there anymore. I was afraid to look; I even moved my mic stand as far as possible the other way, crowding Harry.

But I still don’t want to leave the stage. I’m sure he’s in the club, somewhere. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice. Fred has his hand up, motioning for us to follow him. This time, we meet in a hot, stuffy back room not much bigger than a closet, with metal shelves stocked with large cans of olives and boxes of cocktail napkins. Fred needs privacy.

First, he says in a low voice that he’s very disappointed in me. I wince a little; he’s never said anything like this before. Then he turns to the guys and asks if this happens often.

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s the first time and I—”

Fred puts his hand up. “I don’t want your opinion.” He looks at Jonathan. “Tell me the truth.”

Jonathan says, “No,” and throws in, nodding in my direction, “Something must be wrong.”

“Well, Patty,” Fred asks, “is there something wrong? Is that why you just stood there and killed the set? Killed this room for me?”

Harry says, “The set was good, Fred. We only had one—”

“No.” Fred is shouting. “The set wasn’t good. You looked like a bunch of clowns. And you–” He spins around to face me. “You looked like an amateur.”

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t. If it does, you’re out of this group.”

I feel like I’m going to throw up; I have to lean against the shelves for support. And it just gets worse. First, Fred rants and raves about how important this club is, how Peterson has connections throughout the Midwest. Then he gives us a little speech, explaining that Peterson has agreed to give us the rest of the night, but if we screw up again, that’s it, our gig is canceled and Fred is bringing in another band.

Finally, he turns to face me, and his voice is deceptively gentle. “Are you following all this, my dear? Or is it too complicated for you?”

I can’t speak; I can’t find my breath. I thought Fred respected me. I counted him as the one person in this storage room who thought I was capable, even smart.

“At least nod or shake your head, Patty.” His mouth is a sneer. “Show some sign you can process simple English.”

I nod but Fred doesn’t stop sneering until Jonathan says, “Give it a rest, Fred. I’m sure she understands.”

Before I leave the storage closet, Fred puts his hand on my arm and hisses, “You better get your act together, my dear. Even an ass as lovely as yours can be thrown out. Comprendo?”

“Yes,” I whisper, and Fred smiles, but it’s an icy, cruel smile. My legs feel like noodles but I manage to walk away, make it to the stage.

If Zeb is there for the next two sets, I don’t see him. I’m concentrating like I never have in my life, trying not to fail. And I don’t, thank God, none of us do. We sound great, I know it, and so does the audience. Even after the last call, they beg for another song, and then another, until finally Mr. Peterson comes up on stage and says he’s sorry, they’ll have to come back tomorrow or any time during the next two weeks.

“Let’s give a big round of applause for the Patty Taylor Band,” Peterson says, and he’s beaming. Fred is too, when he comes up to congratulate us and say good-bye before he heads back to Kansas City.

He flatters me, says I’m better than Darla, even says he has high hopes for my future. But it’s not the same. After he leaves, I realize I finally understand why Irene and the guys say you can’t ever trust Fred: he’s mean and he’s two-faced.

Peterson and the waitresses are cleaning up; everybody’s still on stage discussing what they’re going to do now. Jonathan and Harry want to stay in the club and jam for a while. Carl and Dennis want to go to Denny’s and eat first. I just want to get home to Willie, who may be sick, I don’t know, because I never had a chance to call.

Jonathan will give me the van keys if I ask, but I don’t want to leave by myself. The club is empty, but what if Zeb is still out there, waiting for me?

I turn to Carl. “If you’re going to Denny’s, could you drop me at the trailer?”

“You want to ride with me?” Carl grins as he lowers his sax into his case. “Does this mean what I think it does?”

“Don’t be stupid,” I say, but I force a smile. “It’s right on your way.”

He walks close and puts his hand on my back. “But what’s in it for me?” he says, lowering his voice. “What do I get out of the deal?”

Carl has a running bet with the other guys that he can get me to sleep with him. I overheard them talking about it during the first month of rehearsals, when they thought I was in the bathroom. I also overheard a lot of dirty remarks. For weeks after, I felt so self-conscious standing in front of them. It was stupid, but it had never occurred to me that they’d be scrutinizing my body. I figured they were busy enough judging my attitude (she’s stuck-up, she thinks she’s hot shit), my dealings with Jonathan (she doesn’t understand who’s in charge, she’s a prima donna), my relationship to Fred (she’s got her nose so far up his ass, no wonder he gave her the band).

Normally, I shrug off Carl’s come-ons, but tonight is different. I want to see Willie so bad and I need to be alone. “Carl, stop,” I whisper, stepping back. “Please.”

“Please,” he says, and grins. “Is this an invitation? Does this mean you’ve come to your senses and decided it’s time for us to do the deed?”

“No,” I say firmly, but there are tears standing in my eyes and I’m blinking furiously, hoping nobody notices.

“What are you doing, man?” Jonathan suddenly says, looking at Carl. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“I’m just kidding around.”

“But you’re going too far.” Jonathan shakes his head. “She’s about to cry.”

I feel like a big wimp, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter, all I care about is getting home. Carl’s cheeks have gone pink; he’s crossing and uncrossing his arms; he won’t meet my eyes. He didn’t mean to hurt me, I know.

“No problem,” Carl finally says. “I’ll drop you off.”

“Okay,” I say, trying not to look at Jonathan. I want to thank him for standing up for me, but I know I can’t. Whenever I’ve thanked him for anything, he acts even cooler than usual, like I’m making a big deal of nothing or even like he’s not sure what I’m talking about.

Carl and Dennis are moving to the back door; I’m following, when I hear Harry say, “Hang in, Patty. Fred goes off, then he chills. We’ve all been there. Don’t take it too seriously.”

“Thanks,” I yell, but I’m not sure he heard. Jonathan is already playing the first few chords of one of his original pieces, “Susan’s Eyes.” Irene told me Susan was his girlfriend until about a year ago. “They were super tight. They used to read poetry and play chess and go everywhere together. I don’t know what happened, even Harry doesn’t know. My guess is she dumped him.” Irene snickered. “Probably she realized he couldn’t love anybody like he loves his keyboards.”

I heard him talking to his parents once about Susan. Jonathan doesn’t call his parents that often, but when he does, usually from pay phones on the road, he always sounds happy to talk to them. I can tell from his answers that his parents are both on the line, and they’re asking about the band and the gigs, what he’s composing, what he’s thinking about. They all seem very close, which must be why I remember the Susan conversation—because it was the only time I’ve heard him sound annoyed with them. He said three times that he didn’t want to talk about Susan. Of course then I was dying to know what there was to say.

Dennis and Carl are outside now, and the instant I’m out there with them, I remember Zeb. I’m so nervous walking to the Camaro that I stumble on the curb. I keep looking around as we drive, trying to see if anybody is following us. After a few blocks, I finally turn around and breathe normally again.

Carl and Dennis are sitting in the front seat, bitching about Fred. I don’t join in, but I laugh when they mention his five-hundred-dollar suits and fake leather shoes, his jet-black hair, obviously dyed since he’s pushing sixty, and his ridiculous habit of calling every woman “my dear.”

“You sound better than Darla, my dear,” Dennis says, as I get out of the Camaro. He has Fred’s la-di-da voice down perfectly, so I laugh again. Carl still won’t look at me, but he nods good-bye.

When I open the trailer door, Irene and Willie are curled up on the couch, sound asleep in front of the TV. I pick him up and she opens her eyes, mumbles, “He’s good. Never got sick.” She sits up and yawns. “Everything go all right?”

“Just fine,” I whisper, because it feels true now that I have Willie in my arms, his sweet sleeping breath on my neck. He’s only wearing a diaper, but I don’t want to risk waking him; extra blankets will do for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll have to remind Irene that it’s way too cold in here for Willie to sleep undressed. She should know; she’s the one who turned the air-conditioner knob to sixty as soon as we walked in the trailer. “Peterson pays the utilities,” she said. “Might as well turn this dump into an igloo.”

Irene stumbles into her room as soon as I take Willie to bed. She’s tired, she doesn’t want to talk. I feel the same way, but an hour later I find myself still awake, reviewing everything that happened tonight. It seems like maybe the guys are beginning to accept me, see me as part of the group. And who knows? Fred’s hostility might turn out to be a blessing in disguise—as long as I don’t get fired.

Of course the main thing I’m worrying about is Zeb. I want to believe his showing up has nothing to do with Rick, but I’m finding it hard. Why would he send Zeb here, though, instead of coming himself? It doesn’t make sense.

I’m telling myself that it might be just a coincidence. Maybe Zeb was in Omaha to visit family or do some job, and he wandered into the club like any other customer. Maybe he was just staring at me because he was surprised how different I look. After all, it’s been more than three years since he’s seen me; I’ve changed a lot.

In any case, there’s no point in dwelling on it right now. I say that in my head over and over, as the digital clock next to the bed announces three o’clock, three thirty, four. At 4:10, the guys come in. I hear them talking, but I don’t hear them banging around in the kitchen and I don’t hear the CD player. They’re doing what Irene and I asked, being quieter so we can sleep. Another good sign, I think. Things just might be looking up.

I
t’s a little over a week later, Sunday, and the guys are leaving for their afternoon concert. Peterson kept his word and advertised the event in the local paper and on the jazz radio station; he expects a good turnout. They all seem excited and a little tense, even Harry, the coolest of the cool. Willie is waving bye to them all and I say, “Good luck.” It’s the best I can do; if anything, I feel I’m being too generous. The last week has been horrible. I can barely remember why I thought things might be getting better.

It started when Fred sent me flowers the day after I froze on stage. It was a huge, expensive arrangement: red roses, white carnations, yellow chrysanthemums inside a large cut-glass vase. He had them delivered at the gig, before the set, while the guys were tuning up. Unfortunately, my hands were shaking a little—I thought they might be from Rick—and I dropped the card. Dennis picked it up and read it aloud to everyone, doing his perfect imitation. “Your talent continues to amaze me, my dear. Keep up the good work and I’ll have you in a studio when you return. All the best, Fred.”

I tried to contain the damage. I stuck the vase in the corner, out of sight; I rattled off something about how ridiculous Fred can be. But it was too late. The grumbling had started about all the promises Fred had broken to them, how stupid he is, how incapable of recognizing real talent. I was a little offended, but I already knew they felt this way, so I went along, complaining that it’s like Fred is schizophrenic, going back and forth about everything. Carl frowned and said, “What do you have to worry about?” and the rest of the guys just stared. So I shut up and made a point of ignoring them for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, the point was lost on them; they were too busy ignoring me.

It got worse after that. Irene said it was Fred’s studio comment that really got to them—and Fred’s response when Jonathan called him a few days later to ask if he still planned to record the quartet and send out demos, like he promised, and if so, when. Fred hemmed and hawed but the upshot was he wanted Jonathan to write some new songs first. They could be jazz, fine, but they had to have crossover potential. Most important, they had to have lyrics. They had to be written and arranged specifically for me.

When Irene confided this, she was very upset for Harry, for all of them. I mouthed the appropriate response, something about Fred being a big liar, but it wasn’t easy. It had never occurred to me that Jonathan would write a piece I could sing, and I loved the idea. It would be beautiful, unusual; maybe it would get picked up by some record company; maybe it would make us all stars. At least maybe we’d see some real money for a change. I’d finally be able to open a savings account.

Of course Jonathan had no intention of doing this. In fact, he was threatening to quit again. All week, the guys spent every afternoon in Carl and Dennis’s room with the door shut, discussing their options. Irene told me Jonathan felt like Fred had no commitment to them or their music, and they were wasting their time working for him. But the rest of the guys felt like the opportunity to play at good clubs like Peterson’s made up for it. And what about the concert they were doing this Sunday? It was more exposure than they could hope to get on their own, playing at dinky, no-name colleges.

“And she won’t be there,” Dennis reminded Jonathan. “It’ll be the real shit, us and the music. She’s a meal ticket for now. That’s the way we have to look at it.”

Irene didn’t tell me this part. I overheard it when Willie ran over and opened the door and I went in to bring him back out and apologize.

I didn’t apologize, but I didn’t confront them. I was as worried as anybody that Jonathan would quit this time. The meal ticket business was depressing but better than the alternative.

The week was hard on Willie too—that’s what I’m thinking as I watch him waving good-bye to the guys. “They’re talking grown-up stuff, buddy,” I had to keep telling him, as an explanation for why they were all closed up in the room. And even after he understood that you don’t open a door without knocking, I had to tell him he shouldn’t knock, it would just bother them. He was so proud, holding his little fist in the air, showing me he’d remembered the rule. It broke my heart to say no.

Today I’m taking him swimming. There’s a public pool on the way to the club and it’s a hot August afternoon; it’ll be good for him to get outside. I asked Irene if I could borrow her Honda but she said she’d go with us, she needs the exercise.

The wading pool is packed with other kids, and Willie’s so happy he can’t quit smiling. He loves other kids, especially the bigger ones, the four-and five-year-olds who include him in their pretend games. They boss him around, tell him he’s a dragon, not a dinosaur, tell him to sit there, don’t move, okay now move, now attack, but he doesn’t mind at all. He even lets them splash him in the face, and when I ask him, “Are you okay, buddy?” he’s giggling so hard he can’t answer. I think for the hundredth time that he’d love preschool. He needs more children in his life, not to mention more family.

As I watch the other kids at the pool, I catch myself wishing that Willie had some of the normal, everyday things they do. A decent house, or even an apartment, just a place where he could keep his toys, spread out, and stay for more than a few weeks. A mom who works, fine, but not such freaky hours, who’s home at night and can read to him before he goes to bed.

My favorite thing to daydream about is the house Willie and I will have if the band ever makes it. The house wouldn’t have to be big or fancy, but it would be way out in the country. All around would be yellow fields and purple wildflowers, maybe a winding brook for Willie to wade in on a hot day. On the front would be a porch big enough for a swing, a beautiful white one like our next-door neighbors had when I was growing up. The neighbors who looked at me with pity so often I couldn’t stand them—but I loved their swing.

Inside the house, the entire floor would be covered in the softest, thickest carpet. I would be able to get right out of bed without worrying about the cold boards. My kitchen would have a microwave that’s built in and a refrigerator that makes ice. The bathroom would have a big old claw-footed tub, like the ones you see in the movies, and after Willie was in bed each night, I’d get in and soak as long as I want. Then I’d go crawl into my bed with the three pillows and the thick pale blue quilt. I’d have a really good lamp and a table next to the bed, and on my table would be all kinds of books, not just the one music book I own now.

We haven’t been at the pool long when I find myself thinking about Rick, but that’s not strange; I’ve been thinking about him a lot this week. I still don’t know why Zeb was at the club. When I told Irene what happened—and about Zeb’s reputation—she seemed nervous too. “It’s kind of eerie,” she said. “Like he sent this creep to spy on you.”

“But we were just doing a gig. What’s the point?”

“I don’t know, but I’m telling you, there must have been something he thought he’d find out. Something he wanted to know.”

Her comment has stayed with me; I’m still pondering it as I sit on the side of the wading pool, soaking up the sun, watching Willie. Irene is doing laps, or trying to. The regular pool is crowded with teenagers horsing around, dunking each other. They’re at most five or six years younger than me but they seem like babies. It’s not just because I have a job and Willie; I felt this way when I was their age. I was with Rick, and Rick never horsed around.

There is one couple who reminds me of the way Rick and I were. They don’t look anything like us—he’s too short and skinny, she has a deep tan I couldn’t get if I stayed outside for months—but they act like we did. They’re lying on a blanket and they’re making out, seriously: her hand is caressing the back of his thigh; he’s licking the hollow of her neck, pressing his bare stomach against hers, then his pelvis against hers, now his whole body. They’re not doing this because they want an audience though. It’s clear they don’t realize they have one. They’ve forgotten they’re surrounded by strangers; they’ve forgotten they’re at a pool. They’re so taken with each other and what they’re feeling that no one else exists.

When he slides his hand around her breast, cupping it with his fingers, I realize I shouldn’t be staring at them like some peeping Tom. I force myself to turn away, feel my face burn that I watched so long. Willie is holding a plastic ball, trying to float, and I smile to encourage him. He’s still happy, that’s something, even if for me coming here suddenly seems like a mistake. I’d forgotten what a pool is like, the shimmering water, half-naked bodies, kissing couples. It makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.

After Irene sits down beside me, I try to turn it into a joke. I laugh and tell her I feel like a horny old lady, surrounded by all these hormone-driven teenage kids. She laughs too, then points to a man over by the snack bar, says he’s cute and offers to introduce me to him.

I squint at her. “You know that guy?”

She laughs again. “No, but I’ll just walk over and tell him my friend needs it. Now.”

Her voice is loud; I elbow her in the ribs, tell her to keep it down. She laughs harder and shapes her hands into a mega-phone. “I’ll tell him my friend hasn’t had it for an entire year. Twelve long, desperate months. I’ll say if he doesn’t help out my friend this minute, she may go postal in the pool.”

She’s threatening to do it, standing up, pointing to him; it’s getting ridiculous. I tell her to quit. I grab her ankle and threaten to drown her if she keeps on saying this. I tell her he isn’t my type anyway, and I’m not even slightly interested.

After a minute, she sighs and sits back down. “Okay. But damn, I’d think any guy with the right equipment would be your type after a year. It has been a year, right? Who on earth are you waiting for? Johnny Depp?”

I say, “Tom Cruise,” because I know Irene hates Tom Cruise and she’ll go on and on about why he’s completely overrated. I want to distract her; I don’t want her to ask me that question again—the one in the middle. She knows I haven’t had a serious relationship since Rick, but she always assumes I had dates before I joined the band, while I was working at the restaurant. So far, I haven’t been able to bring myself to correct her.

Irene has taken Willie into the big pool when it hits me that this might be the one thing Mama and I have in common. After all, she has never been with anyone except my father. She’s never even had a date in all the years since he died.

Mama adored Daddy. She must have told me a thousand times how happy they were. He was the love of her life. He treated her like a queen. When he died it was the worst thing she could imagine. It took away all her hope.

It wasn’t the kind of tragedy that makes the newspapers. One Sunday, Daddy was on the roof, patching up a leak, when he just fell. I was standing outside jumping rope, but I can’t say I saw it happen. First I heard a noise, more like a yelp than a scream, and then I discovered him sprawled out on his back on the driveway. I walked over and he looked normal enough for me to ask if he was all right. Even though I noticed the small river of blood coming from his head, I still didn’t understand why he wasn’t answering me. As I ran in to get Mama, I realized the radio was still on the third rung of the ladder, and still playing.

I used to think Mama blamed me. For the longest time, whenever she got drunk, she would pressure me to tell her what I had been doing that must have distracted him. I was in second grade; even though I couldn’t think of anything to tell her, I was never really sure I was innocent.

I can’t remember how much she drank before he died, but I’ll never forget how hard she hit the bottle afterwards. At night, whenever I got up to get some water or go to the bathroom, I’d find her sprawled out on the couch, mumbling that she couldn’t bear to sleep in their bed. In the morning, she would cradle her head in her hands and yell at me for everything: for dressing too slowly, for letting my spoon clank against the cereal bowl, for leaving a spot of toothpaste foam on my lip. I guess she was happy sometimes, but only for fleeting moments and never when I needed her to be. I remember when I told her I got the lead in the sixth-grade play, she shrugged. I convinced myself she didn’t hear me, but I was careful not to say it again. I didn’t want to know if I was wrong.

She didn’t start throwing me out until I was twelve. The first time she told me to leave, I thought it was a joke. It was a strange night. I had just started my period, and Mama decided that she would drink to my “becoming a woman.” Every evening she had a reason for drinking, but this one was friendlier than most. I sat with her, I let her toast me. We ate saltines dipped in ranch dressing and talked about (but never cooked) supper. I remember how happy I was when she mentioned that I would have my first kiss before long.

I was chattering about boys at school, which ones might like me, which ones I thought were cute, when her mood started to change. She told me she didn’t want to hear any more about my social life, and poured herself another shot of whiskey.

After a while, she started talking about how she met Daddy. This was one of her favorite topics when she was drinking. I knew the whole story by heart. Daddy was with another girl when Mama met him at the warehouse where she was working then. Evelyn was the other girl’s name. This Evelyn was well liked and pretty; she had a good job as a supervisor. “But he didn’t end up with her, now did he?” Mama would say, and laugh. “I’m the one he married.”

I never really understood why Mama was so interested in Evelyn, but I always nodded along. One time, when I asked her where Evelyn was now, she said, “Working in a ditch, for all I care. Ten kids and no teeth. On welfare. Wrinkled up and ugly as a prune.”