Shout Down the Moon

by Lisa Tucker

  Irene and Harry don’t have to deal with Willie’s whining if he’s hungry. They always ride by themselves in Irene’s Honda. Dennis and Carl ride in Carl’s Camaro, and Jonathan leads in the van. He lets Willie and me ride with him because he doesn’t have a choice; I don’t have a car. It’s the one thing in the world I want, bad. I almost had enough cash saved for a down payment, but then Willie got an ear infection last spring that took three doctor’s visits and three different expensive antibiotics to kick.

  Jonathan rarely speaks to me, but sometimes he’ll talk to Willie, mostly grunting acknowledgments of Willie’s attempts to babble to him. It’s easy for him to ignore us. We sit in the back of the van; the equipment is crammed behind us so tight I can feel the PA system pushing on the seat whenever Jonathan hits the brakes. He usually has the radio on: classical, or jazz whenever he can tune it in. A talk show if all else fails. Anything but the pop stations.

  Jonathan hates even the word popular. Popular means sellout, and of course he sees me that way too, since I only sing pop songs. I want to tell him you can’t sell out if you’ve never been in, but I doubt he’d understand. He’s twenty-seven, but he’s already been playing professionally for ten years. He considers himself a real musician, an artist. He thinks his compositions deserve to be recorded by a big-name jazz label and played all over the country.

  His music is beautiful. Even Fred recognizes how talented Jonathan is. He’s admitted that he became the quartet’s manager two years ago because he didn’t have a choice; Jonathan blew him away at the audition, and he couldn’t say no. And he tried hard for them for a while: he got them into clubs, even got them a spot at a big-name jazz festival in Kansas City. But there was never enough money and finally Fred gave them his standard speech: I’m not in this for charity, I have a house to pay for, a family to feed, and then the punch line—he’d hired a singer. Everybody grumbled a little but Fred said he was sure they were mainly relieved. They were damn near starving; they’d taken to sleeping in their cars, in the van; Harry had to borrow from Fred once to replace a string on his bass. At least they would have food now, a place to stay, cash in their pockets. Later, Fred would get the quartet into a top-notch recording studio, he promised, and send out demo tapes to his many connections out west.

  Whether or not Fred really has big-time West Coast connections, he does know everybody who is anybody in music around here. If you get on Fred’s bad side, so the rumor goes, you’ll have to move a thousand miles to work. Carl and Dennis didn’t want to move. Harry and Irene didn’t either. They figured a gig was a gig. They were happy with the idea of a demo; they were ready for some success.

  Only Jonathan objected. He quit, after saying he’d rather flip burgers than do cover tunes. Somehow Carl and Harry talked him into coming to the first rehearsal, but for the next week, there was a lot of whispering, secret meetings, frantic calls to Fred. Often I ended up sitting on my stool for an hour or more, waiting for them to come back or for Fred to tell me I could go home, the rehearsal was canceled. I never asked any questions; I was afraid of causing trouble and having to go back to the restaurant and beg for my dishwashing gig.

  It took me a while to accept that my big opportunity was someone else’s big disappointment. In Jonathan’s mouth, my name was like a curse word—Patty Taylor, the chick singer who came along and ruined everything. Fred said I had a lot of guts because I didn’t break down with all this hostility, but he was wrong; I did break down. Sure, I held it together at work and even at home. Willie still had to be cared for, and Mama was griping at me constantly about what this job would mean, taking a baby on the road; I didn’t want to give her anything else to complain about. But every day, driving back from rehearsal in Mama’s Ford, I would turn up the radio and scream and cry and carry on like I was a candidate for the nuthouse. I was so damn lonely. I felt like all of me ached for someone to touch me, love me. Or like me, at least. Smile when I walked in. Say a friendly hello. Anything.

  If I had a car now, I couldn’t scream because of Willie, but I could cry a little if I felt like it. And maybe I wouldn’t feel like it, maybe I’d be fine if I could accomplish this one simple thing—stopping to get my son food—without having to deal with Jonathan’s disapproval.

  “It won’t take long,” I say, looking at the back of his head. He has black hair, already flecked with gray. It’s thick, long, and always messy. Irene says he’s trying to look like Beethoven— not the composer, the dog.

  When he doesn’t respond or move, I say, “All right, I’ll get something to go.”

  “I wanna go in,” Willie stammers.

  “That’s fine,” Jonathan says, glancing in the rearview mirror. He shrugs as if to say, there’s no rush, what’s the big deal?

  Now I’m glaring at the back of his head. I’m absolutely positive he frowned, but I’m just as positive he’ll never admit it. He doesn’t want anyone to think he’s uptight about getting to Omaha in time to set up and do a sound check tonight, in case there’s any problem. He’s a perfectionist about work, but he has to act cool. Musicians are always cool; it’s an unwritten but absolute law.

  “Let’s go, buddy,” I say, as I unhook the strap on Willie’s car seat. Jonathan has pulled into the first truck stop off the exit. As usual, he doesn’t think to come around and open the sliding door of the van, even though it’s awkward and difficult to push from the inside.

  He still hasn’t moved from his seat, and I ask him if he’s going in.

  “I’ll wait for them,” he says, meaning Carl and Dennis. They were right behind us on the highway, but they haven’t pulled up yet. Irene and Harry have; I look over at the Honda and notice Harry lying back in the passenger seat, sound asleep. Irene smiles and waves, but she doesn’t open the door. She never risks waking Harry; she wants him to sleep as much as possible so he’ll be rested for the gigs.

  About ten minutes later, Willie and I are sitting at a booth, waiting for our food. He’s in a booster seat and talking a mile a minute. His feet are thumping against the bottom of the table; already he’s managed to dump all the silverware onto the floor.

  Jonathan slumps down facing us, and shrugs when I ask what happened to Dennis and Carl. “I guess they decided to go on,” he says, opening the slick plastic menu. “Carl knows Omaha. They’ll find us eventually.”

  For some reason, Willie decides to stop talking now. The silence between Jonathan and me feels awkward, though it’s only a continuation of the last five hours in the van.

  Jonathan crosses his arms and looks out the window. I open my purse and pull out the Chloraseptic. My throat is bothering me a little and I want it to be okay before we open tomorrow night.

  After he orders, Jonathan opens his book and starts reading. He never goes anywhere without a book. I’ve heard him telling the other guys they have to read such and such; it’s so deep, cool, fascinating.

  I have a book to read myself, but I don’t want Jonathan to know about it; he might laugh at me. It’s called Jazz for Beginners, and I’ve been carrying it around for the last few months. It helps me figure out what he and the guys are talking about.

  Sometimes it shocks me how little I know—and not just about music. Jonathan can name a bird that flies by, he can compare one tree to another, he can talk about history and religion and politics and the news. A few weeks ago, I overheard him say that he’s teaching himself Spanish, just for the heck of it. He carries around books on the solar system, on math, on sculptors and painters. Pretty much every minute that he’s not playing or composing, he’s learning something.

  Of course Jonathan would never think of talking to me about the book he’s reading. I don’t feel bad until the waitress comes with our food and smiles, asks if I need another soda, if I need anything. Her eyes are full of pity, and I realize she thinks Jonathan is my husband, Willie’s father, and that he’s clearly ignoring both of us. Before I say no thanks, we’re fine, I make a point of smiling and opening my diaper bag, grabbing a magazine.
I don’t want her to think I’m pathetic. I’m not pathetic.

  I have no interest in the magazine though. Also, it seems rude to read while I’m eating with Willie, even though he isn’t talking; he’s watching Jonathan and looking around at the other people in the truck stop. And eating his hamburger, thank God. He hasn’t even objected to the mayonnaise slathered all over the bun, though he usually calls it “ick” and won’t take a bite until I scrape it off.

  I’m halfway through my salad, still thumbing through the magazine, when I realize Jonathan has put down his book and is looking at me. Then he says, “Thinking about cutting your hair?”

  The question comes as such a surprise, I give Jonathan a sideways glance, wondering what he’s up to. But he nods at the magazine, open to the hairstyle page, and the look on his face is neutral, like anybody making polite conversation. Maybe even a little interested.

  “I might,” I say slowly.

  When he asks why, I notice he still has the same mild, polite expression on his face. So I tell him that I’ve had it long since I was fourteen and I think I’m ready for a change. “Plus, it’s so heavy,” I say, pulling it up with my hand. “It’s too hot for summer.”

  Willie whines that he’s hot too and I pick up a napkin to wipe him off. He’s been dipping his french fries in ketchup and it’s smeared all over his fingers and running down his mouth to his chin.

  “But if you do cut it,” Jonathan says, “you might regret it as soon as it gets cold.”

  I say, “True,” and glance out the window but my lips have moved into a smile against my will. It seems like a miracle: Jonathan is being nice to me.

  After he takes a bite of his sandwich, he points to the magazine and says, “It’s good to see you studying the problem.” He’s smirking now, barely able to contain his laughter. “I’m sure a decision as important as this requires extensive research.”

  I want to kick him, but mainly I want to kick myself. I’m such a fool.

  When I don’t reply, he says, “All right, we don’t have to talk about hair,” leaning his head to the side, still smirking. “What would you rather discuss?” He reads from the magazine cover. “Glamour makeup in ten minutes? Or maybe the hot new fashions for fall?”

  What I want to say, what I have to bite my top lip to keep from saying, is “No, let’s talk about why you’re an asshole.” But I can’t let myself fight with Jonathan. I tell myself it’s immature, but I know there’s another reason. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone and I try not to dwell on it too much—it messes up my confidence.

  The truth is, I only sound good because of Jonathan. With him backing me up, I can cut this gig. But if he quit or, God forbid, if Fred fired him, I’d be exposed as what I really am. Competent, yes, but weak in certain areas. Definitely not the power singer I’m supposed to be.

  Fred hired me because he was impressed with my range and depth, my ability to belt out whatever music he put before me. My problem, as I found out when we started playing six nights a week, was that my voice was inconsistent. By the third night, my lungs were hurting and sometimes I got into trouble. I had too much vibrato when the tune was supposed to be clean, or worse, I couldn’t hold the high note without taking a noticeable breath, leaving a nasty silence in the middle of what should have been the climax.

  But Jonathan would cover for me. He’d use his keyboards as a distraction, an enhancement, whatever it took. And he made it look like it was supposed to be that way, like I was singing perfectly. After almost a year of playing together, we’re so in sync that sometimes he seems to know what I need before I do. I’m always careful not to look at him then; I’m afraid I’ll get confused, think it means more than it does. He’s just being a professional, doing what’s best for the band.

  “We don’t have to talk at all,” I say, after I tell Willie to eat up. My cheeks are burning; I want to get back in the van, on the road.

  “I was just joking, Patty,” he says, leaning back, replacing his smirk with a small smile, lowering his eyes so they’re half-open, clearly bored. He’s back to being cool.

  I can’t resist blurting, “No, you weren’t. You think my magazine is stupid and so am I. But that’s fine. I don’t care what you think.”

  “Of course you don’t,” he says, and he sounds mad suddenly, although I can’t imagine what I’ve done.

  “Well, why should I?”

  “Exactly. You’ve just started out and you already have your own band. Why should you care what I think?”

  I put the magazine back in the diaper bag, out of sight. “It’s not my band. You run the rehearsals, Jonathan, you decide the sets. You decide everything.”

  “But you’re the attraction. The product. You’re the one Fred is grooming for bigger things. And in the end, you’ll get the prize.” He stands up and grabs his check off the table, hissing, “Most likely to succeed in an anti-intellectual, art-hating world.”

  Even Willie is surprised at how mad Jonathan seems. He points with a french fry at the register where Jonathan is handing money to the waitress, and asks if Jonathan is leaving without us.

  I’m wondering the same thing, but I tell Willie no. And I force myself not to worry as he drinks the rest of his milk and we head to the bathroom. I have to pee, that’s all there is to it. Even if we do get left at a truck stop in God-knows-where, Missouri.

  As we walk up to the van, Jonathan is sitting motionless in the driver’s seat, staring out the window. When we get in, he doesn’t say a word, he just starts the engine, turns on the radio. Willie is asleep less than five minutes after we hit the highway. I stare out the window, read the billboards, and try not to think about what just happened.

  When we finally pass the barn about an hour later, it takes me by surprise; I’d forgotten all about it. It has been painted over, white, and it still looks fresh, like it hasn’t seen one hard winter yet. But as we get closer, I think I see the graffiti peeking through the paint, like a shadow. Maybe it’s real, maybe the barn needs another coat, but I doubt it.

  It’s only in my mind, I think, and my eyes start stinging. My stupid mind, which wanted to respond to what Jonathan said about me being a product but couldn’t think of anything to say other than “I am not.”

  What I wanted was to defend myself. To scream that I know what he thinks and he’s wrong: I do care about music; I’ve wanted to be a singer my entire life. When I was in the seventh grade, my teacher called Mama and told her I had talent, I should get lessons. Mama never even considered it. “Keep it down in there,” she would yell if I was singing in my bedroom and she had a hangover. When she was drunk, she would laugh at me. “Who do you think you are, Judy Garland?”

  Seeing the barn is the last straw; I feel hot and so depressed I can’t imagine making it through the next hour, much less the rest of the drive. The classical piece on the radio isn’t helping: the cello sounds lost, lonely, heartbroken. I tell myself I’m just having a bad day, but it doesn’t change my mood. I force myself to look at Willie, to think, I’m Willie’s mother, that’s important. And I have a job, a good job I worked hard for. We’re making it, the two of us. That’s enough for now. It has to be.

  We’re still forty miles from Omaha when Willie wakes up, but I don’t mind amusing him; I need the distraction. I tell him we’re going to a new place. A new hotel. Maybe they’ll have cable so he can watch the Pooh show on the Disney channel.

  “I don’t wike the van,” he says, after a while. He reaches around like he’s trying to adjust his diaper. “It makes big needles in my butt.”

  He’s picked this up from Harry, who always jokes that his butt is the only part of him that gets any sleep on the road.

  I laugh, even Jonathan laughs a little, so Willie says it again. He loves to see everybody around him laughing, happy. And he wants all the guys in the band to like him. Of course he does; they’re the men in his life. My poor baby. They’re the closest thing he has to a father.

  three

  Willie is t
he only one who keeps his good mood when we get to the club and discover we aren’t getting hotel rooms. Free lodging is part of our contract, but some club owners have found a way to cut costs: they put the band in a house, or worse, a trailer.

  Irene is nodding while Willie is telling her how fun it will be to wake up in the morning at the trailer and watch cartoons together. But then she turns to me and says, “A prime location? This dump? What is Fred smoking?”

  The three of us are slumped on stools at the bar, watching the guys unload the equipment. The stage is in the corner on the far side of the room, and it’s so small the amplifiers won’t fit. Jonathan says to put them on the floor; we’ll have to run the wires tomorrow. Carl complains there are only two spotlights and one of them is burnt out. Dennis is fussing about the setup for his hi-hat. Harry is shaking his head.

  The trailer is a few miles from the club; all we’ve been told is that it has three bedrooms, each with two twin beds. The club owner, Mr. Peterson, said it will easily accommodate a five-person band. But we have seven people; Irene and Harry usually get their own room, so do Willie and I. Even when we get four rooms, we have occasional grumbling from Carl and Dennis, who don’t see why they have to share while Harry gets the extra private room simply because he has a chick. Sometimes Jonathan ignores them, sometimes he offers to give one of them his room, but they never take it. They say he deserves the space because he’s the leader.

  “I wish I had enough cash for Harry and I to stay somewhere else,” Irene says, after pouring herself a soda from the bar. Mr. Peterson told us to help ourselves to anything except liquor. For liquor, we have to start a tab. Willie has helped himself to a package of crackers and three glasses of Sprite. He’s not that thirsty, but he likes to watch me pull out the nozzle of the soda sprayer.