Shout Down the Moon

by Lisa Tucker

  By the time we get to the trailer, it’s after ten and all I want is to get Willie to bed. “What room do I take?” I ask Dennis, since he’s right next to me. He doesn’t answer, so I look at Jonathan and say, “I really don’t care. I’ll take the smallest one. Whatever.”

  He doesn’t answer either. Fine. I go down the hall, dragging our suitcases and Willie’s toy bag, pick the first room I come to and snap on the light. It’s beyond ugly; it looks both nondescript and glaring, the way things look when you’re fighting off nausea. The twin beds are Early American and the spreads are pale green with nubs; the floor is covered with cheap indoor/outdoor carpet. Two of the drawers on the small chest against the wall are missing their handles. Of course there’s a painting over the bed. Every place we stay has a painting. Ocean scenery is popular, so are tropical forests. But never the sights we can see from our windows: a flat field filled with corn, or a muddy lake, or a truck stop on a slab of concrete plopped down in the middle of nowhere.

  When I look at the painting here, I have to laugh. It’s a landscape, cotton fields in the South, and in the background, a stately plantation with pillars like in Gone with the Wind.

  I go back into the living room to get Willie, and he’s cranky; he says he doesn’t want to miss the party. Jonathan is slumped on the brown plaid couch, staring at nothing; Dennis is on the floor, rolling a joint with Carl, and Irene and Harry are standing out on the front porch, whispering, probably still trying to figure out the room business. I tell Willie he’s not missing anything and drag him away.

  He complains while I change his diaper and put his pajamas on, but almost as soon as the light’s off, he falls asleep. Since he was a little baby, he’s always been a good sleeper.

  All I want to do is join him, but late or not, I have to go to the kitchen and use the trailer phone to call Mama. She gets mad if I don’t give her the phone number of each new place as soon as we get in. She says Willie could be dead on the side of the road, and how would she know.

  I want to keep it short, but unfortunately, I’ve barely said hello when she starts a rant about Rick’s Lincoln “lurking” across the street from her house.

  I know this is unlikely. Why would Rick go to her place when he can obviously find me easily enough? And Mama doesn’t even live in Lewisville anymore. It was part of her new start when she got sober: she packed up everything and moved to Evans, a small town east of Kansas City, a quiet, peaceful place, she said. The only house she could afford on her file clerk salary was a rundown shack with peeling paint and a leaky roof and a backyard that barely fit a wading pool, but she felt it was worth it. She wanted me to bring Willie and live with her. And she didn’t want me ever to run into Rick again. She made sure our phone was unlisted; she left no forwarding address.

  Even though she started drinking when I was seven—and throwing me out of the house when I was twelve—she has somehow convinced herself that Rick is the source of everything bad that has ever happened. Rick and my father dying, that is. I don’t know how she got through AA, since I’ve never heard her admit that she herself did anything wrong. But she adores Willie, and that’s what matters to me now. He calls her Granny, and she laughs and kisses him and fusses over him, and it’s like we’re a normal family for the first time in years.

  I take a breath and ask why she thinks the Lincoln is Rick’s. After all, I remind her, he probably has a new car now. It strikes me as I say this that there was no car outside my hotel room the day Rick showed up. It was as if he appeared out of nowhere and disappeared the same way.

  “Well, it sure looked like his.” I hear her take a deep drag from a cigarette. “But okay, maybe it wasn’t. I am a little jumpy since that man got out.”

  “Jumpy?” I force a laugh. “You’re a nervous wreck.”

  She pauses for a moment. “Patty, tell me the truth. You ain’t tried to get in touch with him, have you?”

  “What?”

  “I know how you are, that’s all I’m saying. You could never resist them boys who look like two-bit movie stars.”

  I let this slide, even though it’s completely ridiculous. Them boys? I’ve never been with anybody but Rick, as Mama knows full well. I tell her of course I haven’t tried to contact Rick, and then I listen as she extracts promises that I will call her and the police if I lay eyes on one hair of his head.

  I feel a little bad that I’m not keeping this promise, but the truth is, she doesn’t really want to know that I’ve seen Rick. She just wants to hear that everything will be fine. Ever since she got sober, my job has been to reassure her. When Willie had terrible colic: “Don’t worry, Mama. It’s normal for babies, but it won’t last long.” When he fell and smacked his head on the sidewalk last year: “He’s not bleeding; he didn’t lose consciousness. I’ll just get him checked out at the ER, but you don’t have to come. Don’t worry.”

  Whenever I call her from the road, there’s something she’s nervous about. She heard there might be a tornado coming to our area; where will we go for shelter? It’s going to be really hot next week; what if Willie doesn’t drink enough? There’s a man on the loose in Illinois; she heard all about it on America’s Most Wanted. Oh Lord, isn’t that close to where we are? What if this man on the loose steals her little grandson?

  “Don’t worry, Mama,” I always say. “It will be all right. I can handle it.” Whatever it is.

  She hates being nervous. Being nervous makes her chain-smoke. Being nervous makes her want to take a drink—and that’s a lot scarier to me than a tornado or a TV-show bad guy.

  I try to change the subject to Willie’s complete lack of interest in the potty chair I’ve been dragging around for the last three months. Another thing she’s worried about. But she doesn’t bite. “You know what bothers me the most, Patty Ann? The idea of that man seeing Willie, putting his hands on him. It turns my blood cold.”

  I find myself thinking back about how gentle Rick was with Willie, patting his knee, playing with his hair, kissing his forehead, stroking his little knuckleless fingers. Finally I exhale and tell her not to worry. “I will never let Rick hurt my son.”

  She’s still going on about this when I interrupt and tell her I really have to get some rest. I rattle off the trailer number and hang up before she can object.

  The whole time I was talking to Mama, I could hear bits and pieces of the band’s continuing argument about the room problem. When I walk into the living room, I decide to ask Irene if she wants to stay with Willie and me. I plan to sleep with him anyway; one side of his bed is against the wall, but the other is exposed and even though I’ve put pillows against him, I’m afraid he’ll fall out. Before I can ask her though, Jonathan says the couch is comfortable enough and he’s sleeping there, end of discussion.

  I tell them all good night and head down the hall. It’s so dark in the bedroom that I hit my shin on the frame of the bed, but I’m too exhausted to curse. The air conditioner is on full blast; after I put on my sleep shorts and T-shirt, I lie down in bed, snuggle into Willie.

  A few minutes later, Willie rolls over and throws his little arm around my neck. “You are my heart,” I say, but softly so he won’t wake.

  For the first few days, Omaha isn’t too bad. The trailer is tough, but at least the club is better than we thought. It’s small, but it’s in an upscale neighborhood, and it does a healthy business from the very first night. Mr. Peterson, the owner, seems pleased with us, although he refuses to let Jonathan do any instrumentals. He tells Jonathan he personally likes jazz, but it won’t go over with his audience. But he offers to let the guys do a special concert a week from Sunday, in the afternoon, and he tells them he’ll put out a newspaper ad and charge a five-dollar admission, split it with them. They’ve made it clear that I’ll have no part in the concert, but still, I’m glad about it. It puts everyone in a good mood.

  We don’t have to rehearse much; so far our sets are working with this crowd, mostly people in their thirties and forties, old enough t
o remember sixties and seventies songs, young enough not to mind a little newer rock. We’ve only had a few requests and they’ve all been the usual ones, slow songs like “Without You” and “Endless Love.” Jonathan has a briefcase full of fake books; he can play almost anything straight through, no practice. As long as the song is slow, it’s not hard to get it together: Dennis brushes the beat on the snare; Harry does a simple bass line, and Carl does a riff in the key. Usually, I know the words already. Fred brags that I know every song ever written and it’s pretty much true. I used to listen to the radio for hours when I was stuck in the car outside some rundown house, waiting for Rick to finish a drug deal.

  Weird as it sounds, that time with the radio was one of the happiest parts of my life back then. I would start with rock, my favorite, and then move to Top 40 and country and even mellow old stuff like Perry Como and Frank Sinatra. And I sang along with all of it, at the top of my lungs. The windows were closed and it was dark; nobody could see me. I felt like I could sing twenty-four hours a day. I felt like I could sing through anything: a nuclear blast, a car accident, cancer—a drug deal.

  Of course now that I’m singing professionally, I can’t sing along with the radio as loud as I want. I always have to protect my voice. I have to be ready for a night like tonight, when a crowd has gathered to hear us at our best.

  It’s Friday around ten o’clock, and everyone is a little nervous. The room is full, and Fred is here too. He drove up from Kansas City without his wife, which means he doesn’t want any distraction. Already, after the first set, he has a lot of suggestions. Dennis and Jonathan need to smile more. Harry needs to turn down his amp; the bass is drowning out the sax. I need to make more eye contact with the audience, especially the men, who pay for the drinks. Carl needs to pay attention; Fred says he heard him screw up the melody on “Let’s Stay Together.”

  We’re on break, having a little meeting in the back by the bar. I was hoping to call the trailer, ask Irene if Willie is asleep yet. He was complaining of a stomachache when I left, but he had two greasy hot dogs for dinner; I hope it’s just that and he’s not coming down with something.

  After a few more minutes of Fred’s lecture, Mr. Peterson comes over and asks if we can start early. The jukebox isn’t cutting it and two tables of customers have just left.

  Fred smiles. “Of course.” Then he tells us to get up and make it hot, make it kick. As the guys start to walk away, he grabs my hand. “You sound beautiful, my dear. Better than Darla.”

  Darla was Fred’s discovery twenty years ago. She was a local celebrity before she hit it big. She put out three records, all sold well, but then she died in a plane crash while on tour in Japan. Fred told me the whole story. When he says I’m better than her, it’s his ultimate compliment.

  I smile at him, though I wish he hadn’t said this right now. Dennis heard it for sure, maybe they all did. And they’re right: it isn’t fair the way Fred always compliments me and not them, but there’s nothing I can do.

  Before we can start, we have to wait for Carl. He’s talking to a woman, as usual. All of us get propositioned occasionally, but Carl has groupies everywhere. It’s not just because he has the glamour job as saxophone player. He has white-blond hair and icy blue eyes; Irene says he looks like a young David Bowie. Sometimes he goes home with a woman after the gig but he never brings her around the next day.

  We’re halfway through the second set and everything is going fine. It’s a warm August night; Peterson has the front door propped open to let the music draw in people walking by, and it’s working. Every table is full and there’s a crowd standing in the back. Both waitresses are busy all the time, taking orders, bringing refills. No one is drunk yet, or at least they’re not yelling or making catcalls.

  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 con
nections 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 goodbye 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.