Shout Down the Moon

by Lisa Tucker

  eight

  Hurry up and wait. It’s always like that with Fred. His time is valuable, ours isn’t, unless we’re at a gig.

  It’s Monday morning, Labor Day no less, and here I am, trapped and pacing Fred’s reception area. My plans for today included letting Mama take care of Willie so I could sleep in for the first time in months, driving to the lake for a picnic, and maybe renting a video later, if I could think of a movie Willie would like and Mama could stand. I also thought about hitting the Independence mall, since Mama said they were having a big sidewalk sale. But no matter what we did, I wanted to take it slow, relax. I didn’t want to think about anything—not Rick, not work, not my future—and I definitely didn’t want to have a meeting with Fred.

  When he called on Sunday afternoon, we’d just gotten back from Topeka. Jonathan had dropped Willie and me off at Mama’s. I’d barely had time to say hello to her and unpack Willie’s toy bag when the phone rang. He said he needed to see me in his office right away, at nine o’clock the next morning.

  So I dragged myself out of bed and drove Mama’s Ford the forty-five minutes to his office in midtown Kansas City. When I walked into the reception area, it was exactly nine o’clock. Fred was back in his office. I could hear him talking on the phone.

  I sat down and thumbed through an old copy of Rolling Stone. Then I got up and wandered around the room, looking at the pictures. Fred has framed publicity shots of every band he’s been involved with for the last thirty years; they cover the right wall and the back wall from knee level to ceiling. Some of the names are impressive. A few of his groups have appeared on one of the Billboard Lists. One had a platinum record that went on to win a Grammy. A lot of the older pictures are signed. “To Fred, who made it all possible,” that kind of thing.

  The newer band photos are closest to the door. Irene says that’s no coincidence, given Fred’s reputation for taking on— and quickly firing—new bands. Ours was taken at a club here last winter. It’s a very good picture. Fred paid for a top photographer, who took at least forty shots to get this one. Fred says it’s “energized” and “sexy.”

  On the drive over here, it crossed my mind that Fred was going to bitch me out for something, maybe even fire me. I was a little scared, but more than a little hostile. I don’t hate Fred, but I certainly don’t trust him anymore. The expensive flowers he sent couldn’t make me forget how horrible he was that night I froze at the club.

  It’s now nine forty-five, and I’ve just made up my mind. If he doesn’t come out of the office by ten, I’m going to leave him a note and go. It’s a national holiday. Even garbage workers get the day off—why shouldn’t I?

  When he finally comes out of his office, it’s 9:58, and I’m just about to bolt. He apologizes, claims he didn’t know I was waiting. Then he smiles and takes my palm in his like we’re old friends. He’s wearing a suit and tie on Labor Day. This is typical Fred, but it makes me nervous. I withdraw my hand and ask what’s up.

  He motions for me to follow him in. He sits down at his desk and points to the chair across from him. “I have some exciting news for you.”

  I exhale and sit down.

  “A few weeks ago, I had a long conversation with Jim Peterson. He is right where I want him now. Eating out of my hand.” Fred smiles. “He couldn’t say enough about the marvelous Patty Taylor. He expressed his fervent wish for you to play his club forever. He said it would be heaven.”

  “Thanks.” I pause for a moment as a depressing idea crosses my mind. “I hope you’re not about to say we’re going back to Omaha. To me, heaven doesn’t include Peterson’s trailer.”

  Fred laughs loudly. Too loudly. It isn’t that funny. “Oh, no,” he says. “I’m merely expressing my profound admiration.”

  I nod as he continues pouring on the compliments. Finally, he sits back and folds his hands. “When I said I would get you into a studio, my dear, I meant it. I have the highest hopes for you. You remind me of Darla, as you know.”

  I smile. “That’s great. I’d like to record something. But we need songs, right? Originals?”

  “Of course.” He leans across the desk and hands me a picture. “And that’s where these young fellows come in.”

  It’s a slick band photo: five guys in tuxedos. I’ve seen them before. They play a lot of the same places we do. Sometimes the club will still have their promo material up when we unload. They’re called Mystery Train. They have two guitar players; one of them, Ron, is also the singer. They’re one of Fred’s older bands; they’ve been playing the area for more than ten years. I’ve heard Carl and Dennis make snide remarks about how little talent they have, but Carl and Dennis say that about all the pop bands.

  “Ronald knows I want to record you,” Fred says, as he points to a cassette at the top of his in-basket. “He’s written these songs because he wants to be part of that.”

  Fred hands me the tape. “I want you to take it with you. Bear in mind that the keys will be changed. And some of the lyrics are inappropriate for a female singer, but Ronald is aware of the problem. He’s promised to have revisions before the first rehearsal tomorrow.”

  I set the tape on the picture in my lap. My voice sounds as confused as I am. “You’re moving me to Mystery Train?”

  He laughs. “No, no. Mystery Train as such won’t exist anymore. It will still be the Patty Taylor Band.”

  “You mean, when we go in the studio?”

  “Yes, and in general. As of tomorrow, Ronald’s band will be backing you up.”

  I lean forward. “But what about our gig? Aren’t we supposed to open at McGlinchey’s tomorrow night?”

  I know we are; Jonathan told us about this weeks ago. McGlinchey’s is one of the best rooms in Kansas City. It’s also a good room for us since the owner likes jazz. He has us booked for the entire month of September.

  Fred waves his hand. “Tomorrow, this week, isn’t so important. The time after Labor Day is very slow in the clubs. I can easily put in a replacement. After that, it depends on how the rehearsals progress. When you’re ready, of course I’ll put you in. The new Patty Taylor Band will be easy to book anywhere.”

  I stare at him as it dawns on me what he’s saying. “You’re firing Jonathan and the other guys? Immediately?”

  He smiles. “Your success is what’s important, my dear. I’ve been telling Brewer’s quartet that for the last year.”

  “But they have no idea. I mean, you told them they’d be staying at the Balconies. I was there when you called Jonathan just a few days ago.”

  The Balconies is an apartment complex Fred owns down by the Plaza. The name is something of a joke among Fred’s groups—only the apartments on the top floors have balconies, and those are rented out to regular, paying tenants; the bands are always housed on the bottom two floors—but it’s considered the best place to stay because each musician gets a furnished apartment with a small kitchen, a bedroom alcove, even a television.

  All of the guys were happy when Fred gave them the news last week. It didn’t matter to me because I’d be staying with Mama, but I was glad for Irene. She’d be able to cook whenever she wanted. And, as she kept saying, she wouldn’t even have to see the rest of them; she’d have Harry all to herself.

  “I’ll probably get sick of him,” she said, but she was smiling. “Damn, this is good news. If old Fred was here, I’d kiss him.”

  “Calm down, Patty,” Fred is saying. His face hasn’t changed but his voice is noticeably cooler. “They are installed in the Balconies as promised. I gave Jonathan the keys yesterday… Of course, I can’t house them indefinitely, but I plan to give them a week to find other quarters.”

  A week. Dennis might be okay—his parents live in Kansas City—but what about the rest of them? What about Irene and Harry? They can’t afford a deposit on an apartment; they spent all their savings last June, when Irene’s Honda had transmission trouble on the way to Little Rock.

  I rub my eyes and remind myself it isn’t my problem. T
rue, the guys have been nicer lately, but only because they fear losing their “meal ticket.” And I was seriously considering asking Fred to find me a new group anyway, like Jonathan suggested. I thought about it constantly while we were in Topeka. Fred is just making it easier. And he’s offering me a chance to go into the studio, cut a tape of original songs.

  Of course I hadn’t decided yet. I was stuck on a few points, the biggest being how I could do any of this without Irene. She’s a good friend, and more important, she loves Willie. I love that she’s part of his life.

  “I should tell you that I have an interested party in California,” Fred says. “A record executive at a major label. But I’ve told him he can’t have it exclusively.” He smiles. “This demo will be too hot to limit ourselves to the offer of one label.”

  “Wow,” I say. It does sound incredible, and I tell him so. Then I take a deep breath. “Well, how long do I have to make up my mind?”

  He laughs—and not a nervous chuckle or a little ha-ha—a full-throated, wide-open, completely amused roar. I blink with surprise, but I cross my arms, wait for him to finish. “I do have a say in who I work with, don’t I?”

  “Yes,” he says lightly. “But I can’t imagine you would care.”

  I force my voice to stay calm, ask why he thinks I wouldn’t care. He talks in circles, but the upshot is that I have no experience in the business and I’m in no position to judge what’s best for myself. Then he hints that it’s very unlikely I could even tell the difference between Ron’s band and Jonathan’s.

  I flash to the storage closet in Omaha, when Fred asked if I could comprehend English. Now I know it’s true: he thinks I’m stupid.

  “I may be new to this,” I say slowly, more than a little fiercely, “but I know one thing. I want to work with good musicians.” I look at the wall behind him, so I don’t lose my courage. “For your information, I care a lot about what I do.”

  “Patty, you have to be reasonable. Aren’t you forgetting all the difficulties you’ve had with Jonathan’s group?”

  “No. But maybe we could work those out, if it was best for the music.”

  “The music,” Fred mutters, as he picks up a silver letter opener and taps it against his desk. I can tell he’s getting angry. The corners of his lips are turned down, and his eyes are staring a hole through my forehead. “This is all very charming, my dear, but it’s beside the point. Yes, Brewer is extremely talented, but I spoke to him only a month ago and suggested that he write songs you could record. Do you know what he told me?”

  I shrug, even though I’m dreading this. Fred smiles. “I believe his exact words were, ‘I’d rather lick a toilet bowl.’”

  It’s not fun to hear, but it’s Fred’s nonchalant tone that really gets to me. And he looks so smug, leaning back, tapping his letter opener—so absolutely confident of his right to decide everything, tell us all what to do. Yet he will freely admit that he’s never played an instrument and can’t even carry a tune. All of a sudden, I realize I do hate him. Maybe I’ve always hated him, since the first day, when he made me model three low-cut gowns in the freezing rehearsal room before he would tell me I had the job.

  I sit up straighter and arrange my face in what I hope is a confident expression. “Jonathan and I have been working together for a year. I think I know him a lot better than you do. I’m sure he didn’t mean that.”

  When Fred bursts out in a laugh, I wince, though I know it’s true: what I said is ridiculous. Yet I can’t back down. I want to, I know I should, but my mouth won’t cooperate and form the words. Instead, I find myself blurting out that I won’t make up my mind about Mystery Train until I’ve had a chance to confer with Jonathan and the rest of my current group.

  He’s obviously surprised, but no more so than I am. We both sit quietly for a moment; then he shakes his head and says he’ll give me until tomorrow.

  I put Ron’s tape back on his desk; he tells me to take it. He smiles coldly and says he’s sure I’ll need it soon, adding in a low voice, “Unless I lose interest in this project.”

  Now I’m nervous. I say that I really appreciate everything he’s done, but he waves me off and picks up the phone.

  I have to force myself not to run out of his office. As I slump down in the Ford, I wonder if I really am losing my mind. What on earth have I just done? Why did I antagonize Fred when he was finally giving me my big chance?

  I take deep breaths, tell myself it’s no problem, I can fix it tomorrow. All I’ll need to do is grovel a little: admit he was right, apologize for doubting him, and thank him sincerely for the opportunity to work with Mystery Train. But what if my mouth refuses to cooperate, like it did today? What then?

  Something has definitely gone wrong with me. Fred is my boss, the one person I need on my side the most, and I’ve just defied him. “You really screwed up this time,” I say to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “You’re such a stupid idiot.”

  My reflection won’t cooperate either. My lips are flat, unmoved; my eyes are still defiant.

  “Go ahead, ruin your life,” I say to the face in the mirror. Then it hits me how ridiculous this is, sitting in an empty parking lot, talking to myself. I start the Ford.

  By the time I get to Mama’s, I have myself pretty much convinced that there is no point in talking to Jonathan anyway. I feel very sorry for Irene and a little sorry for the rest of them, but I can’t imagine how to change it. Fred wants me in the studio, I want to be in the studio, and Jonathan won’t write for me. What is there to discuss?

  Willie has already had lunch; the dirty dishes are sitting on the kitchen table. I peek into my bedroom, where Mama is trying to rock him to sleep. When she sees me, she signals with her hand for me to be quiet. I think it’s too early for his nap, but I don’t interrupt. I know Mama loves to rock him.

  I plop down on the couch before I remember the Mystery Train tape in my purse. My Walkman is in my room, but Mama has an old tape player in the kitchen. I’ll have to keep the volume low; at least I can get a feel for what Ron has written.

  The voice on the tape sounds friendly. I assume Ron is talking to Fred. “We call this first song ‘Push Over.’ Hope you like it.”

  It starts with a few loud guitar chords. Then the bass comes in, thumping a two-note line to a pounding drum beat. I don’t hear the keyboard player until Ron starts to sing. “I push you/ You push me/ Dealers push drugs/ Waves push dolphins out to sea/ It’s the land of the push over, honey/ What I want from you/ Be my little push over/ Let me push all over you.”

  The words are silly but catchy enough. The music, though, is terrible. There’s almost no melody; it sounds like Ron is reciting a cheer for a football team. Or maybe he thinks he’s rapping. I remember Carl saying Mystery Train loved rap; the rumor is they even tried a modified rap version of Barry Manilow’s “Mandy.”

  The second tune is better, but still nowhere close to good. It’s a slow song, so at least there’s a melody, but the refrain is as monotonous as “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” And this time the lyrics are beyond silly; they make no sense. They keep repeating, “Come down to my cabin/ The weekend’s meant for two/ Over in Havana/ I like to see it through.” But the verses have nothing to do with Cuba or traveling—unless the bit about some girl’s “banana yellow pants” is supposed to make us think of Havana.

  I tell myself I’m being too harsh. After all, a lot of the songs we do have lyrics that are just as lame. If I can sing “Manic Monday” and “Like a Virgin,” I can certainly do these.

  By the fifth song, I’ve realized what the problem is. I’ve been spoiled by my band. Even when we do something as basic as “Manic Monday,” we mess with it a little: add riffs that weren’t in the original song, throw in an extra stop or push past the stops already there, vary the tempo of the refrains. Of course by “we” I mean Jonathan. He does all our arranging.

  Ron’s songs are average pop tunes. Nothing wrong with them, nothing great about them either. I guess I should be
flattered. Fred plans to shell out big bucks for a studio; he’s obviously thinking that I’ll add the spark to make the record company people pay attention.

  I’m wondering if I’m up to the task when Mama comes into the kitchen. She doesn’t have Willie and she’s smiling with her nap success. I tell her I’m amazed she got him down this early. I don’t say I’m sure he won’t sleep more than a half hour; he never does if he naps before two.

  She picks up Willie’s half-empty yogurt cup and throws it in the trash, but I tell her to sit down. I’ll clean up. Ron’s tape is still playing, but I’m not paying attention, I’m looking at her. Every time I come home, I’m surprised by how old she seems. Her hair has been gray for years, but it’s only recently that the skin on her face seems to have crumpled like a tissue. Even her movements are cautious now, like she can’t trust her own body. She’s only fifty-one, but she’s led a hard life. Her doctor has told her many times that if she hadn’t stopped drinking, she’d be dead from liver damage.

  When I’m finished with the dishes, I sit down across from her, and she lights a cigarette. I wish she would stop smoking too, but I haven’t been able to persuade her.

  Ron is droning on about a tree that fell in the forest and nobody heard it crash. Nobody cares either, I think, as I hit the stop button.

  “I thought I might get the hose out this afternoon,” she says, moving the ashtray by her elbow. “It’s pretty hot. Willie might like to water the bushes for me.”

  “I’m sure he would.” I smile. “Before you hand him the hose, better make sure all the windows are closed.”

  She points at the tape recorder. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” I rub my eyes. “One of Fred’s bands.”

  I look away from her, let my eyes wander to the back window. The yellow swing she hung for Willie looks crooked. I make a mental note to check the chains, make sure she counted off the same number of metal links on the left and the right.