Shout Down the Moon

by Lisa Tucker

  While he’s eating, I remember to tell him that we shouldn’t talk about Daddy to Granny yet. Daddy will be our secret for a while.

  “Like spies,” he says, and I nod, but I hate doing this to him. I wish I could tell her how it really is.

  Willie’s just fallen asleep and I’m halfway there when the phone rings. I race into the kitchen so the noise doesn’t wake him, but my hello sounds like a curse.

  It’s Jonathan, calling to tell me that Fred just called him. It seems Fred can’t wait anymore. He plans to drop by McGlinchey’s this evening, to hear what Jonathan’s written. We need to have a band meeting right away.

  I yawn and tell him Mama isn’t here, I don’t have a car. He pauses; then he says fine, he’ll pick me up.

  “Do you have anything yet?”

  “More or less. I’ll be curious to see what you think.”

  His voice sounds hesitant, even a little nervous. I’ve never heard him sound like this before.

  Since he won’t be here for forty-five minutes, I go back in our room, lie down next to Willie, but it’s useless now. I’m way too nervous myself.

  twelve

  McGlinchey’s is one of the nicest rooms we play. The table-tops are thick mahogany; the light fixtures are solid brass. Even the women’s bathroom has fancy flowered wallpaper and an overstuffed couch that’s so comfortable I’ve learned to avoid sitting on it, it’s too hard to get back up. Still, it’s a bar, and being in any bar on a Sunday afternoon is vaguely depressing. The windows in the front don’t bring in enough light, the bottles of booze lining the wall seem sleazy, a little sad, and the whole place feels scrubbed with silence, like the halls of an empty grade school.

  Or maybe I’m depressed because of what Jonathan just said. On the drive over, we didn’t talk at all. I thought maybe he was annoyed because the Ford was sitting in the driveway when he picked me up. I tried to call him when Mama came home not ten minutes after he called, but it was too late; he’d already left his apartment.

  At least I didn’t have to bring Willie with me. It would be hard to deal with him and deal with our problem.

  Jonathan does have a song, but he doesn’t have lyrics. “None that are worth using anyway,” he adds, nodding at his open briefcase, where I can see a stack of crumpled notebook paper at least two inches thick.

  All the guys are already here. Dennis and Harry are sprawled out on the stage floor. Carl is sitting on a chair by the PA; his hair is wet and he’s blinking at the overhead lights like he just woke up.

  “You’re a composer, man,” Carl is saying. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this lyric bullshit.” Dennis chimes in, bitching about what Fred has suggested Jonathan write.

  “Patty’s forte is the heartbroken girl,” as Fred put it. “But give it a hint of sex. Let her come off as hurt but hot.” When he saw me, he faked a bow. “No offense intended, my dear.”

  Jonathan is sitting behind his Rhodes. After a moment, he says he’s going to play the melody of the piece. At least he can let us hear this part.

  The melody seems perfect. It’s pretty, and surprisingly simple. Of course the guys will improvise around it, but it sounds like exactly what Fred wants. It’s catchy but still good. And it’s not just in my key, it sounds like it was written specifically to take advantage of my strengths—the longer notes are all on the low end, where I can cut the vibrato, and avoid my weaknesses—no sudden jumps above high C, thank God.

  “It’s great,” I tell him.

  Harry smiles. “It kicks butt.”

  “But she can’t sing it,” he says. “Not without words.”

  “Maybe a scat thing would work,” Dennis says. “Doo wop, doo wop, doo wop.”

  Carl laughs. “I’ve got it. Just sing ‘bite me’ over and over. Send old Fred a message from us.”

  I shoot him a dirty look, but he shrugs. “Brewer is an artist, Patty. He writes because he has something to say. He can’t fart out some commercial dog shit just to please Fred.”

  “But if he doesn’t come up with something, the studio is canceled. For me, and for you guys too. Fred won’t keep his deal if we don’t do what he wants.”

  This is the way it was presented to them: if Jonathan writes for me, Fred will record and promote their instrumentals. They fussed a little until they realized Jonathan wasn’t going to write pop; he was going to teach me jazz. “I guess you’re not as big a sellout as we thought,” Carl said, and smiled like he’d just given me a compliment.

  It’s about fifteen minutes later, and Jonathan has played the song twice, but no one has any good idea for lyrics. Dennis has just come up with the brilliant suggestion that we make the song about owls. All of them are laughing when we hear a phone ringing.

  Carl runs into the little storage room behind the bar to answer. He probably thinks it’s his latest woman, the one Irene calls mouthy—not because she talks too much, because of what she supposedly does for him in the backseat of his Camaro, during breaks, to relieve his tremendous artistic tension.

  When he comes out and says, “It’s for you,” I know it has to be Mama.

  “Why do I hear those boys laughing?” she says. “I thought you had to rehearse.”

  Her voice sounds as suspicious as if she caught me in a lie. “We’re discussing the song,” I say, and blink. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a car sitting right in front of the house. I’ve never seen it before and I know it ain’t from around here.”

  “A car? What—”

  “It’s him,” she sputters. “I’m positive. Good Lord, what if he’s here to take Willie?”

  “Calm down,” I say. “Did you actually see Rick?”

  “No, I ran in here and called you, but I—”

  “At least go look at the driver. Please!”

  She mutters that isn’t necessary, but I hear her drop the phone on the table, and then a thumping like she’s stomping across the room. After a moment, she comes back. “It’s gone now. But I know it was him.”

  “Oh, Mama.” I’m so relieved I let out a laugh. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid? I mean, why would Rick drive up, sit there, and drive away? Especially when he knows his parole officer is in contact with us?”

  “You tell me,” she snaps. But then she says, “I don’t know why I’d expect that. You never tell me what’s going on.”

  I slump down on a can of pretzels, wondering what on earth she’s mad about now. When I finally get up the nerve to ask, she hisses, “Willie told me.”

  “What?”

  “He’s seen his daddy.” Mama’s voice is a spit. “It sounds like they had a load of fun together too. They played with his cars. They even ate spaghetti.”

  “Shit.”

  “Oh, that ain’t the half of it. He said you told him y’all are going to live together in a big house. But I can visit if I want.”

  “I did not say that. Willie loves to pretend, you know he does. I would never—”

  “But you did eat spaghetti with that killer? You let him be in the same room as your sweet little boy?”

  There’s no point in denying it. She isn’t giving me a chance anyway.

  “You promised you’d stay away from him, Patty Ann. You promised you wouldn’t let Rick Malone come near that innocent child!”

  I pause and rub my forehead. I know it’s just stress, but my head is pounding so hard I can barely think.

  “Look, Mama,” I whisper, “there were circumstances I couldn’t control. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “He showed up and you couldn’t resist? Is that what you mean by circumstances, young lady?”

  Her voice is quiet, but the disgust is unmistakable. She sounds exactly like she used to when she would call me a slut. I’m too hurt to argue. I tell her she has to stop it or I’m going to hang up.

  “Oh,” she yells, “here we go again.”

  “What?”

  “You know what.” I hear her take a deep drag of her cigarette
. “This is the way you used to treat me when you lived with that man.”

  “The way I treated you?” I burst out in a laugh, but it’s so bitter and loud, it sounds like I’m choking. “How about the way you treated me? Do you ever think about that part? Do you, Mama? Huh?”

  I know I’m going too far, but I can’t help it. It’s like all of a sudden, I’m back in the truck with Rick, remembering when she screamed that Daddy hadn’t wanted me to be born. And it’s all blending together. Her slamming the whiskey glass against the wall, Rick pushing me down. Her calling me a brat, him telling me to relax as he—

  “I was your child! You were supposed to take care of me, not the other way around. And you know what? If you’d been there for me even once, my whole life might have been different. Rick wouldn’t have come looking for me in Omaha because I never would have gotten involved with him!”

  I don’t really believe this. Just this morning, I told her I don’t regret being with Rick, and it’s true. But I don’t care. I’ll say anything to make her stop torturing me. It works, but too late. Now she’s quiet. Now, when I’ve already made a fool of myself.

  Jonathan is standing in the doorway of the storage room. I don’t know how long he’s been there. Maybe the whole time.

  Ever since that night at Lydia’s, I’ve been trying to prove to him that I’m not a mess. And I was making progress, or at least I thought I was, until now.

  Dammit, I think, as I turn around and tell Mama I can’t discuss this anymore. Before she hangs up, I whisper that I’m sorry. She doesn’t respond.

  There are tears standing in my eyes as I put down the receiver. Most people would look away, but not Jonathan. He stares right at me as I wipe my face on my shirt sleeve.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.”

  I want to walk out of the storage room—get away from him—but he’s blocking the doorway. Then I realize I don’t hear the guys laughing anymore. When I ask what happened, he says they went out to get some food.

  I exhale. “Great. I come all the way over here and they cut out.”

  “I thought you would need some time.”

  This might seem sweet if he didn’t look so uncomfortable. His arms are folded tightly across his chest; his face is arranged in what I’m sure he thinks is a concerned expression, but actually looks slightly ill.

  I put my hands on my hips. “The only thing I need right now is a good tune. Can we please get back to work?”

  He says okay, and we go back on stage, presumably to discuss our lyrics problem. But as soon as he sits down behind the piano, he says, “I can’t do this, Patty. I’m sorry.”

  “But you have to. I mean, you said you would.” I stop because my voice sounds whiny, desperate. I sit down on the stool and point to his briefcase. “Isn’t there anything in there we could use?”

  “Unlikely. Ninety percent of it is my usual rants against the simpleminded trash that passes for art.”

  “Well, a rant might be okay.”

  “How could you sing it? You don’t believe that most people don’t care about beauty or meaning.” He smirks. “That they don’t care about anything but the petty trivialities of their miserable lives.”

  I pause, wondering if Fred’s call is the reason he’s being so negative. “Charlie Jubar told me the reason you need chops is so you can play your heart.”

  “Jubar is cool. Very deep.”

  “Okay, but where is the feeling in what you’re saying? It seems like it’s just hatred.”

  “Hatred is a feeling, Patty.”

  “But there’s nothing beautiful about it.”

  “I disagree. I think there is beauty in appropriately directed rage. At least it isn’t complacent.” He pauses. “But you see my point.”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m supposed to write words for you. Something you can feel. But what you’ve lived through I can’t begin to express.”

  Oh God, not this again. “I’m really not as bad off as you seem to think,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “But I don’t want to discuss my personal life. Like you just said, it’s trivial.”

  He laughs a little before he says, “Maybe you should write the words yourself.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious. Many singers write their own lyrics.” He plays a loud minor chord. “Why don’t we give it a try? I’ll play the song again, and you follow me. Make up words as you go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “That’s a start. I can’t,” he says, as he plays the first two notes of the melody. “Now what?”

  “I mean, I can’t come up with words.”

  He plays the first line, repeating what I just said. Then he smiles. “It’s interesting, but I think Fred is looking for something more accessible.”

  I cross my legs. “Come on, Jonathan.”

  “Good. It sounds like Clapton. Lay down, Sally. Come on, Jonathan.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “That’s the refrain? ‘Ha-ha.’ It’s simple, and that’s always good. But it may not play with the crowd. They may feel you’re laughing at them.”

  I don’t say anything but I smile. He’s still playing. “What’s next?” he shouts.

  “You’re nuts.”

  “You’re nuts,” he repeats. “Is this a musical allusion to Joe Cocker’s ‘You Are So Beautiful’? You are so nuts, so nuts, to me-e-e.”

  Now I’m laughing. “Wait,” I say. “We need to add something romantic. Something like ‘I love you just the way you are,’ except it should be ‘I love you in spite of the way you are.’”

  “Good,” he says, and repeats it, but the way the melody goes, the accent falls on the word ‘spite.’ “Riff on that now,” he says. “Spite is one of my favorite emotions.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I say, and giggle. “But I think it’s a little boring.”

  “Boring?” he says, and fakes a frown. “You’ve cut me through the heart.”

  “Hey, that part goes perfectly with the first line. You’ve cut me through the heart.”

  I’m still giggling as I stand up and walk next to him, lean my elbows on the top of the Rhodes. “You’ve cut me through the heart. But I’m still alive. You’ve got plenty of spite but only a plastic knife.”

  I sing the same thing again before I notice he’s not laughing anymore. He’s not smiling. Even his back is straight now. Stiff.

  “I was only joking.”

  “I know.” He’s still playing, but it’s so soft. “It was funny.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  He doesn’t answer, he just continues to play. When he goes to the refrain, he adds the chords. I’m starting to realize this song is more than pretty. At times, it sounds as delicate as a butterfly wing, but at other times it’s so full of feeling that I have to force myself not to stare at him. I’m not sure if I can do this justice, but I can’t wait to try. Even if the lyrics aren’t great, the song will more than make up for it. The song is so wonderful; the words could be as inane as Ron’s.

  I’m still thinking about this when he says, “Maybe this part should be something romantic as well.” His voice is flat. I can’t read the expression in his eyes. “How about, ‘When I kissed you, I was thinking…’ fill in the blank.”

  I can feel my cheeks burn. “Are you asking me to tell you—”

  “‘When I kissed you, I was thinking…’ what’s next, Patty?”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” I whisper. “It was a mistake.”

  “All right. ‘When I kissed you, I wasn’t thinking.’” He smiles, or maybe it’s a smirk. “I doubt Fred will find that sufficiently romantic though.”

  He plays another line. I look at him, unable to believe he’s making fun of me. He hasn’t in so long.

  “Perhaps I should fill in the blank,” he says, after a moment. “When you kissed me, I was thinking of the night we drove out of Springfield. We’d just gotten fired, remember? The club owner was an imbecile, even Fred th
ought so. We had to pack up and leave for St. Louis even though it was after midnight.”

  “Why did you think about that?”

  “You fell asleep in the back of the van. I watched you in the rearview mirror. The side of your face was smashed against the window.”

  I force a laugh. “That’s great. Really romantic.”

  “It was.” He’s not playing anymore and his voice is so quiet I can barely hear him. “It was the first time I admitted to myself that I wondered what it would be like to kiss you.”

  I’m still leaning on the Rhodes, and I suddenly realize how close we are. Our feet are almost touching under the piano. I can hear him breathing. But I stand up straight, take a step back. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

  “When you kissed me, it had nothing to do with me.” He’s looking down at his hands. “You were thinking about him. You were afraid of him.”

  He pauses, but I can’t speak.

  “Or maybe I’ve misinterpreted it,” he says slowly. “I’ve also considered the possibility you’re still in love with him.” He glances at me and shrugs. “The point is, I knew you would think it was a mistake in the light of day.”

  “So you were doing me a favor? That’s what you thought?”

  “No, I was protecting myself.” He smiles a little. “I like anger, but I don’t like pain.”

  “No one likes pain, Jonathan.”

  “But some people handle it better than others. You, for example.” He hits a chord. “Wait, here’s a romantic story for you. A woman and a man have been together for a long time. She says she loves him, he thinks he could love her. But then his father has a heart attack. His father is in the hospital, the doctors say he might die. The man hates hospitals, has ever since he was a kid, when his sister died of leukemia. He can’t go to the hospital; he can’t talk about it to the woman he’s supposed to love. Even when his father recovers, he runs away from the woman and never calls to tell her why. What would you think of a man like that?”

  I look at him closely. “You did this?”