by Lisa Tucker
“Don’t let him handle me and drive me mad.” It’s that line from “Porgy,” and when I hear myself mumbling this, I do laugh. Rick looks at me like I’m delirious. Maybe I am; maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking in songs.
The napkins are so wet they’re dripping on the seat, but he insists the wound isn’t as bad as it looks. The bullet didn’t exit, but judging from where it went in, it didn’t hit anything but muscle and tissue. No major organs.
He’s trying to sound confident, but his hands are trembling as he grabs the flannel cover off Willie’s car seat, folds it into a square, and holds it against my side. It seems like only a minute before the cover is soaked through. I nod when he says, “We better get this looked at.”
He already has the car in gear. Before we’re halfway down the block, he’s going fifty miles an hour.
I’m still hearing songs. They’re flying through my mind as fast as the Nissan is flying down the street. Right now, it’s the first verse of “My Funny Valentine.” Jonathan and I have spent hours on this song. He plays it like it’s a mischievous child, like you have to sneak up on the chords or they’ll get away from you. I sing it like it’s the oldest trick in the world I just can’t help falling for.
“Hang on,” Rick says.
The pain has started; it feels like a flame searing through me, jolting me every time I move. But it’s not too bad until he takes a corner too sharply, and I lunge into the passenger door, let out an agonized shriek.
“Oh, Christ.” His hand is tightened into a fist. He’s punching the steering wheel. “I should have killed that asshole as soon as he started talking about you.”
He waits a few minutes before he glances at my side again. I’m still holding the flannel cover, even though it isn’t helping. I can feel blood oozing onto my fingers, dripping down my wrist.
The music is leaving me. I want it back, but all there is now is pain.
“I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Rick is saying. “I can’t let anything happen to you.” His voice is breaking up, but he swallows. “Don’t you remember? You’re my real girl.”
I’m concentrating hard, telling myself this won’t get much worse. I have no idea what time it is. It seems like we’ve been in the car for hours, but I’m sure it’s just the pain. We have to be almost at the hospital though. I know there’s a hospital somewhere in North Kansas City.
I’ve been forcing myself not to look at the street—the buildings are going by so fast it makes me feel sick, and I can’t risk throwing up—but when he stops a few minutes later, I glance out the windshield, expecting to see paramedics rushing out with tubes to make the pain go away. And a blanket, so I won’t be so cold. A drink of water. I’m so thirsty; it feels like my veins are choked with sawdust.
But all I see are other cars. We’re stuck in traffic. It takes me a minute to recognize where we are: the entrance to the highway. We’re finally leaving town.
He doesn’t deny it. He says he knows a good nurse; he’s going to call and have her meet us somewhere. “If we go to a hospital, they’ll ask all kinds of questions. A gunshot wound has to be reported. They’ll take me away from you, put me back in jail. I can’t let that happen. Not now, when I just got you back.”
His voice sounds thick and strangled as he says he doesn’t see any choice. He rambles on and on about how I won’t die, before he reminds me of our wedding vow. Death will never come between us. If one of us dies, the other will too. “I meant that. You don’t have to be afraid. Whatever happens, I’ll always be right there, taking care of you.”
He’s pulled my hand to his face; he’s crying on my fingers. I’m not upset. I’m not even surprised. He will never let me go; this is the only end he can imagine. Rick and Patty Forever. Even my life doesn’t matter compared to that promise.
We’re on the highway now, going up a hill. The traffic is still bad. The eighteen-wheeler in front of us can’t get enough momentum, and Rick is crawling close behind at only a few miles an hour. This could be my only chance. I know he won’t pull over, and I don’t think I’d survive jumping out of the car. But I can move my leg. If only I can do it quickly enough, before he knows what’s going on.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out, but it works. As I stomp on his gas-pedal foot, he yells, “Patty, what the he—” and then we both fly backwards, hear a thump and the sickening sound of metal against metal as the Nissan plows right into the back of the eighteen-wheeler.
He’s not hurt; neither am I, although my side is on fire. He’s cursing and punching the dashboard, but he thinks I was just being stupid and scared, trying to force him to hurry.
The truck driver has turned off his engine, but Rick has no intention of getting out and swapping insurance cards. He slams the car into reverse and floors it, but the wheels just spin; the front bumper is trapped under the back of the truck.
It won’t stay trapped for long. He’s working the gas pedal; the car is starting to sway and rock when I fling the door open, pull myself out of the sticky seat, and onto the highway. The pain is terrible; I want to run as far as possible, but I can’t even stand. I collapse to my knees, manage to crawl until I’m on the shoulder of the road. When I realize Rick has freed the Nissan, I howl with frustration, sure I’ve tortured myself for nothing. He’s already yelling my name, telling me to get back into the car. In another minute, he’ll be dragging me back to the two of us.
The pain is searing through my side; it drains me of any thought other than relief. I curl up in a ball, look up at the sky. There’s a full moon; I hadn’t noticed that before. It’s so bright. I can’t remember seeing one like this since that night so many years ago, when Rick and I went to the party and I climbed up on the bridge.
I know I need to do something, but I find myself just staring at the moon, trying to remember a line. There are so many jazz songs about the moon; Jonathan and I were just talking about that a few days ago. There’s “Fly Me to the Moon” and “How High the Moon,” of course, but also “Moon Rays,” “Old Devil Moon,” “No Moon At All,” “Moon Love,” and “Carolina Moon.” And those are just the ones with moon in the title. We agreed there had to be a hundred others with moon in a line.
Including the one I’m trying to think of now. Why can’t I remember?
Rick is out of the Nissan. I hear him apologizing to the truck driver, offering to pay damages. His voice is so smooth as he explains that his wife fell with a knife in her hand and he’s trying to get her to a hospital, but she’s lost so much blood she’s getting hysterical.
The truck driver says I need an ambulance, but Rick insists we can get there quicker in the car. He even talks the driver into helping him carry me back. They’re both standing over me, when I finally hear it. “Got a moon above me, but no one to love me.” That’s the line. It’s from “Lover Man,” and it was part of my daydream earlier today, when Zeb was driving and Rick and I were in the backseat.
I remember Betty Carter’s voice, so strong that every note seemed a proof of her desire, a display of her will. Betty Carter would never curl up and die on the side of the road. She’s a power singer, and so am I.
Rick is bending down when I take a deep, painful breath and shout at the top of my lungs, “Help! He’s trying to kill me!”
His voice only falters a little. “Patty, you know that’s not true. Come on, now. You need to see a doctor.”
But the truck driver takes a step back, says through clenched teeth, “Maybe we should wait for the authorities.”
I shout again, just as loud, the same words. I don’t know if it’s me or the accident that’s attracting the small crowd. I see emergency blinkers first, then feet, then faces. A man and a woman. An old guy who reminds me a little of Fred. Another guy, young, who’s much bigger than Rick.
They’re forming a cautious circle around me. My pants are hanging open and there’s blood on my side, on the road, smeared all over my hands. But I tell myself it’s
like being on stage. I just have to keep them here, watching, until the police arrive.
Too bad for Rick that he emptied his gun in the warehouse. All he has is his voice now, and it’s no match for mine. Every time he tries to speak, I shout him down. I tell these strangers that he’s crazy. He doesn’t love me and never has. He wants to let me die.
I can see the confusion in his slack, open lips, the pain and betrayal in his beautiful eyes. But it doesn’t change a thing. It was just this morning when I told my little boy I would never leave him, and I’m not about to break that promise, even if I have to shout down the moon.
epilogue
Whenever I asked Irene if he’d been caught yet, she told me not to worry about anything but getting better. She kept all the newspapers out of my room, convinced the doctors to tell the police I wasn’t up to being questioned. The police didn’t really need me anyway. They’d already found Boyd’s body. They knew about Zeb, but it was Boyd they cared about. He was a parole officer, one of their own. He was the reason they didn’t hesitate to fire when Rick reached into his jacket for a gun he didn’t have.
He died from a shot to the heart. Irene thought that would bother me most. Even Mama worried it might make my recovery take longer, though she was the one who finally told me. I told her I had a right to know, and she said I had a point. I think she also knew I’d hang up on her if she refused.
She’s back at AA; she says she wants to make things right again. I don’t know if it’s possible, but she says she understands why I can’t see her just yet, why Irene is taking care of Willie. She says we’re lucky nothing any worse happened. We’re lucky to be alive, both Willie and me.
The doctors say the same thing—I’m lucky. Zeb’s bullet shattered my spleen and ripped through an artery. I could have bled to death before I got to the hospital.
I’ve been here over a week, but I hope to be out soon. I miss Willie so bad, sometimes I wake myself up at night, calling his name. He misses me too, but not too much. Irene says the guys are bending over backwards entertaining him. A few days ago, Dennis let him hold a drumstick and bang the cymbals while they were rehearsing. When Willie came to see me during visiting hours, he couldn’t stop talking about how he got to be up on stage, playing with the big guys.
They’ve all been nice to me: calling to find out how I am, dropping by to see if I feel like talking. Carl even brought me flowers with a get well card. Underneath he’d written, “We need you back, Patty. It’s too boring, having no one to make fun of.” Then he drew a stick man smiling and signed it, “Your friend, Carl.”
The only person I haven’t heard from is Jonathan. Irene said he was camped out in the waiting room during my surgery and didn’t leave the hospital for almost twenty-four hours, until I was out of intensive care. She also says he’s hanging out a lot with Willie, that they’re really tight after that day they spent together. She says sometimes when Willie’s crying, Jonathan’s the only person who can calm him down. “All he does is talk to him, but it works. Damn, I wish it was that easy for me.”
Irene thinks he feels guilty because he couldn’t keep me from getting hurt. I don’t know if she’s right, or if he’s hiding from the pain of the hospital and everything that’s happened to me. I certainly don’t blame him; I’d hide too if I could. But I miss him, especially in the evenings, when visiting hours are over and I’m alone. I find myself thinking about him a lot, and hoping he misses me too.
Of course Fred has been by several times. He thinks the band might get some publicity out of all this. He’s also excited that I’ve agreed to write the lyrics for the next piece. I told Irene it was just the painkillers talking, but the truth is, I want to do this. I don’t know if it was Jonathan’s idea or Fred’s, but it’s a good one. And the song I’m supposed to write for is perfect; I already have the tape. I’ve been listening to it constantly on my Walkman, hoping the first line will come to me.
Irene just called to say she and Willie will be over when they finish lunch. Right now, the orderly is taking me to the hospital roof to get some air. It’s hospital policy that I have to stay in a wheelchair, and I don’t protest, even though I’m dying to walk.
The roof is almost deserted. The sky is overcast, and an October wind is picking up. No wonder the scar on my knee is throbbing; it always does when it’s about to rain.
He pushes me to a patio table. I brought a notepad and a pencil; I told him I’m just going to write a letter. It sounds like tempting fate to say I’m going to write lyrics.
A half hour later, I must have scratched out fifty tries. This is harder than I thought. I know I want the song to be about Willie. Being his mother is the most important thing I’ve ever done and the reason I could even think of writing lyrics. But it also has to be about Rick, I’ve realized, even if I don’t want it to be.
Ever since Mama told me he was dead, I’ve been seeing him as he was at the schoolhouse, the first night we made love. I see him holding out his arms and smiling like we had the rest of our lives to feel just like this. I can’t believe he’s really gone. Of course I’ll never forget the hell he put me through, but the loss of what he could have been stuns me like a blow.
By the time Irene and Willie show up, I’ve crumpled up a dozen sheets of paper. The first few raindrops are falling. Willie knows he can’t jump on me, but he runs over and puts his arms around my legs.
“Mama, do you wike my hat?”
It says Fender, and it’s Carl’s cap, or at least it was. Willie says Carl gave it to him.
“I love your hat,” I say, and then ask Irene to lift him to my lap. Willie sits very carefully, remembers not to lean against the bandage across my side.
His legs dangle like he’s already grown an inch. And he’s not wearing a diaper. Irene bought him Ninja Turtle training pants and he’s determined to use the potty now. I wanted him to be trained, but already I miss the chubby bottom, the clean smell of baby wipes.
Irene is pushing me in, with Willie on my lap. The rain is coming down now. He’s giggling because he loves the wheelchair. He’s already asked if I get to take it home with me.
I kiss the back of his neck and wonder if I’ll ever find words big enough for all the things I want my song to do. I love the idea that it would be there for Willie when he’s older and needs to know what happened to his father. I want it to tell him the things I can’t about what Rick was like, what we were.
I want my song to say everything perfectly, and so it says nothing at all. I tell Irene this lyric writing thing is a real pain. She laughs and says maybe if I just had more painkillers.
We’ve already rounded the corner on my floor when I see Harry and Carl at the other end of the hall, and standing next to them, shuffling his feet nervously, Jonathan. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he looks for all the world like a man who’d rather be doing almost anything than standing in this hospital.
But here he is anyway. And when Willie scrambles off my lap to run to him, Jonathan leans down with his arms out, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world now, him catching my son.
We’re almost to the end of the hall when it hits me that maybe I’ve been going about this lyric business the wrong way. Maybe it’s just like what Mr. Jubar said before I understood what jazz would come to mean to me: there is no perfect music. All you can do is keep trying, keep improvising. And playing your heart is what you’re really after, not perfection.
Willie is waving down at me from his perch on Jonathan’s shoulders. I wave back, thinking that the next time I see Charlie Jubar, I plan to tell him it’s as true for motherhood as it is for music. Maybe it’s true for all the things we love. Playing your heart is what you’re after, when it seems easy and especially when it feels impossible. Playing your heart when it’s breaking and soaring, and hardest of all, I know, when it’s both at the same time.
acknowledgments
Simon & Schuster has been a dream publisher for me; I don’t know how I got so lucky. I wish I
could thank everybody who has helped me at S&S, but the list would fill many pages. First and foremost then, my heartfelt thanks to Amy Pierpont, adorable gal, brilliant editor, dear friend. To the entire amazing team in New York, especially Louise Burke, Liate Stehlik, Maggie Crawford, Seale Ballenger, Barry Porter, and Marisa Stella. To the fabulous Lisa Keim, for her good humor and insistence on sharing her umbrella and for bringing my books out into the world. To my wonderful publicist, Hillary Schupf, for her tireless efforts on my behalf. To the hardworking folks at Riverside for the beautiful lunch. To George Keating, Terry Warnick, Desiree DeAscentis, Elizabeth Monaghan, Greg Anastas, Barb Roach, and David Eining, for treating a newbie so generously at the trade shows. To Tim Hepp, my hero, who drove me all over Pennsylvania to sell books and even wrote me my very own rap tune.
A thousand thanks to all the fabulous booksellers who hosted me on my tour. Hope to see you again this time. To the many readers who wrote me with their thoughts. To the lovely people at Goldberg McDuffie, especially Lynn Goldberg and my pal, Megan Underwood, for their wisdom, experience, and unfailing enthusiasm. To Kevin Howell, coolest guy and George Burns stand in, for giving me miracles and keeping me sane.
My biggest hug of gratitude and love to Marly Rusoff, agent and goddess, whose ceaseless championing of my work has quite literally changed my life. Mihai, Judy, Lisa, Marly— now it’s my turn to buy the steak.
Finally, to the friends and family who have stood by me during the writing of this novel: Melisse Shapiro, Sara Gordon, Michaela Spampinato, Elly Williams, Pat Redmond, Gretchen Laskas, Alix Rabin, Howard Tucker, Melladi and Pat and all of the Tucker clan, Ann Cahall, Jim, Jeff and Jamie Crottinger, Emily and Laurie Ward, my best girls. To Minnie Tucker, in loving memory, for your faith in this project and me. And to Scott and Miles, my true family, my real home.
A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHOR OF SHOUT DOWN THE MOON
YOU’VE TRAVELED WITH A BAND YOURSELF. IS THE NOVEL AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL?
