Shout Down the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.