Shout Down the Moon Read Online Free PDF

He’s in a booster seat and talking a mile a minute. His feet are thumping against the bottom of the table; already he’s managed to dump all the silverware onto the floor.
    Jonathan slumps down facing us, and shrugs when I ask what happened to Dennis and Carl. “I guess they decided to go on,” he says, opening the slick plastic menu. “Carl knows Omaha. They’ll find us eventually.”
    For some reason, Willie decides to stop talking now. The silence between Jonathan and me feels awkward, though it’s only a continuation of the last five hours in the van.
    Jonathan crosses his arms and looks out the window. I open my purse and pull out the Chloraseptic. My throat is bothering me a little and I want it to be okay before we open tomorrow night.
    After he orders, Jonathan opens his book and starts reading. He never goes anywhere without a book. I’ve heard him telling the other guys they have to read such and such; it’s so deep, cool, fascinating.
    I have a book to read myself, but I don’t want Jonathan to know about it; he might laugh at me. It’s called Jazz for Beginners , and I’ve been carrying it around for the last few months. It helps me figure out what he and the guys are talking about.
    Sometimes it shocks me how little I know—and not just about music. Jonathan can name a bird that flies by, he can compare one tree to another, he can talk about history and religion and politics and the news. A few weeks ago, I overheard him say that he’s teaching himself Spanish, just for the heck of it. He carries around books on the solar system, on math, on sculptors and painters. Pretty much every minute that he’s not playing or composing, he’s learning something.
    Of course Jonathan would never think of talking to me about the book he’s reading. I don’t feel bad until the waitress comes with our food and smiles, asks if I need another soda, if I need anything. Her eyes are full of pity, and I realize she thinks Jonathan is my husband, Willie’s father, and that he’s clearly ignoring both of us. Before I say no thanks, we’re fine, I make a point of smiling and opening my diaper bag, grabbing a magazine. I don’t want her to think I’m pathetic. I’m not pathetic.
    I have no interest in the magazine though. Also, it seems rude to read while I’m eating with Willie, even though he isn’t talking; he’s watching Jonathan and looking around at the other people in the truck stop. And eating his hamburger, thank God. He hasn’t even objected to the mayonnaise slathered all over the bun, though he usually calls it “ick” and won’t take a bite until I scrape it off.
    I’m halfway through my salad, still thumbing through the magazine, when I realize Jonathan has put down his book and is looking at me. Then he says, “Thinking about cutting your hair?”
    The question comes as such a surprise, I give Jonathan a sideways glance, wondering what he’s up to. But he nods at the magazine, open to the hairstyle page, and the look on his face is neutral, like anybody making polite conversation. Maybe even a little interested.
    “I might,” I say slowly.
    When he asks why, I notice he still has the same mild, polite expression on his face. So I tell him that I’ve had it long since I was fourteen and I think I’m ready for a change. “Plus, it’s so heavy,” I say, pulling it up with my hand. “It’s too hot for summer.”
    Willie whines that he’s hot too and I pick up a napkin to wipe him off. He’s been dipping his french fries in ketchup and it’s smeared all over his fingers and running down his mouth to his chin.
    “But if you do cut it,” Jonathan says, “you might regret it as soon as it gets cold.”
    I say, “True,” and glance out the window but my lips have moved into a smile against my will. It seems like a miracle: Jonathan is being nice to me.
    After he takes a bite of his sandwich, he points to the magazine and says, “It’s good to see you studying the problem.”