Shout Down the Moon (14 page)

“You’ve been out there long enough, you recognize a fellow traveler. Like I said, Patty green dress, you got the look. You’ve seen your share of the shit and come back to tell about it.”

He introduces me to two more guys before I get nervous and tell him that’s enough. I’ve just noticed the next person at the table is Carl. And the whole band is with him; they’re talking to each other and Lydia. None of them have glanced in my direction, thank God. I don’t want them to see me; I hope Irene didn’t even tell them I was here.

“They won’t bite you, girl,” he says.

“It’s not that,” I say quickly. “It’s just I already know—”

Too late. He’s telling Carl to turn around, pay attention, there’s somebody he ought to meet.

“This here is Patty. She’s a singer, but she’s shy as a stray pup.”

Carl looks at me for a second before he turns to Dennis. “Who invited her?”

“I did,” Irene says. “Chill out.”

Carl nods at Mr. Jubar and his voice becomes respectful. “We know Patty. She works with us.”

“Well, well,” Mr. Jubar says to me. “So you’re hooked up with some good players. That’s what I wanted to hear.” He looks at Lydia. “Patty sings too. Maybe you two gals could get together on something after this food break.”

When Carl and Dennis start laughing, I want to kill them. I know they’re high, but I’m finally feeling happy for the first time all day. Why can’t they leave me alone?

Carl starts to explain that I don’t sing jazz, but I cut him off. “Right now I’m doing cover tunes,” I tell Mr. Jubar. “Just to put food on the table, support me and my son. But I’m working on some other stuff. Better stuff.”

Maybe Lydia doesn’t intend to put me in my place. Maybe her question, “Oh, like what?” is just innocent curiosity. But Dennis is laughing again, and Carl says, “Probably the latest masterpiece from Madonna.”

It’s silly, but I feel like I can’t stand for Mr. Jubar to lose faith in me. If only I had a good answer. And then I remember. I do know one great song. And it is jazz. I didn’t know that when I learned it, but I’ve heard it on the jazz station in the van. “My favorite right now is a piece called ‘I Loves You Porgy.’” I stare at Carl. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s by George Gershwin.”

“Heard of it.” Mr. Jubar laughs. “Now, there’s a song for you. I was in New York when Bill Evans played it at the Vanguard. That man had hands. He didn’t play a song; he caressed it.” He nods at Jonathan, sitting between Harry and Lydia. “You remind me of him, Johnny. Not saying you don’t have your own sound, but you got a debt to Evans.”

Lydia says, “I’d like to hear this, Patty. Jonathan does a wonderful version of ‘Porgy,’ as I suppose you know. You could do it together.”

It’s dark, yet I can tell he’s looking straight at me; I can feel his eyes. But I tell Lydia, “I’d love to.” I’m nervous but I really think I can do a good job with this song. That contest was citywide, hundreds of singers. I made the first cut, the second cut, and the final cut. And then I won.

Mr. Jubar seems proud of me too, and that helps. He says he was confident Patty green dress wasn’t the kind to sit against the wall and watch. We’re walking back in when Jonathan stops me, says we need to talk. I say all right, and he motions for me to follow him into the yard.

“What?”

He moves right in front of me, lowers his voice. “You can’t do this.”

“Why? Because you know I’ll prove you wrong?”

“No, because you’ve never sung jazz and this is the worst conceivable place to start.” He takes a breath. “Carl and Dennis aren’t even playing yet. They know they have to wait, let the best guys play first. It’s the way it’s done.”

I pause and watch Mr. Jubar disappear through the dining-room door; then I ask if he’s considered good.

“Of course. He’s a legend.”

“Well, he thinks I can do it.”

“Have you lost your mind? He’s never even heard you.” Jonathan lowers his voice even further. “He likes your hair and your dress. Use your head, he’s—”

“Everyone doesn’t judge me on that basis, you know that, Jonathan? For your information, I won a big contest singing that Gershwin song. And surprise, surprise, I didn’t have sex with the judges!”

“Keep it down. I’m not saying he’s coming on to you. He’s cool, he’s deep, I have nothing but respect for him. But he obviously thinks you’re pretty and that’s why—”

“No. He thinks I’m a human being. He respects me. I’m sure it’s hard for you to believe, but it’s true.”

I’ve turned to walk back to the porch when he says, “All right. If you’re determined to do this, follow me exactly. I’ll try to keep you from looking like a fool.”

“Don’t do me any favors. I don’t need your help!”

“Fine.” His voice is angry now too. “Go ahead, hang yourself. Be my guest.”

He’s still standing there as I walk back to the porch and then inside. Irene is talking to some guy, but she pauses and asks what happened to Jonathan. I say, “Who cares?”

When I get into the jam room, a trio is already playing. Mr. Jubar waits until they’re finished, then he waves me over to the piano. He asks if Jonathan is coming and when I tell him no, he says why not go ahead. This piano player’s name is Wes, and he’d be happy to play “Porgy” for me, as soon as I’m ready. I smile, tell him I am ready. As Wes begins playing the intro, I remind myself this is no different than the contest. I’d never seen that piano player before and I was fine.

And I am fine for the first few bars. I think I sound good, certainly better than Lydia. I know this song so well; I’m hitting every note perfectly. I wish I could see Mr. Jubar’s face, see if he’s enjoying this. But then I hear a guy on the side shout to somebody, “Who is this uptight chick?”

Screw him, I think, but my hands start sweating on the mic. The room seems smaller now and strangely silent; I can feel people staring at me. When the first verse is over, I glance at Wes and he looks surprised or disgusted or both. At the end of the second verse, I’m listening to the piano, wondering what on earth I’m doing wrong when I hear the drummer yell to the bass player, “Take a solo, man, before she kills this.”

And he does. Then Wes does, and then a horn player who’s stepped in. They seem to have no intention of returning to the changes. I’m confused, but I’m not giving up. I’ll sing the rest if I have to stand here all night. But when Wes shouts, “So what,” I finally get it. “So What” isn’t a comment; it’s the title of a tune. The tune they’re starting to play. “Porgy” is finished, so am I.

I put the mic back in the stand and walk away. I’m not upset, I’m not even angry, I’m just stunned. But when I get to the doorway, I run into Mr. Jubar. He’s still smiling, but not at me; he won’t meet my eyes. I hear him yell, “That’s the way, Garrett,” to the horn player as I move down the hall.

Well, obviously Jonathan was wrong about Mr. Jubar’s motives. He believed I was a fellow traveler, just like he said. He was encouraging me because he thought I was good. Now he doesn’t, it’s that simple—although I have no idea why.

I keep walking until I get to an empty room; then I slump down in an armchair. All I want is to be home, but I’m too unnerved to move any farther. My whole body is shaking with a delayed panic. I’ve been heckled before but I’ve never been ignored like this. Of course my band wouldn’t dare. Fred would have fired them immediately.

My band, what a laugh. I don’t know where Harry was, but I caught a glimpse of Carl and Dennis standing behind the bass player, grinning, as I stood there and held my mic and waited for my turn like an idiot.

Thank God Jonathan wasn’t there, I think. But almost immediately, I discover it isn’t true. He was there, he saw it all, and he’s followed me into this empty room to make sure I know he was right and I was wrong.

“I’m sorry this happened,” he says.

I glance up to see him standing with his arms crossed, looking down at me. I know he isn’t sorry; I’m just waiting for the evidence—and I don’t have to wait long. He takes a breath, tells me I got what I deserved. “You can’t just walk in here and be good,” he says. “That’s arrogant.”

“I was good! They didn’t give me a chance.”

He stands there for a moment before he says, “All right. Come with me.”

“No.”

“Fine. Stay a fake.”

“I’m not a fake!”

He shrugs and walks over to a door on the left, opens the door, and goes through it. It’s a small room with a baby grand piano; from my chair, I can see him as he sits down at the bench. I wonder how he knew about this room, but then I remember: he used to date the fabulous Lydia.

He looks back at me. “You said they didn’t give you a chance. Do you want to sing this or not?”

I don’t say yes but I stomp after him. He tells me to shut the door so we can concentrate. I do, but we can still hear the music from the jam. He’s tapping his foot to the beat as he pushes back the lid on the piano.

When he begins playing the intro, it sounds much different than the way the other guy played it. It’s slower and quieter, but the chords are so lush and rich they fill the room, make it seem even smaller. He’s right, I do want to sing to this. It’s the only way to make up for what happened, prove to myself I can. But I only get through the first verse before he stops and says, “No.”

“No what?”

He glances at me. “It smells. Start over.”

“It does not smell! I have ears, Jonathan. I was singing it perfectly. I—”

“It was technically correct, but there wasn’t any feeling. It sounded like you were singing the phone book.”

“Up yours,” I mutter, but when he repeats, “Start over,” I do. But again, he stops me, this time after only two lines.

“Jazz is an art. You can’t get by on a good range and pitch; you have to care about what you’re doing.”

“Dammit,” I say, but now I’m determined. I have to show him I do care, I can sing this song. But before I get a chance, while he’s playing the intro again, Lydia comes into the room.

“So, this is where you’re hiding,” she says. She sits down next to him. “Everyone’s asking for you. Eddie and Garrett want you to sit in on ‘Take Five.’” She glances at me, says she feels bad about what happened out there. “Jazz musicians are a tough crowd, especially for singers. You have to convince them you can groove along without taking over the tune. And they’re very judgmental if they suspect you’re not sincere.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I am sincere; my mind is screaming that I am. But I don’t say anything. Jonathan is telling her we’re working on the song; she says that’s a good idea. Then she looks at me. “I think it helps if you imagine yourself in the role of Bess.”

“Bess?”

She smiles.
“Porgy and Bess
. That’s the opera this song is from. You are Bess singing to Porgy.”

Her voice sounds patronizing. Obviously she’s surprised I don’t know this. The truth is, I didn’t pick the song, the contest coordinator did. I remember I used to practice it at the apartment, and when Rick and I were high, we would laugh and call it, “I Loves You Porky Pig.”

Maybe this is a problem.

“To sing Bess well,” Lydia is saying, “you have to feel as she feels. Bess sings this song to Porgy after she’s been raped by Crown, her dangerous former lover. ‘Don’t let him handle me,’ she pleads with Porgy, ‘and drive me mad. If you can keep me, I wants to stay here. With you forever and I’d be glad.’” Lydia pauses. “The lyrics are very poignant, don’t you think?”

Before I can answer, Jonathan says, “I never paid attention to them before.” His voice sounds soft, a little surprised. He’s not looking at her; he’s looking at his hands lying motionless on the piano.

“Typical keyboard player.” She laughs. “Words? What words? All I hear are notes and chords.”

She stands up and says she’d better get back. After the door closes behind her, Jonathan says, “We don’t have to keep doing this, Patty.”

“But I want to.” I move closer to the piano. “Go ahead. Start.”

“Are you sure?” he says, and glances in my eyes.

Oh, of course. What Lydia said about Bess is making him think about Omaha again. What he calls my “difficult life.”

I rock back on my heels. “Just play the damn song, Jonathan.” He’s still looking at me, and I wave my hand. “Any decade now.”

When the cue comes, I sing the first line. Then the second one, the third one. He doesn’t stop me. I don’t know if this means it’s better, I doubt it. Screw him and his stupid pity, I think, but I keep going. I really want to do this. I know I can; I remember at the contest one of the judges told me I won because I sang it with such feeling and passion.

Something was different then. As I finish the first verse, it starts coming back to me. There was a huge, faceless crowd; I was tired and nervous and strung out from the night before. And I was sweating so much I was worried the audience could see wet spots on my blouse. Until the music started, I was seriously considering running off the stage. I’d never been in front of this many people. What if they laughed at me? What if they thought I sucked?

But then I began to sing. And I was all right, because I just sang it to him, the same way I had in all my practices. I couldn’t see him but I knew he was right there in the front row, cheering me on.