Shout Down the Moon (7 page)

It was pouring rain that night. When he drove up ten minutes later, I was slumped down on the curb, soaking wet and shaking with sobs. He pulled me to my feet and held me in his arms. He told me my mom had to be lying; of course my dad wanted me. Then he said she was a drunken bitch and I shouldn’t go home anymore. I should stay with him.

His arms around me now feel just like they did that night: strong and protective, but gentle too. He even smells the way I remember, like Lava soap and sweat and something slightly sweet that always reminded me of peaches. And the words he’s saying seem familiar. Telling me he’s here, it’s going to be all right. That Willie and I don’t need to be with all those assholes anymore; we can be with him.

When he leans down and kisses me, it’s just like that night, after we got to his apartment and he wrapped me in a blanket and dried my hair with a towel and tried to make me soup, but he couldn’t, I don’t remember why. We sat on his couch, and he kissed me on the forehead, on the tip of my nose, on my lips, over and over again. Exactly like he is now.

We kissed for at least an hour that night before he took me into the bedroom. But it’s only been a few minutes and he’s lifting up the back of my shirt. This confuses me. I’m still crying. I thought he was trying to comfort me.

“Hey, wait,” I tell him. I try to pull back, but he holds me tighter, smothers my mouth with his. His hands are suddenly urgent as he fumbles with the snap on my bra.

I twist my face away and squirm out of his grasp, scoot until I’m up against the passenger door.

“It’s time to go back to the trailer,” I say, sniffing. “I didn’t—”

“Not now,” he says, as he lunges for me again. He presses his body against mine. His breath is fast in my ear.

I tell him to cut this out, stop, but he doesn’t respond. His hands are all over me now. When I feel him, hard, against my thigh, I yell, “Rick, I’m serious!” and try to push him off. He knocks my arms out of the way.

“Not now,” he repeats. He kneads my breasts in his hands, whispers, “You feel so good.”

My only thought as I reach back for the door handle is that I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have cried. I shouldn’t have wanted him to comfort me.

The door opens so quickly I can’t get my balance, and I fall out backwards onto the gravel. My elbows are bleeding; by the time I stand up and begin running, he’s out of the truck too, following me.

The field seems flat, bare, and enormous. As I run, I hear my heart pounding in my ears. And I hear him. He’s coming closer. It’s so dark I can’t see where I’m going. I can’t think about what’s happening, why I’m running in this field. It’s only Rick. I know him. He loves me.

Right before he catches up with me, I find myself remembering the stupidest thing. He couldn’t find a can opener. That’s why he couldn’t make the soup.

He grabs the belt loops of my shorts and spins me around. I’m out of breath, but I manage to scream, “Let me go!”

He’s panting too but he doesn’t say anything; he just pushes on my shoulders and forces me to the grass. Before I can get up, he kneels beside me and grabs both of my wrists in one hand and pins my arms over my head. Then he raises my shirt.

“No, Rick!” I’m trying to catch his eye, but he’s looking at my chest. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t seem to hear me, even though I’m shouting, “Rick, please! I can’t do this!”

I twist my arms to free my wrists, I try to fight him, but it’s useless. He’s so much stronger; he manages to yank down my shorts and my underpants with his one free hand. And then he unzips his jeans and crawls on top of me.

I haven’t done this since I gave birth. The pain is sharp, sudden, surprising. I let out a cry, tell him it hurts. “Please, Rick,” I whisper. “Please don’t.”

“Just relax,” he says, and kisses my cheek. “There,” he says, and lets out a deep groan. “Oh yeah.”

When I plead with him to stop, he mumbles, “Ssh.” When I say it again, he kisses my nose and puts his hand over my mouth.

After a while, the pain is lessening, but there’s a sharp rock poking into my back, his forearm is pulling my hair, and he’s holding my wrists so tightly together my fingertips are going numb. But the worst of it is that he still has his other hand covering my mouth. I’m telling him about the rock, about my hair, but he can’t hear me. I say I’m afraid, but all he does is breathe and moan, “Jesus. Baby.”

By the time it’s over, I’ve stopped trying. When he releases my arms and rolls off me, I pull up my shorts and begin stumbling to the road. After a few minutes, he’s up too and following me, throwing words at my back. “Wait up. Come on, Patty, don’t be pissed. I know I should have gone slower. I’m sorry.”

I don’t turn around. I can tell he’s tired; I’m moving much faster than he is now. As I get farther away, he begins screaming my name, begging me to wait, listen. I still don’t turn around. And when I spot the farmhouse, I take off running.

Within minutes, he’s running too; I hear the dry grass rustling behind me. But before he gets to me, I’m up the front steps and banging on the door. The old man is engrossed in a TV program; he just points to the kitchen when I say my car broke down a mile back and I need to use his phone.

For a while, I stand in the hot, dusty kitchen, waiting to see if Rick will try to drag me out of here. I can’t call Irene until I’m sure he’s gone; I don’t want her in the middle of this. Finally, I hear an engine. I run to the window just in time to see his taillights disappear.

The old man’s mail is stacked on the radiator next to the refrigerator; when I read the address to Irene, she says she and Harry will figure out the way and be right over. She lowers her voice. “Are you all right, kiddo?”

“Bring my baby to me.”

“Honey, he’s asleep.”

“I need Willie! I need you to bring him to me!”

“Okay, Patty. Okay.”

After I hang up the phone, I thank the old man and go out on the porch to wait. I sit down on the steps and put my head on my knees, look down at my shoes. I’m still wearing the water sandals I had on at the pool, which seems unbelievable to me. This is all the same day.

I
rene is really good at figuring out how people feel. She always says she could see her parents’ divorce coming from a mile away, even though she was only eleven at the time. Her jewelry business is just a hobby, something she can do on the road, but even the bracelets she makes are designed to help people with their feelings. They’re made of small glass beads— emotional beads, Irene calls them—and with every sale she gives out a key to the colors. It’s not what you’d expect: hope is purple, not yellow; anger isn’t red, it’s a weird swirl of pink and green; blue doesn’t mean blue, it means happiness, at least according to Irene.

You’re supposed to twirl the bracelet around on your wrist until you know how you’re feeling by the color that attracts you most, the one you stop and stare at. When she gave me a bracelet, back when I first joined the band, I twirled it so much it broke. Irene said this meant I was confused about how I feel. Naturally, this made her even more determined to help me.

I know all this, but tonight I don’t want her help. When I walk down the porch steps and over to the Honda, I’m already annoyed that she didn’t bring Willie like I asked. She didn’t bring Harry either. She says she came alone because she was worried and she wanted to talk. She says she could tell from the way I sounded on the phone that Rick had hurt me.

Then, without even lowering her voice, she says she was afraid he raped me.

When I hear that word, I yell at Irene for the first time in the year I’ve known her. “He did not!”

“Honey, I’m on your side,” she says, more quietly. “But okay, okay.” She picks some dry grass out of the back of my hair, squints at the dark stain on my shirt. “Something happened though, right?”

I tell her the stain is blood, but it’s from a scrape on my elbow. No big deal. Then I say, “I don’t want to talk about this,” and snap on the radio. I turn the dial until I find something meaningless but upbeat. When she’s still looking at me, I tell her to go on, drive.

It isn’t until we get to the trailer that I realize I can’t go in; I can’t face the guys. I imagine them sitting around talking about me and Rick, snickering about what happened. Of course the blond bimbo has a bad-guy ex. Stupid chicks like her always do.

“I wasn’t the one who brought Rick here,” I whisper, as I look through the living-room window. I can see the back of Carl’s head and Jonathan’s profile. “It isn’t my fault.”

Irene’s door is open, but she stops and turns to me. “No, it isn’t.”

“But they always think it is. Everything is my fault to them.”

“Come on, kiddo. They’re really not that bad.”

“You have no idea.” I slump back against the seat and nod at the trailer doorway where Harry is standing, barefoot, waiting for her.

“Hold on,” she says. “I’m just going to tell him we’re all right.”

She said “we,” but I know she means herself. Of course Harry would be worried about her. She was driving to pick me up, and I was with a criminal with a gun.

I watch them talking for several minutes. Obviously, she’s telling him more than she’s all right. The porch light is on; I can see him nodding slowly. And then he glances in my direction and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I figure she’s probably telling him what she thinks Rick did to me. Something new for them to talk about.

That does it. I can’t take it anymore. I jump out of the Honda and rush to the porch.

“Move over.”

“Hey,” Irene says, frowning, but Harry gets out of my way.

I walk inside and straight up to Jonathan, sitting in the reclining chair, looking at a sheet of music.

“I quit.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I quit. I’m out of the band. Not that I was ever in it. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving.”

Carl had been blowing softly on his horn, but now he’s quiet. I can feel him staring at me. I know I look like hell: in addition to the grass tangled in my hair and the blood on my shirt, there’s dried blood on my elbows and dirt all over my ankles. And the zipper on my shorts isn’t zipped up all the way. It won’t close. Rick must have broken it.

I frown at Carl. “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”

Dennis laughs nervously, and I spin around and glare at him.

“Go ahead, laugh. I don’t care anymore. Everything about me is funny or stupid, right? The only thing I’m good for is a meal ticket. And entertainment. Sarcastic cracks about me and Fred, how I really got this job. Bets about whether I’ll sleep with Carl. And you all think I will. Because I’m such a nothing. A whore.”

Jonathan clears his throat. “None of us have ever called you a whore, Patty.”

I rock back on my heels. “What word do you use? Slut?”

Irene is at my elbow. “Come on, honey. You don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Yes, I do. I want them to spit it out. I want them to say what they think to my face for a change, instead of behind my back.”

For a moment or so, the room is totally quiet. I’m still standing with my arms crossed, glaring at them all, but it’s becoming difficult. I feel dizzy, unsteady on my feet. When I hear Harry start talking, I can tell from his tone he’s saying something apologetic, but I can’t make out the words. Irene says I look weird and I should sit down. When I don’t move, she takes my arm, tells me to come to the couch. I shake my head. I have to get to the bathroom. I’m going to throw up.

I race down the hall and shut the door behind me, kneel on the cold tile, retch, but nothing comes. My stomach is too empty; I haven’t eaten since this morning. When I stand up, I’m swaying again. I grab the sink for support, lower my head, and take deep breaths. After a few minutes, I feel a little better, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There are four reddish-purple marks on my cheek and one right under my chin. It’s so easy to tell what caused it; even a child could see it’s the outline of someone’s hand across my mouth.

I slump down on the floor and lean my face against the wall. I whisper Rick’s name and the betrayal is so overwhelming it feels like my heart is breaking, but I don’t cry. I want to, but I can’t. It’s as if I’ve gone past the part of my life where crying is an option.

Irene is knocking on the door. I want to take a shower, but I never take a shower at night; she’ll make a big deal out of it. When I come out of the bathroom, she wants me to come to her room, lie down and talk. But I don’t want to. I want to be with Willie. Willie who is innocent of all of this, of everything.

She puts her hand on my arm. “Listen, kiddo, maybe we should call somebody.” Her voice is a whisper. “You know, one of those hotlines.”

I jerk my arm away. “Are you still on that? I told you, he didn’t rape me!”

“Patty, please—”

“No! Don’t say another word!” Harry is standing in the hall now. Jonathan is right behind him. I’m sure they heard me yelling, but I don’t care what they think. I’m past that too.

I turn away from them all and go into my room.

Willie is snoring softly. I remember how tired he was: he’d missed his nap because we were at the pool. He’s lying on his side, clutching his beagle; both pillows are still against his back. I stare at him for a minute before I push some toys off the other bed and flop down on it. I wish I could sleep with him but I can’t. I’m too dirty.

Tomorrow I will call Fred. As soon as he can find a replacement, I’ll take Willie and leave. I’m not sure where we’ll go, but I’ll think about that later. Right now, all I know is I have to get away from here.

The next morning, Willie wakes up at eight. It’s late for him but much too early for me. I go through the motions of the morning: fix him a bowl of cereal, force myself to choke down some toast, drag him into the bathroom with a pile of toys to play with on the floor while I finally take a long shower, set him in front of
Sesame Street
. I have to keep the TV volume low; Jonathan’s asleep on the couch.

I go into the kitchen, figuring now is as good a time as any to make the call. Marge, Fred’s secretary, says he won’t be in the office until this afternoon. “It’s important,” I tell her. “Make sure he calls me back.”

“You’re really serious about this?” Irene asks, as she comes into the kitchen to start her coffee.

I say yes and escape into the living room. Willie wants to make Play-Doh people; when I get that cleaned up, he wants to go to our room and pretend the bed is a bus for the hundredth time. I don’t mind; I’m glad to get away from Irene. She keeps coming into the living room, presumably to say something to Willie but really to give me another penetrating, worried look.

The guys start waking up around two thirty; they’re all up and slumped at the small kitchen table, munching donuts and drinking coffee, when the phone rings. Willie and I are behind the rocking chair, building a blanket fort, and I hear Jonathan answer. He talks to Fred for a minute, tells him Saturday went fine, mentions a problem we had with the PA that appears to be fixed. And then he says, “She isn’t here right now, but I’ll tell her you called.” I run in there, but it’s too late. He’s already hung up.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

He shrugs. “I thought you might want to think about it more before you talk to Fred.”

“It’s none of your business what I want.”

I pick up the receiver and dial Fred’s office. Marge says she’s sorry; he just tried to call me, but unfortunately he got called to a meeting as soon as he put down the phone.

“Dammit.” I turn around and frown at Jonathan, at them all. Dennis is tapping out a beat on the donut box, Carl is reading the liner notes on a Pat Metheny CD, and Harry is getting a shoulder rub from Irene. They look like they always do: calm and of course, cool.

It’s infuriating.

When Dennis says, “You want a donut?” I say, “Screw you.” Nobody laughs. Even when I go back in the living room, nobody laughs.

This is progress, I think. Before they thought I was an air-head, now they think I’m a bitch. Big improvement.

I try Fred again at five but Marge says he never returned from the meeting. She says I can call him at home if it’s an emergency, but I say no, it can wait until tomorrow.

Willie has finished his macaroni and cheese dinner and now he wants to go outside. I’ve been avoiding this all afternoon. The backyard of the trailer is fenced in, nothing but grass and flowers, but still I don’t want to go out there today. I imagine rusty nails buried in the grass, swarms of bees hidden in the flowers. I imagine quicksand or an open well, even a hole all the way to China.

I go out with Willie, but I’m too nervous to be any fun. Every car that turns down our street makes me jump. Even the sound of the neighbors arguing next door makes me so tense I want to grab Willie and run until we find somewhere safe.

I’m putting on makeup for the gig when Irene comes into my room. She plops down on the bed next to Willie and tickles him; then she asks if I realize that when I quit, the guys will be out of work too.

“Fred won’t book them without a singer. And he won’t put another singer with them. He’ll think they can’t work with singers because you left.”

I’m kneeling in front of the dresser applying cover-up stick to the bruises on my face. I hadn’t thought about what would happen to the band, but I look at Irene’s reflection in the mirror and say flatly, “They can’t work with singers. No one should have to put up with what I have.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair?”

“No, I think I’m being totally fair. Before I was stupid, now I’m finally being fair.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s not talk about this anymore.” She sighs. “I don’t think it’s what’s really bothering you anyway.”

I ignore her hint and look at Willie. He’s “reading” his book about baby farm animals: he points to each animal’s picture and then points to the words underneath and makes something up. When he gets to the cow, he says, “The cow goes moo ’cause it wants more grass.” I smile and tell him he’s doing a great job.

Irene smiles too; then she turns to me and her voice grows hesitant. “Listen, honey. Are you worried he’s going to come back for you? Is that what’s going on here?”

I’m putting on my eyeliner. My hand doesn’t slip. “No.”

“That’s why you want to leave, isn’t it?” She looks at me in the mirror. Her eyes are full of concern. “Because of what he did to—”

“No, I told you. I want to leave because I hate this band.”

Willie looks up. “You hate the big guys?”

“Not really, buddy.” I force a laugh. “I’m just teasing with Irene.”

It’s late; I have to get dressed. As I stand up to get my dress out of the closet, I tell her I’m sorry it worked out this way. “I don’t want to hurt you and Harry, but I have to do what’s right for me.”

“Sure you do, honey,” she says quietly. “I just hope you know what that is.”

Obviously, the guys are also thinking about the consequences if I quit. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for the way they’re acting tonight. They’re being positively friendly—for them. Of course, they don’t invite me to go out in the alley and get high between sets, but they do ask if I need a drink whenever they get one, and they make what can only be called nice remarks. Dennis claps after I finish “Street Life.” Harry says I really belted out “Heart of Glass.” Even Carl mumbles something about how well I’m doing, given how tired I must be.