November 21st

Jason navigated his way up the driveway through half-melted snow ruts and patches of loose gravel, and went around to the back door. He missed the freedom of his bike, but it was too treacherous now to ride; he couldn't afford to get anything like a broken rim or handlebars fixed, since he'd just spent all his allowance on a graphic novel and new reeds for his sax, and Mom and Dad had made it clear any damage caused by impulsive behavior or carelessness was his responsibility.

With a resigned sigh he entered his passcode on the mudroom door, went in and dumped his backpack and saxophone case by the door to pick up later, and slipped out of his sneaks. At least now he had days off and even better, all his homework and extra credit work was done. He'd busted his butt in study hall and homeroom to get it all finished before the end of the day. That left a few chores and maybe, if he was lucky, more time in the kitchen with Gordon. Prof had proved not only as fine a resource for kitchen knowledge as Mom, he was also just as interesting to talk to. Jason had never been around anyone who had such an abundance of knowledge on every conceivable subject, aside from House.

As Jason shucked off his coat he heard music from the kitchen—Fletcher Henderson's orchestra, a tune from the enormous collection Dad had shared with him after they'd discovered a mutual love of early jazz; Jason had several tracks with Coleman Hawkins solos memorized and had even tried to play along with the recordings. In secret of course—he still worked hard to develop a consistent embouchure and keep his hands in proper position on the pearls so he wouldn't squeak or honk, and he still sounded really, really bad sometimes, but he thought he'd improved a bit. And Dad had said if he made regular practice a habit, he'd find it a little easier to play every day. That had kept him going when discouragement haunted his efforts.

When he came into the kitchen it was to find Gordon at work with Mom on pie crusts. Both of them had clearly been at the task for some time; they wore smears of flour here and there on their aprons.

"You really believe lard makes such a profound difference?" Gordon said.

"If you can find a high-quality leaf lard from pigs raised properly, yes," Mom said. "It's getting easier to find now that free-range farming is coming back." She turned a lump of dough out on the floured board and began to roll it. Jason admired her small, clever hands as they worked to create the light, thin crust for which she'd become famous in the village; her pies were much in demand for community dinners and at the food pantry. "It smells heavenly when it's baking and if you use a three-to-one ratio with cold unsalted butter, you'll get plenty of flavor without sacrificing the flakiness."

Jason stood in the doorway. He took in the sound of the sweet jazz in the room along with the slanted beams of weak sunshine, the smell of baked rolls and coffee, the two adults as they talked back and forth while they worked together. All this meant home now—as far outside the cold, empty and filthy collection of empty rooms he'd lived in for his first twelve years as chalk was from cheese. Through his work with his therapist he knew now that the uncared-for shell of wood and broken drywall in which he'd been forced to exist had never been anything but makeshift shelter. This house, full of light and soft shadows, love, sometimes sadness and pain, and at the end of it all, acceptance—this house had become a true home for him; he claimed it as his, and reveled in the knowledge that his claim was acknowledged and accepted by the people who were his family now, too.

"Hey handsome boy!" Mom smiled at him. "Get changed and we'll have lunch, and then you can do some taste-testing if you're up for it."

Jason hurried off to his bedroom as fast as his legs could take him. Hunger made his belly rumble as he shucked off his good shirt and jeans and got into his Halo tee, a flannel and favorite worn Levi's. Days off, he thought, and couldn't help a little bounce at the happy thought. Mandy would come over later and they'd get to talk to Laynie about their research with the weather stations. And Dad would be home tonight; the band had a rehearsal and he'd get to sit in. This was gonna be a great weekend.

He ate two sandwiches and an enormous apple along with his glass of milk for lunch, and still had plenty of room for some pie filling. Just pumpkin and apple this year; they'd decided to give a big donation to the church food pantry instead of making a bunch of stuff for themselves. It was a family secret, though Mom had let Gordon in on it. Still, he was trustworthy—Jason had discovered that for himself during their first session in the kitchen.

Now he ate some apple filling and thought about the balance of flavors. As he did so, he noted the music had changed, from Henderson to Oscar Peterson; relaxed and playful, it brightened the kitchen just as the sunshine did. "A little extra nutmeg," he said aloud. "And lemon juice. No, wait. A pinch of salt."

Gordon looked pleased. "Well done," he said.

"Jason's an excellent taste-tester," Mom said. "So's Mandy, but she has to limit her help to one item, especially if it's something sweet."

"Ah, striving for balance and health. Always an excellent goal," Gordon said. "I'm quite delighted to hear she's found some success."

"I don't know what she's worried about," Jason said. He ate another bite of filling just because he could. "She looks fine the way she is."

Mom glanced at Gordon. It wasn't secretive, more of an invitation to answer Jason. "You're quite right," Gordon said. He began to roll the pie crust around the pin, careful to go slow. "But I believe Amanda's efforts are a result of her own desire for change, dear boy. She doesn't feel comfortable with her weight or appearance."

"I don't want her to be all obsessed over how skinny she is," Jason said. "It's boring. A bunch of girls in our class are always talking about diets and yogurt and stupid sh—stuff like that."

"Well, do you think that's likely with Amanda?" Gordon draped the crust over the pie pan. "She seems quite a sensible young woman."

"Girls get weird over that kinda thing." Jason slid a sidelong look at his mother when he said it. He knew such blanket pronouncements usually didn't sit well with her. But this time she surprised him with a mild look in return and nothing more.

"Some girls do, yes. But then some boys get weird over gaming, do they not?" Gordon observed. Jason blinked. Did the older man mean him?

"I don't. Get weird, I mean," he said. Gordon began to trim the edges of the crust.

"Indeed. And I'd venture to say Amanda would give the same answer and feel just as you do in this moment. If I might offer a suggestion?"

"Okay," Jason said with some caution.

"Say nothing, only observe Amanda's behavior and conversation. After a certain length of time—this weekend, shall we say—gather your data, draw your conclusions, and see if they match your initial hypothesis." Gordon looked up to give him a brief but warm smile. "And I'll do the same. What say you? Agreed?"

"Yeah—um, yes, agreed," Jason said. Now this was something he could understand and work with. Gordon nodded. Mom raised her brows, but she stayed silent. Gordon glanced at her.

"Now now, Sarah," he said. "We shan't play pranks on Amanda's emotions in any way, as you well know. As it stands, perhaps we should ask a reassurance from you instead."

To Jason's interest Mom began to blush. She turned away and picked up the bowlful of pumpkin filling. "This needs a taste," she said, and put it down in front of Jason.

"Mom, are you okay?"

Gordon chuckled. "Your mother is quite all right, Jason. She's just remembering a most regrettable incident from her college days."

Jason looked at Mom. She glared at Gordon, but she also tried not to smile. "Jerk," she said. "Rattin' me out again! I'm beginning to reconsider my invitation."

"Hah, base calumny. Have I ever said one single word about that event before this moment?" Gordon managed to look offended, though his gaze held considerable amusement. He took the bowl of apple pie filling, sprinkled it with a pinch of salt and grated a bit of nutmeg over it. "To cry 'J'accuse!' is beneath you, Sarah. My, my. Such ructions!" He began to stir the filling. Jason realized he teased Mom, and she played along. It was an old game with them, that was clear. His anxiety faded.

"What happened?" he asked, and tried to sound innocent. Mom gave him a level look.

"None of your beeswax," she said.

"Oh, come now. Surely you would permit me to divulge your antics purely as a cautionary tale." Gordon stole a slice of apple out of the filling and munched it with evident appreciation.

"I'm not saying another word," Mom said. She was bright red by now.

"Ah, so you leave the dirty work to me, do you? Very well." Gordon began to prick the bottom crust with a fork. "When your mother was much younger—"

"Hey!" Mom said, all indignation. "It wasn't that long ago!"

"Over twenty years now, would you believe. Deary me, tempus fugit! Now as I was saying, when your mother was a fine young thing full of . . . shall we say, an impassioned outlook on life, she was the author of a truly inspired windup re: one of her fellow classmates. Apparently from all accounts, a certain young man had taken her out for dinner and dancing the previous evening and, to put it politely, pressed his advances—"

"Prof," Mom said in a warning tone. Jason rolled his eyes.

"Mom," he said with all the scorn he could muster, "I am almost fourteen years old. I know what sex is."

"Well said, young man, well said." Gordon gave him an approving smile. Mom sighed.

"I stand corrected."

"Very gracious of you, to be sure. Now, to continue." Gordon began to arrange the filling in the pie pan. "Your mother's formidable ire was aroused by this lout's persistence in attempting to force his unwanted attentions on her admittedly charming person, so she decided to give her erstwhile date a taste of his own medicine. She arranged a clandestine meeting with a pair of colleagues and hired them to follow this miscreant about the campus and offer protestations of undying love in every public space available, and at all hours as well. I do believe a midnight serenade outside his dormitory lodgings was the culmination of the harassment, complete with guitar and flute."

Jason looked at his mother with renewed respect. "Whoa."

"Indeed. And even better, neither musician had ever played anything resembling an instrument in their respective lives." Gordon wet the rim of the bottom crust with a few drops of water.

"If you're going to do something you should go all the way, or why bother?" Mom laughed. "He deserved it, and much more besides." She floured the rolling pin, rolled the crust onto it with one practiced movement, then handed it to Gordon. "Here, take it. If it's tough it'll be your fault for tellin' tales on me."

"Yes ma'am," he said meekly. He unrolled the crust atop the filling.

"So you punked this guy," Jason said, impressed. "Sick."

Gordon glanced up at him. "I believe the correct rejoinder is 'chronic'," he said. His eyes gleamed with amusement.

"It was mean," Mom said. She put another chunk of dough on the board. A few escaped curls sparked and glittered against the worn blue of her bandana. "But he deserved it."

"I concur," Gordon said. He picked up a knife and started to trim the crust.

"And yet I still ended up being lectured," Mom said. She gave Gordon a stern look. "You threatened to suspend me!"

"My beautiful girl of the auburn curls, what else could I do? Much as I secretly cheered you on, I had to abide by protocol. Surely even you must concede the point."

"Huh," Mom said, but she laughed anyway.

In due course the pumpkin pie was finished. Both it and the apple variety were placed on the lower rack in the oven to bake. Jason set to work on his main chore, the firewood stacks. He put on the old barn coat and gloves reserved for that purpose and went outside. It was a bright but chilly day; he enjoyed the watery sunshine as he put logs in the carry-all and took them into the mudroom. From there it was only a matter of distribution; logs and splits were divvied up and taken to fireplaces and stoves. He stacked up the hearth in the main room as well as the office and his own bedroom. He wasn't required to haul any upstairs, Dad usually handled that, but Jason took some to his parents bedroom and to Prof's as well. If he could manage it, he'd make sure the guest rooms had plenty of fuel too. Besides, he liked to provide for everyone. It warmed him inside, even as the exercise heated him up on the outside.

After his stock-up duties were finished, Jason set some logs aside to split the next morning, then went inside and swept up the dirt trail in the mudroom. It was the work of only a minute or two to wash his hands and face, put on a thick sweatshirt, bundle into his coat, grab his sax and lesson music, and head off to the barn—his favorite place to practice. Out there he could squeak and honk and make all the mistakes he liked without an audience; while he knew no one would make fun of him, he still felt an intense shame at his lack of skill.

The barn was cold, of course. He started a fire in the woodstove, used small kindling first to get it hot faster. While it caught he set up his stand and chair, and held his hands to the flames now and then as the stove slowly began to heat.

Once or twice he glanced at the bed in the corner of the platform. His memories of the night of Roz's miscarriage still filled his mind. While they were painful and sad, he mainly felt those emotions for her, not because of her. He thought there might be something wrong with him for that, but he couldn't help it. Maybe it was because he'd seen his biological mom get beat up so much, he was used to it or something. Anyway, he'd talk with the therapist about it. She'd be honest with him; he liked that about her, she didn't treat him like a screwed-up, waste-of-time kid when he told her things he knew were really bad.

He turned away from the platform and opened the instrument case, found the reeds and chose the one he'd finally broken in. He put it in his mouth to moisten while he got out the mouthpiece. Once the reed was centered and the ligature tightened, he tested it, adjusted the position, set the mouthpiece in place, attached the neck to the body and turned on the little electronic tuner-metronome Dad had bought him. Tuning was tricky when he was out here because of the temperature fluctuations, but it was a small price to pay for the privacy he got in return. Eventually it would settle down, as long as it wasn't too windy or wet outside. Drafts always caused problems. The guys in the band complained about it when the wind and rain blew.

Though he would never admit it to anyone else, Jason liked this time to himself. It was just him and the music, with no one to interrupt or disturb his concentration. He began simple scales, worked on his hand positions, chin down and bottom lip not too rolled in.

Fifteen minutes later the room was warmer and he was limbered up enough to start what Dad called 'wood-shed work'. Jason opened his music folder and took out his lesson, along with the other charts he worked on. After the exercises his teacher had assigned during their half hour session, his first priority had to be the stuff they practiced in band class: three Christmas songs, all boring as hell, but they were good for breath control and phrasing, if nothing else. He had a track he could play along with and after a few run-throughs on his own, he set up the playback. It took several tries to get the timing down, but he managed it and then made three more start-to-finish passes through each song. At the end of the last one he knew he'd be okay—his teacher would add some refinements and correct his mistakes, but he had the basics down really well, as long as he continued to practice every day through the next three weeks to the concert.

Now he set the school stuff aside and took out the piece he'd really looked forward to. A month ago Dad and House had given him the chart for a song called 'Soul Sister', a Dexter Gordon classic.

"Learn this, and either House or I will give you an audition," Dad had said. "If you got the chops, you can play it at the New Year's gig. But only if you work on it, make it sound good. No free rides just because you're my boy."

Jason put the music on the stand, but he didn't really need it now. He knew the basic melody just fine. The hard part would be the few bars of improvisation required in the simplified version Dad and House had supplied.

"You hear the tune in your head," House had said when Jason had dared to ask him about how to improvise. "Then you play around it." That wasn't much help, but Jason understood what he meant anyway.

So he went over the melody twice, then tried four bars of improv. It sounded terrible—forced and awkward, not loose and cool. He thought about it for a few minutes. Maybe he could listen to Dexter's improv, play some of it along with him and get ideas that way. He had the original track on his iPod . . .

He listened to it all the way through, fingered the melody silently and tried to find the right positions for the improvised section. Once or twice he kinda felt how Dexter did it, but it was elusive, tough to pin down. But then maybe that was the problem—he chased a butterfly and wore combat boots to do it, when he should be barefoot. The mental image struck him, made him crack up.

The next time around he did his best to relax and let the music move through him. It was really hard at first, but gradually he let his body sway to the wide, loose beat. While he still had trouble with the notes, it didn't matter so much now. He could hear the melody woven into the riffs and licks, and things began to make sense.

Everything clicked on the fifth repetition. He felt his focus shift a little, enough to show him where his fingers needed to be just ahead of when he had to play. He could barely contain his excitement. He still sounded like shit, but it was slightly better than before. Now he had something! Maybe he'd even pass the audition.

After the seventh run-through Jason gave a little fist-pump out of sheer happiness. No one was there to see him after all, so why not? Then he reset the track and played it again. He even managed to get two of the simpler riffs to sound like something close to the original, but he made them his own with a couple of notes that weren't in Dexter's improv and still fit all the same. This was fun. No wonder Dad and the band often played far longer than their allotted time of two hours; there was an amazing sense of accomplishment when he found the notes and made them go together in new and unexpected ways, and sound good too.

When he was done he glanced at his watch and was surprised to find an hour and a half had gone by. The afternoon had already begun to fade into early darkness; time to head for home. He wanted to stay and play just a little longer, but Mom would worry. Besides, Mandy was at the house now and they had a Skype call to Laynie scheduled in half an hour.

He'd just removed the reed when he heard a noise by the door. Someone stood there and watched him; it was House. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded. Jason gripped the mouthpiece. How long had the older man been there? He blushed to think House had heard him struggle, or even worse, seen him celebrate his one tiny little step forward. For what seemed like forever House said nothing. Then he straightened slowly. "You're ready to audition. Be at the rehearsal tonight." And he was gone.

Three hours later Jason stood on the platform and tried hard not to clutch his instrument out of sheer terror. Dad sat in front of him, an impassive expression on his lean features. "Ready?" he asked. Jason nodded, though it was a lie. House shifted on the piano bench just a bit so he could see Jason, then counted them off—and much to his astonishment Jason found after a measure or so he played along in all the right places. He began to enjoy himself, until he realized his improv solo was next. Panic seized him, but only for a few moments. He knew how to do this: relax, listen, let the music show him where to go . . . Gradually his fear eased. He heard the hesitation leave his notes and smiled inside. He could do this! Now he just hoped it was good enough to pass the audition.

Much to his surprise, when the song ended he didn't want it to stop. It was even more fun to play with the band; this wasn't like school, where he was just another reed player in a section, as he fought to hear himself over the cacaphony of honks and squawks and wrong notes or rhythms. He'd been very conscious of House next to him at the piano, Singh behind him, Jay to his right; they'd worked together and included him. It was a taste of something he'd never realized until now that he wanted with everything in him, a desire equal to the one he harbored to become a doctor.

Silence fell. Jason waited anxiously. Was he in, or not? "Well," Dad said. He blinked, cleared his throat and glanced at House. "I'd say that made the cut. What do you guys think?"

"Yeah," Jay said. He gave Jason a smile; his dark eyes held approval.

"Great chops," Singh said, and nodded. "I say yes."

Jason didn't dare look at House. He waited, anxious under his fake-cool façade.

"Not bad," House said at last. "Needs work if we're gonna do it for New Year's." He sat back a little. "You miss one rehearsal, you're cut. No excuses, no exceptions."

Jason blinked. "I'm—I'm in?" he said, and winced at how stupid he sounded.

"Hell yeah," Dad said with a grin. He glanced at House. "Someday we'll say we were present at the start of Jason Goldman's career."

"Someday we'll all be under the sod too," House said, but one corner of his mouth quirked up. "Let's run through it again. This time, don't rush your solo. Makes you sound nervous, and you're not nervous."

Jason swallowed. "Okay," he said, and felt happiness surge up inside him, sweet and bright. "Yeah, okay." He licked his lips, then gave Dad a wide smile before the music began again.

'The Stampede', Coleman Hawkins

'Sometimes I'm Happy', 'C Jam Blues', Oscar Peterson

'Soul Sister', Dexter Gordon