June, 1998
"So how does it feel to be done with your master's degree?" Michael asked Buster. The whole family except Lindsay and her husband and daughter were gathered at his parents' penthouse to celebrate George Michael's eighth birthday.
"Oh, it is a weight off my back," Buster said emphatically. "I can't even describe how good it feels."
"That's great," Michael said, a little enviously. "So what are you going to do now?"
"Well, I'm thinking I'll get a degree in Scandinavian folklore next, and after that maybe cartography."
"Oh," Michael said, surprised. "I thought you were going to get a job, you know, maybe move out of Mom and Dad's place?"
"Oh no, I couldn't do that," Buster said. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Mom needs me here," he said in a low voice. "I don't think she could function without me."
Michael raised his eyebrows, thinking it was the other way around. He'd been uncertain about Buster's job prospects with a degree in eighteenth-century agrarian business, but he'd still hoped he might finally leave their parents' apartment. He'd always expected his younger brother to have difficulties leaving home, but it was still sad to see him so dependent on their mother at twenty-five years old.
"Hi, Buster," Tracey said, coming over to join them. "It was so nice of you to come, I'm sure George Michael appreciates it."
"Oh, of course! I love parties! Love 'em!" Buster said, and blew his party horn. Tracey laughed nervously. She still found Buster a little unsettling, though she always treated him politely. "Ooh, a magic trick," Buster said, seeing Gob performing card tricks for George Michael. He hurried over to them, leaving Michael and Tracey by themselves.
"How are you doing?" Michael asked Tracey under his breath. He still felt a little embarrassed whenever Tracey was around his family.
"Good," she said. "I was just talking to your mother. Turns out the new staff at the country club is not up to snuff."
"Ugh. Sorry."
"No, it's fine," she laughed. "I'm just glad she seems to like me."
"Yeah, me too," Michael agreed. His mother's uncharacteristic fondness for Tracey was still something of a mystery to him, but a very welcome one. It was certainly preferable to his father's behavior. Ever since Michael had left the Bluth Company almost two years ago George Sr. had complained constantly that Tracey was trying to drive a wedge between them, often when Tracey was in earshot.
"It looks like George Michael's having fun," Tracey said, gesturing towards their son, who was watching Gob's card tricks with rapt attention.
Michael groaned. "I wish Gob would stop doing those magic tricks for him, the last thing I want is for my son to become a magician."
Tracey laughed. "Lighten up, it's sweet that he looks up to his uncle."
"I thought you didn't like Gob."
"Well, he did set me on fire at my wedding, but it's nice that George Michael likes him."
"Yeah, I guess," Michael said. He didn't like George Michael's admiration for his older brother, or that he was so much more interested in Gob's magic tricks than hearing about maritime law.
Lucille came over to them. "Hello," she said sweetly. "Sorry to interrupt, but can you come help me in the kitchen, Tracey?"
"Sure," she replied.
"Thank you," Lucille said, and quickly walked to the kitchen, pulling Tracey along with her by the arm. "Oh, just Tracey," she said when Michael tried to follow them.
"Why?" he said, confused, and wondering what she needed help with in the kitchen, as she always relegated all cooking and cleaning duties to her housekeeper, Luce.
"Because I only need one person. You should go talk to your father, you haven't talked to him yet."
"Wha—" Michael started to say, but she was already whisking Tracey off to the kitchen.
"Michael!" George Sr. said genially, appearing out of nowhere. Michael jumped. "Come have a drink with me on the balcony, I've been meaning to catch up with you."
"Uh, okay," Michael said as George Sr. guided him out onto the balcony, alarmed by his sudden appearance and forced friendliness. Things had been very tense between them since he'd quit his job. They stepped out onto the balcony, where there was a bottle of scotch and two glasses waiting for them. George Sr. poured liberally and gave the fuller glass to Michael. Michael took it but didn't drink.
"Sit down, have a drink," George Sr. said, sitting down on one of the balcony chairs. Michael sat down on the one next to him.
"What's going on, Dad?"
"What's going on? I just want to talk you, you know, catch up."
"Okay…" he said suspiciously. George Sr. took a sip of his drink. Michael left his untouched, half afraid it was laced with some kind of drug. Everything about this screamed trap, but he didn't know what it was for.
"So how are you doing?" George Sr. said. "How's law school going?"
"Fine," he lied.
"You're not struggling at all? Feeling in over your head?"
"No…"
"What about tuition, you're not having any trouble paying it?"
"No, we're doing fine," he said, starting to see where this was going.
"Good, good," George Sr. said, nodding and looking out over the railing at the night sky. Michael cursed himself. In a moment of weakness he'd told his mother about his struggles in law school. She must have passed it on to his father. "I only ask because we could really use you back at the Bluth Company, with all those bright ideas of yours," George Sr. continued.
"You hated my ideas. All of them."
"What? That's not true, you always had great ideas."
"I'm not coming back, Dad."
"Okay, okay, I just thought I'd mention it," he said, waving a hand nonchalantly. "It is a shame, though. I'm thinking about retiring in a year or two and I would have liked to still have some family in the business, you know, to run it according to the Bluth values." Michael looked up at him. Was he saying he'd make him CEO? "But I guess we'll just have to make do," George Sr. said, getting up from his chair. He patted Michael on the shoulder. "Good luck in law school," he said, and went back inside.
