Chapter 13
Changes
Buster knew that not many teenagers would be thrilled to listen in on their parents' dinnertime conversations, but most teenagers did not know what they were missing, even if the conversations could be mind-numbing. It was Sunday evening, and all three Baxters had gathered once again for dinner. Since his father had told him he would be moving back to Elwood City, there had been times when Buster had given into the urge to pinch himself, to make sure he was not dreaming. He still felt the urge from time to time. The urge had come along this evening, in fact, but he had refrained. Sometimes change took a while to sink in. Adjusting to this new, exciting reality was getting easier as the weeks went by. Buster liked to think the gift he had received the night before helped, too.
"And you really had all this in the freezer, Bitz, just ready to go?" his father said, marveling over his generous serving of jambalaya.
His mother nodded, placing her water glass down.
"Sure did—well, except for the salad and whipped cream, but that only took about ten minutes. Fifteen, tops."
To the uninitiated, it would appear his mother had labored away her entire Sunday afternoon in the kitchen, preparing the spread before them. As a busy single mother with a career, the truth was she had all sorts of tricks up her sleeve to conquer dinnertime, including making meals ahead and freezing them. Even the Dutch apple pie they would have for dessert tonight had been lovingly made from scratch and frozen for just such an occasion. Maybe nobody did it like Sara Lee, but, in Buster's opinion, his mom did it a lot better.
"That's incredible," said his father. "How do you make everything fit in there?"
"I have a sort of filing system—not joking!" she said when she caught him snickering. "I'll show you later."
"This jambalaya…" he said, bobbing his head slowly as one did when eating something so delicious and satisfying the only appropriate thing to do was nod in approval. "It has the perfect amount of spice. Reminds me of my trips to New Orleans. Where did you learn to make it like this?"
"Cisely Compson gave me her recipe. She's half Cajun…though I think this might be the Creole version. I'm not really sure."
Buster looked to his heaping bowl, plentiful with shrimp and sausage, and added several dashes of LeBeau's, a hot sauce Ladonna had given him for his birthday, anticipating the extra kick it would lend to the dish. LeBeau's was Ladonna's favorite, and not just because her cousins Geraldine and Remy owned the company that made it. ("The secret ingredients are scorpion peppers and carrots, but I won't say how much they use!") Extended family still living in Louisiana periodically mailed bottles of the stuff, along with some of their other favorite regional specialties, to the Compsons so they would always have a taste of home within reach. The act reminded Buster of the Food Boxes his father had curated for him over the years. He had finished off the last goodie ever, a packet of Bamba, a week ago. With his father's move and new career path just getting started, the Food Boxes likely were a thing of the past, which made him a little sad and nostalgic for them already. He never dwelled on it for too long before reminding himself he was getting something much better in exchange. Things of the past had nothing on the possibilities of the Baxters' future.
"So," he said, thinking about the future now, "how's the counselling going?"
His parents had recently begun grief counselling over the loss of Byron and were only a handful of sessions into their therapy. Before today, neither his father nor his mother had volunteered any information on how they were progressing. Since they were all together, Buster figured now was just as good a time as any to get the skinny. As soon as he uttered the innocent question, the scraping and clinking of flatware ceased, and his silent parents looked at him.
"Sorry," Buster said slowly. "Was that inappropriate?"
His father cut a sideways glance at his mother before they chanced a full-on look at each other. They fleetingly shared some kind of wordless communication before resuming their previous actions. His father gripped his fork tightly; his mother reached for her water and took a prolonged sip, consternation clear in her expression.
"It's, uh, it's going," his father offered, digging into his food again.
"Going…well?"
"It's…going," he told Buster more firmly this time. He looked remorseful for his inability to explain things better. He also seemed daunted by giving what little information he had. "It's a process. It's not always pleasant. Most of the time it isn't, actually, but…"
His father hesitated and took another look at his mother, who inclined her head, as if she understood she needed to assist.
"It's helping," she told Buster gently. "Sometimes hashing things out, examining certain things can be taxing, emotionally draining. It's probably best we don't revisit it at the dinner table. I hope you understand. But thanks for asking, sweetie."
"No, it's cool…"
Buster trailed off, not because his mother had shut him down on the subject, but because she had placed a hand on his father's forearm, perhaps a response to the pat on the shoulder he had given her in appreciation for her help. It was an unexpected sight to see, though not unwelcomed. To top it off, she had said counselling was helping them.
His parents had kept Byron, Elliot, and everything that led to their divorce hidden for so long, unable to talk about it. After their family confrontation outside the condo, the day Buster had pieced everything surrounding the mystery of his parents together, his mother had still avoided the subject due to the pain and shame it caused her. Buster did not know why she had suddenly welcomed the idea of seeing a grief counselor with her ex-husband, but he was elated that she had. His mother had seemed tired and quieter when she came home on therapy days, but, all in all, she was also happier, the happiest he had seen her since the days before his birthday. And now his parents were acknowledging their problems and getting help with them, supporting each other in awkward situations, and having dry conversations about meal prep. All of that was nothing if not encouraging.
"You don't have to say anything," Buster told them. "I'm happy for you guys, though."
His mother gave him a soft, appreciative smile.
"Why don't we talk about something exciting instead?" she said. "Tell us how The Music Man is coming along, Professor."
There was a twinkle in his mother's eye as she said it. She had been proud that he had gotten the lead, even if she had burst into laughter when Buster recounted the odd circumstances under which he had won the role.
His father cleared his throat.
"Hey, before you do, kiddo, there's something I wanted to ask you. The hangar is ready for a tour, if your free this Saturday. How about it?"
"Are you serious? I've been waiting!"
That was another thing about which Buster had been curious. His father had told him that he and his business partner Rick would need some time to get settled before he could visit. Rick had come out of retirement to purchase and run the Ingram Flight School a few towns over, and he had convinced his father to run it with him. Buster had eagerly been awaiting the day he would be able to check it out. Once his parents agreed on a three-thirty pick-up time on Saturday, Buster filled them in on what was happening with school musical rehearsals.
"And we're still learning choreography. Binky is…let's just say he has high expectations. He calls himself an 'innovator", but Fern calls him a 'taskmaster'. Personally, I think he's just trying to trip up George."
"It sounds like it's shaping up to be a real spectacle," his father said with a laugh. "And you said it opens in November? Can't wait to see it."
Buster could not wait for him to see it, either.
Ladonna's pep talk had gone a long way toward boosting his confidence, emboldening him enough to inject more comedic actions, or, as she had put it, "Buster Baxter flair" into his performance. The way he saw it, the audience was in on the joke alongside Harold, and so he played to that fact, delivering his lines with more of a wink and a nod to the people in the seats rather than trying to be smooth one hundred percent of the time. He also made use of his skills with different voices and accents, which made the portions of the play during which the River City townsfolk were enamored by Harold's flimflammery a ton of fun to act out. It felt more like a comedy bit, which was fine by him.
Ladonna had been intuitive when she had offered her advice. Coach Sorrell had praised him for being bold. Maria, Binky, and the rest of the cast had loved his choices. George had especially thought Buster was funny.
"I knew you would grow into it eventually!" Fern had said, smiling proudly at him after his energetic performance of "Ya Got Trouble". "I mean, you still lack Harold's speed and diction, but I can help you with that, no problem."
In a way, he regretted wanting to avoid Fern these past few days. She only wanted to help, even if it was by micromanaging every single facet of his performance. It was ironic that, after fighting so hard to get her to talk to him again, he was not interested in anything she had to say. It was always about the play, day-in, day-out. He never complained because she seemed happy and he did not want to hurt her feelings. Mostly, he tuned her out, figuring that, though intense, it was harmless.
Fern's intensity was one of her more defining traits. She was an actor's actor, as much as she was a writer's writer or a detective's detective. When she was in, she was all in, eating, sleeping, and breathing the game until she was satisfied. On the other hand, he was a jester, the elected class clown of Mill Creek Middle. When Fern took the stage, she sold the audience on a character. When he took the stage, he just wanted them to have a good time. Nothing wrong with either approach, but they were two different approaches, no doubt. Different approaches for two very different people.
Hopefully, she would go back to normal Fern once the play was over. But what if this was normal Fern, or part of normal Fern, at least. He did not know if he would ever be sure.
After dinner, Buster set to clearing and cleaning the dining room as his mother showed his father her intricately-stacked freezer. Their amused voices wafted from the kitchen.
"I guess my biggest question is how do you make sure it doesn't taste freezer burned…"
"You have a lot to learn, Bo," his mother laughed. "The offer is still on the table if you want those recipes…"
They carried on, and Buster listened to them while they chatted. He was not paying much attention to the words, just their tone and inflection, how friendly they sounded.
They're like regular people. We're like a regular family.
His thoughts wandered to the parents' night photo. He would be forever grateful to Ladonna for snagging it for him. He had not shown the picture to either of his parents, unsure of how they might feel about it. Instead, he had kept it to himself, tucking it in the pocket at the back of his health workbook as soon as he got home from Muffy's last night. He would store it in his locker until he was sure it was safe to display. He had stared at the picture for a long while before turning in for the night. It solidified his confidence that his parents were on the right path, something else that made him feel gratitude toward Ladonna.
He wished there was something he could do to show her how much he appreciated the gesture, appreciated her for just being her. Ladonna was so nice, one of the most genuinely nice people he had ever met. She got joy out of making others feel joy, and she was a good friend. She had taught him so many peculiar things, like how to eat honeysuckle nectar or how to catch mudbugs, and she had always been thrilled to share her knowledge. If only there were something he could give her in return that would blow her away, the way she had done for him at Muffy's Halloween party.
He thought about what she might like.
Fried pickles?
A great suggestion, but they might become soggy during transport, which would diminish the wow factor. He needed a solid plan, something that would astonish her, something that would make her smile. Recent conversations with her replayed in his mind as he picked them apart, searching for an indication of what that something could be. After several moments, he landed on an interesting fact she had let slip just a few days ago. It had certainly stuck out to him at the time.
Yeah… Yeah!
That just might be the thing, but he would definitely need help. And permission.
He waited until the evening was over and his father was on his way to his car to approach him about it.
"Hey, Dad? Can I ask a pretty big favor?"
To be continued…