Mr. Baxter was a tall, blond man with serious gray eyes behind round glasses, but his face broke into a friendly smile once he saw Schroeder approach.
"Schroeder, my boy!" he greeted. "Are you here for the Florida Suite? I remember you mentioning it the last time you were here."
"And I found it, thank you," Schroeder returned politely. "Actually, we— my friend here wanted to talk to you, sir, if that's all right." He gestured to Lucy, who jerked a nod of greeting.
"Well, I'm a little busy at the moment, but I can spare a few minutes for my best customer and his pal." He laid the box on the counter and wordlessly removed the magazine out from under his daughter's bored gaze. "Come, step into my office, you two."
They followed him behind the counter — Johanna pulled out a second magazine when her father was not looking — and through a door which led into a small office.
Schroeder at once got the sense that this was Mr. Baxter's inner sanctum. Blown-up photographs of St. Thomas Church in Leipzig and of the Bach House in Eisenach — which Schroeder recognized from his copies of Mr. Baxter's well-researched books — lined the wall on their right hand. Behind the big desk, miniature portraits and silhouettes of the more famous members of the Bach clan had been arranged in a family tree, showing the lineage of the musicians and the familial relationship between siblings and cousins. A bookshelf and record cabinet stood on opposite sides of the only window, each filled with works about or related to the baroque composer, and a glass cabinet held the famous collection of antique wax cylinders which Mr. Baxter brought out when he gave lectures at music schools.
Swap Bach for Beethoven, and this could be my future office. Schroeder managed to form a lopsided smile in spite of his mounting dread. Mr. Baxter even had a miniature bust of his hero on his desk, right next to a framed photo of the seven Baxter children lined up on porch steps.
Mr. Baxter sank into a squeaky office chair and motioned for his visitors to take the two chairs in front of his desk.
"Now, how may I help you?"
"This is Lucy Van Pelt, my neighbor," Schroeder introduced her as he took one of the chairs.
"And I'm on the debate team with your son," she chimed in, lifting her chin with dignity. She remained standing, gripping her booklet. "That's something I wanted to talk to you about, sir."
Mr. Baxter tented his fingers, raising an eyebrow. "Is Sebby giving you trouble, young lady?"
"Not at all," she replied. "Actually, tomorrow is our weekly practice debate. The topic for us to resolve is whether Ludwig van Beethoven is overrated."
(Here Schroeder could not help grimacing.)
"That is certainly… a unique debate topic for Sebby to choose," Mr. Baxter answered, briefly knitting his blond brow. "He always did have a droll sense of humor."
"The topic was my idea, actually," Lucy bragged, raising herself up to her full height.
"Ah," said Mr. Baxter, and a slight knowing gleam seemed to creep into his gray eyes. "That might explain his interest then."
Schroeder looked away but remained silent.
"Sebastian is a great captain," Lucy said. "You should definitely see him in action, which is why I am officially extending an invitation to come watch our debate. It'll be a nice surprise to boost your son's morale."
Mr. Baxter's eyebrows slowly rose.
"Don't worry about getting approval from the school office," Lucy continued. "My mom is on the PTA board and has the principal's number on speed dial."
"A pleasant invitation to be sure, Miss Van Pelt, but Friday afternoons are some of my busiest times."
"And Lucy is aware you have prior obligations," Schroeder jumped in quickly. He shot her a quick glare. "Right?"
"Sure, but" — Lucy opened her booklet and pulled out a folded piece of paper which she had tucked in the back — "I've compiled a list of compelling reasons as to why you should come tomorrow anyway."
She unfolded it and gave it a crisp shake.
"First, my strongest argument," she began, "is that children do better in school when their parents help them and take an interest in their studies. Sebastian is a pretty good captain from what I've seen these past three weeks. How much more will he improve if his father shows up to support him?
"Second, as tomorrow's topic is about Beethoven, your son will benefit from your expertise. After every practice debate, we have a discussion about ways to improve for next time. As someone who knows a lot about classical music and composers, you can give a critique on our arguments for and against Beethoven being overrated.
"Third, Schroeder here has informed me" — she turned to look at him for encouragement — "that Bach was a family man. He was from a big musical family but was orphaned when he was ten, right? So no doubt that affected his young psyche, contributing to his future relationship with his children. Right, Schroeder?"
Schroeder resisted the urge to cover his face as Mr. Baxter's eyes flicked toward him. Looking down at his brown shoes, he shrugged indifferently.
"Well, it could have, anyway," he conceded, tracing a treble clef on the right-hand armrest. "He made sure his sons were properly educated at St. Thomas School in Leipzig, so that they wouldn't be treated as mere servants when they became professional musicians."
"There!" Lucy beamed, spinning back to Mr. Baxter. "Your hero showed an interest in his sons' education, so it would be fitting for you to come by the school tomorrow and support Sebastian! Although Sebastian is not considering a musical career like the Bach boys, he does want to be a lawyer when he grows up — which makes more money than a lot of concert musicians anyway — and he feels that being on the debate team will prepare him for arguing in court someday. Having his dad show up at one of his debates would certainly encourage him. Don't you see?"
She gave him a hopeful, searching look. Mr. Baxter leaned back in his chair, causing it to give a long squeak.
"You're right, Miss," he said. "Those were some compelling arguments."
Lucy tilted her nose up, looking quite pleased with herself.
"Unfortunately," Mr. Baxter continued, "that does not change the fact that I have a full schedule tomorrow, so I will not be able to attend."
Lucy's sweet expression at once soured. Schroeder slid out of his chair, recognizing the warning signs.
"Well, thank you for your time anyway, Mr. Baxter," he said quickly.
He placed a hand on Lucy's shoulder to prod her toward the door, but Lucy instead took a step toward the desk.
"But kids need their parents to support them," she insisted, her crabby frown beginning to make an appearance.
"I agree," Mr. Baxter answered calmly. "I have seven children to take care of, and if I don't work, they won't have a nice house to live in or good food or toys or musical instruments. Sebby knows this already."
"But it's not enough to just provide food and clothes if they feel like you're ignoring them and don't prioritize them," Lucy retorted, her voice rising. Schroeder prodded her again, but she shrugged him off. "You've never been to one of Sebastian's debates, and he thinks you don't care about them — which is to say, he probably thinks you don't care about him."
Mr. Baxter's mild expression altered. "This isn't up for discussion, young lady."
Lucy clenched her fists.
"But it's only one hour. You get twenty-four of them every day — one hundred sixty-eight a week! Surely you can spare one hour for your own kid." She jerked her chin up. "Or are you refusing because you just don't want to go?"
Schroeder blanched.
Mr. Baxter's face hardened. He rose and pointed to the door.
"I think it's about time you were going, child."
Schroeder promptly grasped Lucy's arm, giving her a firm tug. "Let's go."
But Lucy did not budge, her unblinking eyes zeroed in on Mr. Baxter's.
"I bet you would go if the debate was about whether Bach was overrated," she declared, planting her knuckles against her hips. "From where I'm standing, he sure is!"
Schroeder's insides all seemed to freeze.
Mr. Baxter strode around his desk. He flung open the office door, and without a word he grabbed both children by their upper arms and hauled them out into the shop, past the counter where Johanna still read her magazine, and right out the door. Lucy made a few shouts of protest, but it did not prevent Mr. Baxter from hurling them both onto the sidewalk. Schroeder stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face while Lucy landed on her hands and knees.
"You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" Lucy cried, twisting around to shake her fist.
Mr. Baxter did not acknowledge her as he pivoted back toward his shop, but he paused to frown sternly at Schroeder.
"Son, you're a good lad, so I sincerely hope you start exercising greater levels of scrutiny regarding the company you keep."
Before Schroeder could reply, the door slammed shut, setting the shop bell jingling.
It took Schroeder a moment or two to find his voice, but then he rounded on Lucy as she climbed to her feet.
"Well, are you happy?" he demanded. "Now I can't show my face at this store, and Mr. Baxter's probably going to scold your wonderful Sebastian tonight about having you as a friend. So, what did you get out of this besides skinned knees?"
"At least I tried, huh?" she snapped. "You weren't going to stand up to him."
"Because I actually have sense! Not to mention common decency."
"Sure, sure."
Lucy shot him an injured glare before inspecting her now crinkled booklet, then her hands, which were red. Despite his anger, a twinge of regret rippled through Schroeder. Biting back his retort, he stepped toward her.
"Oh, let me see," he muttered, grabbing her wrist. Her skin now had an imprint from the sidewalk, and bits of dirt and gravel clung to the heel of her hand, but she would soon heal. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe her palms, then made her flex her fingers a few times.
"You'll live," he pronounced.
Lucy wiped her hands on her blue skirt, then cast a sullen look over her shoulder at the shop.
"Imagine having that guy for a father-in-law."
"You needn't worry about it," Schroeder replied.
"Such a waste of time," she grumbled, spinning away. "That's what you get for trying to talk about family values to a musician. Let's go home."
Still muttering, she stormed back down the sidewalk, and Schroeder had to quicken his pace to keep astride with her. They rounded the corner in silence and started the three-block trek to the bus stop — and after they crossed the first street, they broke into a run. The bus they needed had pulled up to the stop. Although they were still two blocks away, Lucy waved her arms and shouted, trying to flag down the driver, but before they reached the next crossing, the bus hissed and pulled away.
Their feet clattered to a halt, and Lucy spun and kicked a nearby curbside mailbox.
"This day just gets better and better!" she flared.
"And you don't have to top it off by damaging public property," Schroeder chided.
He glanced around them and spotted the striped pink-and-white awnings of one of his favorite places downtown, and that gave him an idea. He touched Lucy's arm just as she was about to kick the mailbox again.
"C'mon, there's an ice-cream parlor across the street from the stop. We can wait there for the next bus."
They made their way to the the catty-corner block (though Lucy more stomped than walked), and they soon entered the cozy store that looked like a holdover from Schroeder's grandparents' era, complete with black-and-white tiles, cheerful lanterns on either side of a long mirror behind the register, and one of the last soda fountains in town. As the two climbed onto stools near the corner of the counter, the owner emerged from the back and waved at Schroeder.
"First time you brought a friend along, son," he noted, giving Lucy an amused look.
Schroeder ignored the implication of the owner's smile and ordered himself a strawberry soda (without strawberries, of course), and Lucy muttered out, "Chocolate soda, extra scoop — I need it."
As the owner went over to handle the taps on the soda fountain, Lucy glared absently at her reflection, drumming the counter. Schroeder pretended to inspect his nails, but he discreetly studied her in the mirror, wondering what he should say.
A part of him wanted to chide her with a resounding and uncategorical "I told you so." She ought to have known that Mr. Baxter was too busy to accept a last-minute invitation; regardless of his interest in Beethoven, a man with responsibilities could not drop everything when he had previous obligations and commitments. She should have invited Mr. Baxter to visit on a later date, allowing him to pencil it on his calendar and make the appropriate arrangements. Even so, another look at her stewing expression stilled his tongue.
Exhaling, he put his annoyance in his pocket and tried to offer something to get her mind off her recent disappointment.
"I think you'll like this shop, Lucy," he said calmly. "Their banana splits and hot-fudge sundaes are pretty good too."
She barely glanced at him.
"I take it all back, Schroeder," she scowled, dropping her chin onto her knuckles. "I'm glad you love Beethoven more than Bach. I'd rather see you be a bachelor for life than to have a bunch of children you don't take care of because you're so obsessed with music."
Schroeder regarded her for half a moment before he countered, "Just because Mr. Baxter's busy, it doesn't mean he doesn't care about his family. Like he said, he has seven kids to provide for."
She finally spun to look at him. "You only know him as the guy who gets you more Beethoven statues, Schroeder. No wonder you defend him at every turn."
His mouth twitched, but he closed his eyes and counted to ten before he answered.
"Look, I may not agree with what you did," he said, leaning an elbow on the counter as he swiveled in his chair to face her, "but I know you were just trying to help, in your typical Lucy way. Somewhere in all your crabby, interfering impulsiveness, you thought you were doing the right thing."
"Hmph!"
"Even so, Mr. Baxter is not a bad guy," he went on. "Maybe he'll come to a different debate, if he's given enough time to plan for it."
She leveled her stony gaze with his slightly more patient eyes.
"You just don't get it, do you?" she challenged. "You're the guy with the dream parents. They took you to Bonn, Germany when you were seven just to let you visit Beethoven's house. Your mom lets you keep a closet full of Beethoven statues, and she fixes you macaroni and cheese whenever you ask just because you want to copy Beethoven. Your parents allow you to hold your own concerts, and they attend them sometimes. You have a happy, comfortable life with a family who makes time for you. I bet you never once had to worry about whether they really love you."
"No," he answered truthfully. "I don't believe I ever really questioned it."
She swiveled away, glowering at the counter again. "So how could you understand what I was trying to do, Schroeder?"
Right about then, the shop owner returned with their frothy, creamy orders in two tall, fluted fountain glasses, along with straws and long-handled, silver soda spoons. Lucy grunted her thanks and grabbed her glass, stabbing the top scoop of marble-fudge ice cream with her spoon.
Schroeder did not touch his pinkish concoction. He watched silently as Lucy attacked her dessert, but he noticed she was not really eating it, just agitatedly moving the brown and white ingredients around. A strange notion had begun to worm itself forward in his mind, filling him with an uncomfortable suspicion. He looked at his hands and gripped them together, then raised his eyes again.
"Lucy," he said slowly, "why do you really care if Mr. Baxter pays attention to his son or not? What difference does it make to you?"
"It's the principle of the matter," she huffed. "What's the point of having kids if you're just going to ignore them, huh? It's not like we asked to be born."
"We?" he repeated, his voice a little more quiet.
She spun in her seat, her face stormier than he had ever seen before.
"Does anyone decide to be on this planet, Schroeder? Is it my fault that kids need their parents around? But when you try to complain about the injustices which you see in your own house, you're told to be quiet and stop being a fussbudget. Ha!" — she slammed her open hand against the counter, causing Schroeder to jump. "If you stand up for yourself, you're a fussbudget! If you have a problem with the status quo, you're a fussbudget! If you want someone to help you with your homework, you're a fussbudget because how dare a kid need their parents' help when their parents have a thousand better things to do than be actual parents!"
With an exhale of breath, she whirled away and finally took a long drink of the chocolatey soda, glaring again at her reflection.
Schroeder's stomach dropped. "I never knew."
"Why would you?" she snorted. "It's none of your concern."
"But you… always tell me stuff," he pointed out. "Usually, I can't shut you up, so why wouldn't you…?"
"Because I go to your house to escape, Schroeder."
She swirled the long spoon, causing the ice cream to spin like a globe.
Schroeder ran a finger along the clear, discoid base of his glass.
He swallowed, trying to process it all, but his troubled mind kept returning to a single thought: Why didn't I notice?
"I… I was wondering if you maybe had gone to Mr. Baxter because you liked Sebastian or something," he said softly, "but… I didn't think…"
Lucy lifted her head, indignant. "Don't think you can get rid of me that easily, Schroeder. It'll take more than an accordion player to make me forget you."
She glared at him as though he had accused her of infidelity. He blinked at her a few times; it had seemed so long since Lucy had been this upfront about her feelings toward him — so long since things had actually seemed this natural between them — that Schroeder found himself asking the one question which had been bothering him lately.
"Then why have you been avoiding me?"
"Oh, that." She leaned back, dismissive. "That was to help our future together."
He frowned, scanning her with a reawakened suspicion. "So… you have been trying to play hard to get?"
"As if that strategy has ever worked on you," she sniffed. "Actually, Linus and I were talking a few weeks ago, and I came to the realization that the real reason you've never been able to reciprocate my feelings is because of the Worcestershire Sauce Effect."
"The what?"
"You know, the psychological condition that makes kids who grew up together see each other as siblings?" she said with an air of authority.
Schroeder touched his head, trying to filter that amidst the beginning throbs of a sudden headache. "Do you mean the Westermarck Effect?"
"I've heard it pronounced different ways," she replied with a shrug. "So, you've heard of it then?"
"One of my dad's cousins is studying to be a psychologist," he answered. "I remember her mentioning it once or twice."
"Then you know what I'm talking about," Lucy said with a firm nod. "Frankly, I can now understand your revulsion towards me all these years. If I suffered from the Watermark Effect towards you, but you were in love with me, I'd probably slug you into next week. And that's why I have to stay away, even though I hate being away from you. You can't even begin to like me back until you're cured, so I joined the debate team so that I have something to keep myself occupied while you're recuperating, Schroeder."
The headache was already increasing. Schroeder rubbed his temples, following the threads of Lucy's logic.
"So, all of what's been going on — all the stuff with you refusing to let me help you with researching Beethoven — is just another elaborate plot to get me to notice you?"
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Lucy replied as though it were a sensible argument.
Something shifted in Schroeder's mind, and Linus's cryptic manner from two days ago instantly made sense. So, this whole time Linus knew… and he had the nerve to tell Schroeder…
He spun away, seething.
He should have known — he should have known! He had suspected something, of course, but he had been so discombobulated lately, wondering if he might have offended Lucy enough to make her start liking another boy…
"I can't stand it," he grumbled through a clenched jaw, infuriated at himself, Lucy, Linus, Sebastian and anyone else who had a hand in this humiliation. "I can't stand it!"
"You know, the more you say that, the less impact it has," Lucy replied, leaning forward to take a sip of her soda.
Schroeder jerked around in his seat, glaring. "You really have nothing better to do with your time than chase after somebody who isn't interested in you?"
"Who isn't interested right now," she corrected without batting an eye. "Maybe in a few months, you'll be cured, and then we can see where that takes us."
"It will never take us anywhere," he retorted, beginning to rise in his seat. "The Westermarck Effect is not why I don't want to be with you."
"Well, how else do you explain it?" she countered, frowning now. "A beautiful girl adores you, who puts up with Beethoven because you like Beethoven, who goes to your Beethoven parties and your concerts — and buys you presents with Beethoven's face on it with her own money and makes sure you eat your lunch instead of fainting from hunger — and you won't even consider liking me! So you must see me like a sister!"
"No, it's because you won't take 'no' for an answer!" he threw back, slamming a fist on the counter. "How could I ever like someone who doesn't respect my feelings? You could be the prettiest girl on the planet and know everything about Beethoven, but I would still want nothing to do with you as long as you kept trying to manipulate me and kept disregarding what I really wanted."
Lucy looked like she was on the verge of a retort, but at his last statement her face went completely blank. She blinked at him a few times with her jaw hanging open. With the opening, Schroeder pressed on.
"I don't know where you got your distorted ideas of what a romantic relationship looks like, Lucy, but normal people don't try to force other people to like them. They respect boundaries. They respect the other person telling them no — and more importantly, they back off and let the other person decide if they really want to be with them. It's always going to be my decision, Lucy, whether you like it or not."
With that, he spun back to his strawberry soda, yanking it toward him, and took a long, glowering quaff. In front of him, Lucy's reflection continued to stare at his profile. When the pinkish liquid was halfway gone from his glass, she lowered her head, tracing her finger along the marble design of the counter.
"Have you ever thought of joining the debate team with me?" she asked quietly. "You'd be pretty convincing."
He did not look at her. "Is that your way of admitting you were wrong?"
"I would never say I was wrong to love you, Schroeder," she answered firmly before her features grew contrite in the mirror. "But… if I really wanted to be a good wife someday, I should always be sensitive to my sweetie's needs and feelings, so in that way… I must apologize."
"You're a paragon of humility," Schroeder snarked.
She looked up. "Is that your way of saying you forgive me?"
"I have to think about it first," he retorted, stirring his soda.
Nodding reluctantly, Lucy fiddled with her own straw.
"I hope you do," she replied with a hint of a sigh. "Even if you never like me back, Schroeder, I still like being your friend."
Despite his irritation, he found himself glancing at her, and for a moment he recalled how he had felt about an hour ago, sitting at his piano in his empty living room but unable to play Wellington's Victory because he kept thinking about Lucy hanging out with Sebastian Baxter — and this recollection increased his annoyance.
When I don't want her around, she bugs me, and when I do want her around, she bugs me, he fumed as an embarrassing flush covered his face.
Why was everything so complicated when it involved Lucy Van Pelt?
They passed the bus ride home in silence, and after they reached their stop, they still said nothing, each in their own thoughts. At the spot where they would have normally parted ways, however, Lucy halted and turned to Schroeder.
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"Depends."
"This afternoon I didn't go to the research session with my teammates, and the debate is tomorrow," she said. "Since I already delayed you getting cured from the Wicker Furniture Effect by a few hours, do you want to come over for a bit and help me look through my Beethoven books? I could really use some help polishing up my arguments too."
Schroeder looked at her, thinning his lips, yet despite his usual reservations about accepting invitations to visit Lucy at her house, he found little resistance rising up to prevent him from jerking a nod.
"I'll do it for Beethoven," he said, lifting his head with cool dignity, but he had to resist a little spring in his step as he followed her down the street.
He ordered himself a strawberry soda (without strawberries, of course) — In the Schroeder section of I Need All the Friends I Can Get, there's a part where Schroeder and Freida are at a counter enjoying ice-cream sodas, and the text paired with it is "'A friend is someone who understands why you like your strawberry sodas without any strawberries in them.'" Lucy ordering a chocolate soda, meanwhile, is a reference to "Everybody's Chocolate Soda" from Peanuts Cook Book (1969) [sic].
"You know, the more you say that, the less impact it has" — based on a joke from the ALF episode, "Turkey in the Straw: Part One."