“Yeah, they’re both doing great.” I park my truck and lower my forehead to the steering wheel, trying to calm myself, letting out my frustration one breath at a time.
“Couldn’t be prouder. Ugh, I made the right decision. But hey, I have to go, sweetheart. Your dad is coming over to paint one of my walls teal and I want to make sure I’m shaved and ready for him.”
I can’t handle . . . not even a little.
“Yup, okay.”
“Love you, sweetheart. More than anything. You’re my boy.”
I press my lips together, tamping down the urge to yell at her.
Why did you keep me?
Why wasn’t I given the same chance to have everything? To have a chance at Princeton?
Why do you mourn them when you kept me?
Of course, that’s not what I say. It’s what I never say. “Love you, too, Mom.”
I hang up quickly and try to gather myself as numbness falls over my entire body. I can feel autopilot starting to take over, and I know within a few minutes, I’ll become the irritable bastard I despise. No one deserves or wants him around.
For a brief second I consider putting my car back in drive and heading straight to Reardon only to once again drown in my sorrows, just like Mommy dearest taught me, but when I reach for the gear shift, I see Mr. Buster waving frantically at me with a giant smile on his face.
There’s no turning back now.
“Damn,” I breathe out heavily.
Instead of retreating to the bottle, I reach into my lunch cooler, pull out a Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie, and quickly plop it in my mouth—the entire thing—letting the sugar fall pleasantly on my taste buds. It’s the jolt I need to get through tonight. As I finish chewing and swallow, Mr. Buster opens my truck door.
“Aaron! I was getting nervous you weren’t going to show.”
I take a quick sip of my stale Mountain Dew and shake my head. “Never. Just a late night at work. You don’t have to worry about me not showing up, I’ll be here.”
“Thank goodness, because we’re really going to need your muscles.”
Hopping out of my truck, I right my jeans, and then reach into the back of my truck for my tools. “Are Mr. Bennett and his son helping this year?”
“No, they didn’t think they could commit. But I do have Gary Wellsby on board. He’s about sixty and useless, but at least it’s another human to hold up boards while you nail them together.”
“I guess that’ll work.” I chuckle. “Sixty and useless is always appealing in a construction partner.”
We walk toward the building as Mr. Buster looks over his clipboard. “Well, he actually might not be the best of help because he wrote on his volunteer sheet he requires to sit with whatever he’s doing and refuses to lift anything over five pounds.” Mr. Buster shakes his head. “Why help at all?”
“Probably why all the other older volunteers help out; it gives them something to do and someone to talk to.”
“I’m not running social hour here. I’m trying to put together the premier holiday show for the area.” He’s starting to get in a tizzy, a side of Barney Buster you never want to see.
“Don’t worry, you have me and your husband, right? I’ll be seeing David around?”
Mr. Buster’s face turns soft from the mention of his husband’s name. After thirty years of being together, they were able to finally get married a few years ago when New York State legalized gay marriage. I made the arch they got married under, the same arch that takes center stage in the flower garden in their backyard. I couldn’t have been more honored.
“David will be around, but he’s made it quite clear he’s taking over costume design after the atrocious candy-cane socks Margie made the kids wear last year. He swore on his mother’s grave that would never happen again.”
“The white and red striped socks?” Mr. Buster nods his head in confirmation. “I liked those socks. I thought they were fun.”
Stopping us in our pursuit to the building, Mr. Buster places his hand on my chest and looks me square in the eyes. “If you want to stay on David’s good side, be sure to NEVER say that to him. And I mean never. I like you, Aaron, and I want you to stick around. Don’t mention the socks.”
The vein above his right eye is twitching, and I know he’s serious and to not cross him.
“Don’t mention socks, got it.”
“Good.” He presses a hand against his chest and takes a deep breath. “I’m glad we talked about that before we went in there and you started shouting about wanting to see those socks again.”
“Yes, because that was the first thing I was going to say when I saw everyone. God, those socks, real winners.”
“Don’t tease me.” Mr. Buster holds on to my arm as we walk through the doors. “You’re going to give me agita.”
“And no one needs to be around you when you have that. You spit fire.”
“Damn right I do.” He chuckles, and we walk to the auditorium where volunteers are already milling about, working on this year’s holiday spectacular. Mr. Buster points to my usual corner and says, “Blueprints and materials are in your special corner. You know the drill, put those man muscles to work.”
“Got it.” I part from Mr. Buster and set my tools on the table provided while I look over the blueprints.
This will be my fourth year assisting at the holiday play put on by all the elementary schools in the district. It’s a way to bring all the children in the area together. Every year it gets better and better, and from the plans I’m looking at right now, more diverse.
One of the plans is for a seven-foot wooden Christmas tree decorated in Star of David ornaments and topped with a kinara—a special candleholder used during Kwanzaa.
“That’s interesting.” I chuckle while flipping through the rest of the blueprints, which consist of the usual town buildings, trees, giant presents, and . . . huh, that’s new. An entire beach scene is planned out on paper, and the only conclusion I have relates to Mr. Buster’s efforts to have the kids practicing Mele Kalikimaka. I wouldn’t put it past him. Either that or he’s lost his damn mind.
“Right over there, he’s in the corner. Aaron raise your hand for me,” Mr. Buster calls out. “I’m sending a volunteer over to be your helper.”
I raise my hand and look up just in time to see a very flustered Amelia walking my way, or rather being pushed in my direction by Mr. Buster.
“Don’t be nervous, sweetie. He’s a bull on the outside but a cuddly bear on the inside.”
“I, uh, I’m not good with tools,” she says, her heels digging into the ground, as if I’m surrounded by lava, and she’s being pushed in.
“Well then, it’s a great time to learn. Aaron owns his own construction company, so he’s the best person to teach you. You’re going to be building dining room sets by the time you’re done working on this project. Thanks for joining us, Miss Santos.”
Mr. Buster gives her one more nudge in my direction before he claps his hands and calls out to “playwrights” to gather for their first meeting, leaving me alone with a very uncomfortable Amelia.
“Not good with tools? I beg to differ. You built some pretty badass birdhouses back in the day.”