Bud

Bud

By Russell J. Sanders

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2024 Russell J. Sanders

ISBN 9781685508500

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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For Nell, an amazing therapist and a great friend—she inspires me.

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Bud

By Russell J. Sanders

It’s about being your best self—empowered, focused, healthy, and joyfully you!

—Misty Copeland

Chapter 1

Just shut up!

This hulk, this wannabe soldier, dressed in his army fatigues or whatever you call ‘em, this so-called uncle of mine, this clown who calls himself Sarge, was drivin’ this thing like he was some kind of tour guide.

See the pyramid? That’s the Luxor. Look—that giant lion stands guard over the MGM. You see the Statue of Liberty? It’s right there in front of New York, New York. Look! The roller coaster! He pointed. Coming around the buildin’? We’ll take you t’ ride that someday. Then he paused. That is, if you wanna.

Why don’t you just shut your trap?

On and on, ever since we left the airport. He never quit talking. And the traffic. A zillion cars. All lit by tons of neon lights. Ginormous sign after ginormous sign. This Sarge, this loudmouth tour guide, was showing me the Las Vegas Strip. That’s what he called it. I, though, thought I was trapped in hell.

I didn’t wanna be here. I didn’t wanna live with him. I didn’t wanna see this place I never wanted to live in. I just wanted to go back home. Back to Mimi. Back to Greta.

Who really was that guy in the back seat? The one who hadn’t said a word after he mumbled, Welcome, Shelly, back in the airport. Sarge intro’d him as his husband, no less. Said his name was Will. No last name.

The minute we left the flight attendant who was in charge of me, Sarge never stopped flappin’ his gums. I didn’t even know I had an uncle until three days ago, and here he turned out to be this guy. And this Sarge walked—no, paraded, military style—and never stopped talking. Bud, you can call me Sarge. That’s what all my friends call me. In the Marines, my men called me that. Well, after I gained the rank. Before, my friends just called me Sheridan. I haven’t been known as Sheldon for years.

If I wanted to ask why, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

But I didn’t care.

What I wanted to do was jump out of this Jeep, run back to the airport, and get on the next flight out of here. I had to go home.

I’m retired Marines. Came here to Vegas ‘cause I needed a change. A big change. And believe you me, bud, Vegas is good for that. There’s nothing like this town. Runs on bright lights, fast cars, jingling slot machines, and zillions of people. My Marine buddies were from all sorts of different cultures, but multiply them by hundreds, and that’s what you find here in Sin City.

Sin City? They call it that? Why? I wouldn’t find out any time soon because Sarge, this mysterious uncle Mimi kept from me, never gave me a chance to ask. Please, oh please, oh please just quit talking. My mother, my Mimi, was dead. Dead. He knew that. She was his sister. Not that Mimi ever told me about him. But you’d think, out of respect for Mimi, he’d let me just sit here in the quiet I deserved.

Instead, I heard, Nothin’ else in the world like the Las Vegas Strip, bud.

But here I was, listening to his endless crap. Just let me die. Crawl into a grave next to my mother. But no—that wasn’t even possible.

Instead, I was stuck here. Las Vegas. Might’ve been a million miles from Salt Lake City, where I was happy—well as happy as I could be—only three days ago.

This Christmas is a far cry from all the ones Mimi and I had before. We’d always go to The Nutcracker ballet. Every Christmas. She took me first when I was five, and I fell in love with it. The sparkling lights, the beautiful Capitol Theater in Salt Lake. Ballet West. Most of all, I fell in love with ballet.

I saw The Waltz of the Snowflakes and I was hooked. I told myself I was gonna be up there on that stage someday. A snowflake. I never danced a step in my life then. The snowflakes were all girls. I was a boy. But I knew. Someday I’d dance that waltz.

The Nutcracker was Mimi’s and my thing. After I started dance, it was even more special. Getting Mimi to say yes to dance lessons took a lot of begging and pleading. But she finally broke. I started ballet school when I was six-and-a-half. From the first lesson, I was hooked. I was forever a dancer. I knew it from my first set of barre exercises.

Greta, our housekeeper, didn’t like me being a dancer. She wanted me to play ball, skateboard, or do anything else that boys usually do. But dancing was my thing. And Mimi supported me.

No matter what I wanted, Mimi let me do it. If I wanted ruffled curtains in my bedroom, then I got ruffled curtains. If I wanted a tutu to dance around the house in, she bought me a tutu. Before I was born, Mimi re-did one of the rooms in the house just for me—all cowboy and horses.

I hated it.

And Mimi would not let me hate. If I didn’t like the cowboys, the horses, the ropes, the cowboy hats, whatever, then poof! It all went away. She took me shopping, and I got exactly what I wanted. Except a canopy bed. She said it reminded her too much of her own bedroom when she was a little girl. So, I could have the ruffles, the ballet figurines, the tutu, but no canopy bed. And I was fine with it.

Mimi kept totally mum about her childhood. If she’d told me even a little, I mighta known I had an uncle. But she just didn’t talk about any of it. If I asked, she’d say, My life didn’t start until I had you. And that was that.

My mother was always Mimi to me. Her name was Amelia. Amy, for short. She was bubbling—all the time. Whenever anyone would call her Amelia, she’d say, Call me Amy. Greta said when I was just learnin’ to talk, I musta heard that as Call me Mimi, because I never called her anything but that.

And Mimi loved ballet.

She did tell me, even though she never talked about when she was a little girl, she was a dancer herself. And when we went to the ballet, she always wore a silver ballerina necklace. She never said why, and if I asked, I got it’s from another life. But it musta meant a lot to her, because she always wore it to Ballet West.

Mimi told me she helped people invest their money. Even now, at age twelve, almost thirteen, I never really got her to explain what that meant. I do know she worked a lot. She always cleared her busy schedule for Christmas time, though. She said that was our time.

Which is the reason what happened pisses me off so much. She was supposed to be there. With me. Not drivin’ off up a mountain to see some client.

She’d hook her arm in mine, gorgeous in her red satin dress and diamond jewelry, and I would lead her down the aisle, dressed in my red velvet jacket, ready for the magic. The Capitol Theater was beautiful with its crystal chandeliers, the giant gold medallion on the ceiling, the elegant curtain. Mimi would whisper to me I was her favorite escort as we walked. Seated in our fifth-row center seats, I took a deep, deep breath. Magic was about to begin.

And when the conductor led the first note, I was taken to a different world. The costumes, the lights, the twirls transported me into someplace enchanted.

Mimi beamed. Her smile lit up that entire theater. And I was the happiest person on the planet.

But that was then. Before. I don’t want to see The Nutcracker ever again. I don’t know if I even want to dance ever again.

Not after that horrible night, a time that seems so far away but was really only a few days ago.

That trip to The Nutcracker was different. Mimi’s assistant, Shawn, my sometimes manny, took me. Mimi had some client she couldn’t put off. That’s what Greta said. The guy was on a skiing vacation, he was worth a ton of money for Mimi, and so Mimi ditched our Christmas tradition to chase the guy up the mountain.

I was pretty much losin’ it when Shawn showed to pick me up. He knew absolutely nothing about ballet. He wasn’t even dressed nice. I liked Shawn, but that night I wanted him to just leave. Let me stay home. But Greta said, "Liebchen, your mama would not want you to miss The Nutcracker. So get dressed."

Right then, I hated Greta, I hated Shawn, and most of all I hated Mimi. But I did what Greta said. And, Ballet West worked their magic because by the time The Waltz of the Snowflakes came on, I was in a good mood, once again wishin’ I was up there.

The first act ended, the houselights came up, and Shawn, no different from most everybody else there, pulled out his cellphone. I was gazing at the beautiful ceiling while pretending I was dancing The Waltz of the Snowflakes when Shawn grabbed my arm.

Sorry, kid, but we gotta bounce.

I finally felt better, and here Shawn, who didn’t know a thing about ballet, wanted to leave.

I looked at him. It was only intermission. There was a lot of magic yet to come, including the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, my second-favorite part.

It’s not over, Shawn. This is just the intermission. We can’t go yet.

I know, kid. But I just opened a text that came in during the first half. It said I have to bring you home right now. In fact, it was sent an hour ago, so my ass is grass if I don’t get you home ASAP. So, let’s get crackin’.

I can’t miss the second half, Shawn. Act like you didn’t see the text, okay?

Nope. No way. My job’s on the line here. This must be somethin’ important. Your mom’s lawyer sent the text. I ain’t crossin’ him. Gotta get you home.

He sped all the way to our house. And I was pissed the whole trip. When Mimi heard about this, I thought, Shawn was gonna be fired anyway.

We barely got through the front door before Greta scooped me into her arms. Now, normally, I kinda like Greta lovin’ on me. But not that night. I wanted her and everyone else to just let me go upstairs, get my cellphone I forgot to take with me to the ballet, and text Mimi.

"My sweet little boy, mein liebchen, Greta said, over and over. Greta emigrated from Germany when she married her husband, an American soldier. He died before I was born, and so Greta actually lived with us. She had a grown son who lived in Salt Lake, but she always, as long as I knew her, lived in our house. She was like a grandmother to me. She grabbed me a lot for hugs. But this time was different. No laughing at all, like usual. She was crying, murmuring my sweet boy" over and over. I hated that sweet boy stuff. I didn’t wanna be her sweet boy. I wanted to be her big boy, her little man. I got enough grief at school, where I was definitely the sweet boy.

Nobody at school liked me. Sports weren’t my thing, so the boys hated me. The girls thought I was weird, trying to talk about ballet all the time. So, they didn’t like me either.

I finally pulled away so I could look Greta in the eyes. I was gonna tell her to back off. I’d had enough of whatever she was doing—loving, laughing, crying, whatever. I had to get upstairs to text Mimi. I was gonna give her an earful for ruining our special time. But I saw the deepest heartache in Greta’s eyes, deeper than I’ve ever seen in anyone’s.

"I’m so sorry, liebchen. She loved you so much. You were her treasure. And then she thrust something into my hand. Keep this. Keep it safe. She would want you to have it."

I opened my fingers, and there was the ballerina necklace. Why are you giving me my mother’s necklace? And what is all this you’re saying?

And then I heard the booming voice. Unmistakable. My mother’s lawyer, Mr. Stern. Standing in the arch leading to our living room. Commanding the world in his dark gray three-piece suit. He musta had a closet full of those suits. He never dressed any other way.

Why is he here?

Looking over half-glasses, he ordered, Come here, son.

I’m not your son.

He held out his hand, his fingers gesturing I should follow him. His face was stern, like his name, not a trace of a smile. Greta gave me a nudge in his direction. I followed him into the living room. He pointed toward the sofa. Sit.

Greta, right behind me, lowered me onto the soft sofa cushion. She sat next to me, closely—like she was protecting me. Shawn too, who I had forgotten was even there, followed and sat in the chair facing us. Mr. Stern towered in his dark suit, his grim face hovering. That face didn’t bother me. He always looked like that. Angry.

Sheldon, I have some news for you, he said. I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve always felt bad news is like a Band-Aid. Yank it off, and it doesn’t hurt as much. So I’m just going to say it. He paused—a long time.

What is all this yank it off stuff, if he isn’t going to tell me? It can’t be as bad as he makes out. My mother probably is going to be gone longer than the two days Greta said she’d promised.

Son, your mother’s car slid out of control tonight. She was going up the mountain, the road must have been more slippery than she planned for—who knows?—and she lost control.

What? I yelped. What hospital is she in? Take me there. Now. The anger I wanted to text her was gone, replaced by worry.

Mr. Stern held his hands up, palms out. He patted the air like he was motioning for me to sit, although I hadn’t gotten up, and he was not even close enough to touch me. Greta put her arm around me. Even Shawn, I noticed, looked sad.

Boy, I’m sorry. Your mother’s dead.

Uh-uh. Not possible. Mimi’s in Park City. She’s at a client meeting.

You hear me, son? Amelia died tonight.

No, I lunged at him. You’re crazy. My mother’s with her client. She made Shawn take me to the ballet. Very important meeting. I beat his body with both fists until I suddenly stopped. I stood a moment. Somebody’s told you a lie, Mr. Stern.

Mr. Stern was playing a joke or he’d been given bad intel, as they say, or something, at least, was wrong, very wrong. My mother was not dead.

Sheldon, he said, you’ve got to face it. As he pushed me back to the sofa, he said, Your mother, Amelia Sheridan, is gone.

Greta leaned over and talked in my ear. "It’s true, liebchen. I wish it weren’t, but it is."

Greta would never play a trick on me like that. If she said it was true, it was.

I screamed. A blood-curdling wail. A scream that coulda woke the dead. Neighbors miles around musta heard it.

When I stopped, I stopped. I wasn’t wasting another tear because it wouldn’t bring my Mimi back. I remember thinking, Lord—I didn’t even believe in God—please put my life back together. I’ll go to church. I’ll be the best little Mormon boy I can be. Just bring Mimi back to me.

But God wasn’t listening.

And if God wasn’t hearing me, then this had to be a joke, right? My mother cannot be dead. Nah. That’s not possible. He’s lying. She’s at her business meeting. Mr. Stern’s just trying to scare me. If someone went off the mountain road, it wasn’t my mother. The police make mistakes. They do. My Mimi cannot be gone. No. No way.

Greta squeezed me tighter. She pulled me into her. Her chin rested onto my head. "I’m so sorry, liebchen. You can cry if you want to." And she tried to rock me in her arms, like she did when I was little.

I jerked away. Leave me alone. I found calmness in the middle of all this madness. I looked at Mr. Stern. You’re wrong, Mr. Stern, I instructed him. My mother’s at a business meeting. Greta continued to pat my arm.

He looked to the ceiling, shaking his head. Then he looked me straight in the eyes. Boy, I’m telling you, your mother’s dead. You have to face it. Things are going to start moving around here very fast, and you’ve got to be on board.

Mr. Stern was a hard, cruel man. I knew that. But this was the worst. But something suddenly clicked.

I knew he was telling me the truth.

As Greta held me, Mr. Stern laid it all out: You can’t stay here. No provisions in the will for that. You’ll live with your uncle. What? I have an uncle? My mother said we, her and me, were the last ones left in her family. "I see that look, boy. Your mother had—has—an older brother. She told me he left home when she was young. Just recently, for whatever reason, she hired a private investigator to track him down. I don’t know if she planned to contact him or not, but she didn’t get around to doing it. I’ve already left a message with him. He may get back to me before morning, but if not, I’ll call again. He lives in Las Vegas, so that will be your new home."

Panic. But I can’t leave here. My ballet classes. School. Greta. Stricken, I also had a bad feeling deep in my gut. I never told Mimi. She either knew or wouldn’t have cared. She loved me just the way I am. Different. But this uncle? What will he think? Sure, I don’t like my school, I’m not even totally happy at ballet except when I’m dancing. But I can’t move away. Away from Greta. Away from my home. I know how to be me here.

Vegas is a happenin’ place, Shel, Shawn said. You’ll like it. Lotsa dancers there. You won’t have to give that up.

The whole time Shawn was talking, Mr. Stern was eyeing him like Shawn was interrupting a business deal. He stared Shawn down as he talked. With Shawn’s final word, Shawn folded his hands in his lap, leaned back, and got an expression on his face like he’d just been scolded by his daddy.

Mr. Stern was mean. Shawn didn’t need to feel that way. All Shawn was trying to do was make me feel better.

Better? Not possible. Mimi was gone. I didn’t want that to sink in. I wanted to run away from Mr. Stern and all this stuff he thought I needed to hear. If Mimi’d been with me at the Capitol, she’d still be alive. Mr. Stern just wanted to get his business done. So he sprang this new uncle on me, like I should just be happy to leave my life and go to some man I never knew.

Mr. Stern continued. Your mother provided for you to continue your ballet classes in Las Vegas. And we will find a school to provide you with the Christian education your mother wanted, as well. As for Greta, she has family here, and your uncle, no doubt, will not need her services.

Greta once again squeezed me. "Liebchen," she whispered, and a tear dropped from her cheek to my hand.

There is a trust provided for you. I will be the trustee. I had no idea what he was talking about. Trust? Trustee? You will gain access to the funds when you turn twenty-two, after you finish your schooling. Meanwhile, you will have a generous allowance, your uncle will be given a stipend to care for you, and all your ballet expenses will be covered. Anything else, money-wise, will go through me.

I don’t understand any of this. And I don’t like it. I don’t wanna live with a stranger. I don’t wanna move someplace else. I don’t wanna leave Greta.

I just want my Mimi back.

This house will be sold. Everything in it, the furnishings, the artwork, the antiques, will go to auction. Your mother amassed quite a small fortune, and the proceeds of this will just add to the funds you will one day access, at your majority. He had lost me, not that he ever had me. My mind reeled with thoughts I didn’t want to have.

As for your personal belongings, you will pack those tomorrow. The artwork in your room—your mother mentioned a Degas she had purchased—we will have it crated and shipped to Las Vegas. Everything else will be sold. You will not be burdened. I, as the executor of the estate and your trustee, will handle everything.

Words, words, words. They tumbled around me. And I didn’t understand any of them.

Greta spoke. And when can we plan on the funeral? Will my sweet boy have a say in his mother’s arrangements?

No services, as per Amelia’s request. She will be cremated and her ashes disposed of.

My mother wasn’t your friend. Quit saying her name.

"Ach! Horrible!" Greta cried out.

Nevertheless, it was her wish. Any questions? That was directed to me.

I wasn’t about to say anything to this monster.

Mimi was gone, and she would never, ever come back.

I wanted Mr. Stern outta there.

Mr. Stern waited a moment, I guess to give me a chance to talk. But what did I have to say? He had my life all planned for me. It was like my mother had gone on a trip, and she’d left Mr. Stern in charge. New home, new school, new ballet teacher, new life.

Very well, Mr. Stern said, I’ll get back to you tomorrow after I talk to the uncle. Meanwhile, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another day. I looked up at that. Yeah, tomorrow’s another day. But it will be my first day without my mother. He looked at Greta. I trust you’ll help the boy pack? And by the way, you’ll be given a generous severance package. He turned and left.

Shawn stood. He came to me, and held out his fist for me to bump. It seemed strange to me, but I did it. Then he said, I’m really sorry to hear about your mom, kid. There was a tear in his eye.

And he left too.

Greta started crying again. She looked helpless. I hugged her and said, It’ll be all right, even though I didn’t believe anything ever again would be all right.

I said, I’m goin’ to my studio.

She held on to me, saying, "It’s late. You need your rest, liebchen."

What I needed was to dance. It was how I blocked out feelings. Kids at school don’t like me? Okay, I can dance that away. Nobody understands me? Dance it away. My mother is dead? Dance it away.

"It’s okay. I’m okay. I hoped she didn’t hear the tremble in my voice. Or that I didn’t believe what I’d said. After all, tomorrow’s another day." I tried to make it a joke, but I don’t think either one of us felt like laughing. I hugged her once again, this time a tight one because who knew how many Greta hugs I had left?

A lot of changes were in store. I wish I’d known what was ahead. It might have made everything easier.

As I crept up the stairs to my room to change for the studio, I remembered. The necklace. I took it from my pocket where I’d put it when Greta gave it to me. I undid the clasp, and then I fastened it around my neck. It would always be near me.

A promise, Mimi.

But did I dance away the fact she was gone? That she was never coming back? No. No amount of dancing can do that.

And then I found myself in that Jeep, with a man I didn’t know, and his husband who sat like a dummy in the back seat.

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Chapter 2

Lookee there! The Paris. Ya see the Eiffel Tower? Not as big as the real thing, but just like it in every other way.

Please. Just stop. This is the last thing I want to see. Mimi planned a trip for us to Paris this coming summer. She already got my passport. It was gonna be just the two of us. Now that’s not happening. And here’s this man who crawled out of the woodwork rubbing it in.

And still, he brayed on, like a trained donkey. Lots of shows on the Strip. Look! He pointed. There’s Usher.

I looked, not because I wanted to but because I almost had to follow his finger that was blocking my view. And yes, Usher was on a giant electric billboard. Whoo-hoo. Big deal.

Before Sarge could shout out anything else he wanted me to be interested in, I saw a billboard for a singer I did like. There, in his ten-foot-high glory, was Kyan. Kyan was a rapper, and I loved his song Holy. I’d even made up a dance to it.

Yeah, dance. I tried to dance away all this crap that happened, but it just didn’t work. Always, just always, if I had any problems, I could dance them away. Whenever I got bullied at school, I rushed home to my little studio. If I felt like no one understood me, I loved going to ballet class. Dance was my savior. It took me away from the bullying, from the looks, from the whispers.

But I never wanted to dance again. The only one besides me who really believed in my dancing was Mimi. So why bother? This soldier sitting next to me certainly wouldn’t care. He probably wants me to play football. That’s what his kind always is into. And his husband? What’s up with him? He