Tag: Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

Speaking of Traditions...

There’s no place like Greensboro

By Cassie Bustamante

In the age of streamable television and movies, some of my favorite childhood traditions have become a thing of the ’80s past: Saturday morning cartoons, singing commercial jingles on repeat with my brother — Who’s that kid with the Oreo cookie? — and annual movie marathons. Thanks to it being my father’s favorite festive film, our family always watched A Christmas Story during its 24-hour run on TNT. And for the longest time, the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz was an American Thanksgiving tradition more sacred than green bean casserole.

While I’m thrilled my three kids will never know the horror of “bagel bangs” and double-layered neon socks, it saddens me that some of these timeless treasures weren’t so timeless after all. But when we moved to Greensboro almost six years ago, I discovered that our little Emerald City had a November tradition of its own: the Community Theatre of Greensboro’s annual production of The Wizard of Oz.

Last year, our family, minus Sawyer, the oldest — an actual adult who claims musicals aren’t “his thing” — decided to partake in this community custom.

The day before our ticketed show, a Sunday matinee, 5-year-old Wilder and I are in the kitchen with roasted-potato-and-fennel soup simmering on the stovetop. Meanwhile, Chris, my husband, busies himself outside with leaf cleanup. “Alexa, play ‘Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead’ from The Wizard of Oz,” I command.

She does as told. (Modern technology can be a good thing, too!) The melody, paired with squeaky, studio-altered munchkin voices, echoes throughout the kitchen. Wilder moves his little body to the music, but stops for a moment. A dimpled hand shoots to his mouth as he giggles at the chipmunk-esque sounds emanating from the speaker. After that song, Alexa continues with other tunes from the “Merry Old Land of Oz,” but Wilder is not into hearing what Dorothy or Glinda have to say. Nope, he only wants the music of his new fav singing group: The Munchkins.

The next morning, he wakes and asks immediately, “Is today the day? Are we going to The Wizard of Oz?” As the day progresses, the question becomes, “How many more minutes?”

Finally, it’s almost showtime. We park downtown and skip to the Carolina Theatre, where families pile in. I see little girls dressed up as Dorothy and sparkling shoes on feet of all sizes. I’ve donned my black “Bad Witch” sweater as a nod to poor, misunderstood Elphaba. (Hey, I’ve seen Wicked, too!) Wilder, meanwhile, wears his ruby red Nikes.

We find our seats in the center of the balcony. Wilder struggles to see, but doesn’t care for the feel of the plastic booster seat. I’m already a little concerned the show won’t hold his attention and now I’m worried he’ll be uncomfortable, too. “Do you want to sit on my lap?” I offer.

He snuggles in and anxiously awaits the start of the show. The music begins, the curtain opens and we see Dorothy and Toto — and yes, a real dog is cast in the role!

Wilder sits on the edge of his seat, aka my knees. He’s utterly enthralled. Next to me, my daughter, Emmy, and I exchange occasional smiling glances. Almost three hours pass and not once has he taken his eyes off the stage — minus an intermission potty break — unless it’s been to hide his face from the Wicked Witch of the West and her entourage of flying monkeys.

I’m hot and sweaty, regretting the wool sweater I’ve worn, unaware that I’d be holding a human-sized space heater in my lap throughout the show, but I don’t care. Like those traditions I once thought timeless, these moments of borderline uncomfortable — but golden — closeness will similarly prove fleeting.

At the final curtain call, Wilder stands and cheers, whooping and hollering for the cast, especially the Tin Man. The Community Theatre’s executive director enters the stage to make some closing announcements, but our family takes that opportunity to beeline for the door before the crowd pours out. We can still hear her voice outside the theatre when she reminds the audience about next summer’s production of The Lion King Jr.

With his clammy little hand in mine, I drag Wilder hurriedly behind me, trying to catch up with Chris and Emmy. “Wait! Wait!” he shouts. “Can we see The Lion King?”

And just like that, it seems that a new-to-us tradition is born: Community Theatre productions.

“Of course we can,” I answer. While I am a parent who admittedly relies on YouTube and other digitally created content to entertain my children so I can accomplish tasks — or find a moment of peace, even — nothing can compare to the experience of real humans singing and dancing right in front of you. And while I don’t know how long his love of live theater will last, I plan to enjoy it while I can. Because this is the stuff of his own childhood memories.

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

A Haunting Tale

Yes, ghosts are real. Unless you’re my kid who’s going to bed — then no

By Cassie Bustamante

“Ghosts aren’t real,” I tell my 5-year-old, Wilder, as I tuck him in for the night, regretting that I let him watch Scooby-Doo. I don’t actually believe what I am saying, but parents will say whatever they have to to get their kids to just go to sleep. Just ask Adam Mansbach, author of the infamous Go the F*** to Sleep.

But back to the matter at hand. “Ghosts are very real,” I tell my husband, Chris, once Wilder is asleep. He doesn’t agree — and always sleeps like a champ. “Don’t worry. If I die first, I’ll prove it to you,” I say. “I can’t wait to haunt you!” (Actually, yes, I can.)

Do I have proof? No, but I have stories.

When I was a teen growing up in a small town in western Massachusetts, my godmother, Aunt Debbie — my mom’s sister, younger by just a year — would take me on weekend shopping trips, east to Boston or west to Stockbridge. She didn’t have kids of her own so she treated me like her daughter, buying me dangling jewelry she called “baubles.” We’d jam to the tunes of Gloria Estefan and Steve Winwood, and she’d regale me with stories from her life, which seemed much more dazzling and whimsical than my family’s boring white-picket-fence, suburban existence. What I didn’t understand at the time was that those seemingly exhilarating moments were part of her ups. She never shared the downs of her bipolar disorder with me.

Debbie was somewhat of a widow. She’d lost her husband, Michael, to ALS, but they’d been separated at the time of his diagnosis, remaining legally married for insurance purposes. As his illness progressed, despite each having new significant others, their friendship became stronger than ever.

Immediately after his funeral, friends would drop in to share memories, drinks and laughs. But then she threw a party akin to the wild ones they threw when Michael was alive, certainly not your typical post-burial get-together.

On one particular godmother-and-goddaughter weekend as we’re on our way to the Berkshires, she spills the details. “I had a cake made with his face on it and put candles in his eyes,” she says. Already, I’m intrigued and we’re both giggling over the absurdity of it all. After all, this was 1995 and face cakes weren’t really a thing yet. “We turned off the lights and had a seance. One of his friends said, ‘Debbie, you shouldn’t do this! He’d be so mad!’”

That night, she continues, a vicious storm passed through, knocking out power and tossing a tree onto her little Honda sedan, which was parked in the driveway. Coincidence? Maybe, but there’s more.

Pictures fell off a stable living room shelf.

“The alarm by the hall closet kept turning on when I would walk by,” Debbie says. Not just any hall closet, but the place where she stored Michael’s suits, soon to be passed on to his younger brother. “I said, ‘OK, Michael. I get it — you’re telling me something!’” she says as we cruise down the highway. “I decided to rifle through the pockets and discovered a watch he didn’t want his brother to have.” And, as soon as she retrieved it, the alarm was silent.

On the morning of April 2, 1996, just as I was getting ready for school, my mom received a call. Her sister had taken her own life — just shy of her 40th birthday — the night before. Though tragic, it wasn’t a complete surprise, although we’d hoped things were turning around for her. She’d found a new love, bought a house with him and was, it appeared, happy. But you never know the demons someone battles.

In the months that followed Debbie’s passing, I looked for signs of her presence everywhere. I watched for lights to flicker or alarms to sound seemingly on their own. I played the Mary Chapin Carpenter cassettes that I inherited from her collection, hoping a message might come through. But no visitations followed and I decided she was finally resting in peace.

Ten years later to the day Debbie died, it is April 1, 2006.

I’m in Maryland visiting my parents with my first baby, 8-month-old Sawyer, who has slept solidly through the night since he was 6 weeks old. At midnight on the nose, something startles me awake: a noise over the baby monitor.

But Sawyer isn’t crying. In fact, he’s cooing and chatting away happily, as if talking to someone. And in that moment, I know exactly who: Debbie, who always loved babies, but never had her own. Debbie, who loved me like a daughter and would have loved this baby as if he were her own grandchild. Paralyzed by this realization — and slightly terrified, if I am being honest — I decide not to go to him. He babbles. He gurgles. He coos. And, as if lulled by an unsung lullaby, he drifts to sleep. I, of course, check on him later and find him snoozing peacefully, the corners of his mouth forming a sweet smile behind his pacifier.

So while I tell a little white lie to Wilder because I’m ready to go to bed myself, I do, in fact, think ghosts are real. And perhaps one day, hopefully 50 years from now if I am lucky, Chris will be telling our grown children and grandkids about the little ways I’m letting him know I’m still around. No matter what, I’ll make a believer out of him yet.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

A Trance Encounter...

With a self-proclaimed Tori Amos “stalkeress”

By Cassie Bustamante

When one of my favorite musical acts from my teen years announced a nearby tour stop last year, I quickly snagged two tickets. Tori Amos, piano virtuoso and singer-songwriter known for her powerful, thought-provoking ballads, released her solo debut album, Little Earthquakes, in 1992. It served as the soundtrack to my high school career, which began the very same year. Track two, “Girl,” expressed how I felt as I grappled with who I wanted to be: She’s been everybody else’s girl, maybe one day she’ll be her own.

The last time I saw Amos perform live was during her 1996 tour, when my friends and I caught her — and “a lite sneeze” (IYKYN) — at Springfield Symphony Hall in Massachusetts. Now, almost 30 years later, I step into Charlotte’s Ovens Auditorium — a fitting name on a sweltering June day — for Amos’ 2023 Oceans to Oceans Tour.

Dressed like something straight out of My So Called Life, my concert cohort, Chandra, wears a babydoll frock with Doc Martens, while I’ve donned a long bohemian dress with Birks. Chandra, who accompanied me to Nashville for the Eras Tour, peers at the concert-goers around us. “Much different crowd from our Taylor Swift experience, huh?”

She’s right. The fans are “mature” — and I suddenly feel well aware of my own age — and there’s a lot less pastel and glitter, more goth and grunge.

After finding our seats, three men around our age sit to the left of Chandra. One, wearing a pride bracelet, explains that he’s been a fan for years. “Little Earthquakes helped me find the strength to get out of an abusive relationship when I was in my 20s,” he says.

Looking around the auditorium, I wonder how many of us have been pulled through crises by Amos’ lyrics.

To my right, two seats remain unoccupied through the opening act’s set. But after the band exits the stage, two women plop down, visibly tipsy.

The taller of the two, a natural redhead like Amos, turns to us, bright blue eyes glistening with excitement — or maybe it’s booze — and shouts, “I can’t believe we’re here! I love Tori!”

She asks our names and we return the question. “Funny you should ask because I know my name and it’s not the one my mom gave me. She named me Jennifer, middle name Kelly — Jennifer Kelly! I mean, how ’80s can you get?” She leans in a little too closely to me. “This is the face of a Laura, isn’t it? I know I am a Laura.”

We nod politely, turning back to our own conversation, but Jennifer Kelly is not having it. “I am such a fan. Actually, I am a stalkeress.” My eyes widen in horror — not even at the stalking, but at the proud shameless admission. Oblivious, Jennifer Kelly continues, “Yeah, I found her house in Ireland and roamed around her property. I didn’t see her, but I was there!”

We try to disengage, but Jennifer Kelly is at this concert to be heard.

“I am going to warn you right now, I know all of the words and I plan to sing along loudly. And I trance dance.”

Trance dance?

Finally, the lights go down and Amos takes the stage. For such a vocal powerhouse, she’s much more petite at 59 than I remember.

Without so much as a word, she sits down at her piano and plays a long prelude, soon recognizable as “A Sorta Fairytale,” a fan favorite.

While I fully expect Jennifer Kelly to sing loudly, I don’t anticipate what happens next. She talks to her friend. Nonstop. Throughout the entire song — and the next few.

But, as Amos begins tapping the piano keys for her fifth song, Jennifer Kelly suddenly slumps her head, swaying it from side to side. Her hand grabs her friend’s knee.

Seconds later, her mouth is running again.

“Um, you can’t be in a trance one moment and then talking the next,” Chandra mutters in my ear. Trance dancing — which I google from my seat — by definition, is a spiritual experience that requires one to escape from themselves for a moment and move in a state of half-consciousness. Got that, Jennifer Kelly?

It’s clearly an act, one that goes on through the remainder of the concert. We do our best to focus on who we came here for, but it seems we’ve inadvertently bought tickets to the Jennifer Kelly show.

Just before the encore performance, Jennifer Kelly and her pal exit. I breathe a sigh of relief as Amos begins singing “Cornflake Girl.” In a crowd of hundreds, it feels like Chandra and I have the last two songs all to ourselves.

Exiting the auditorium, I laugh and say, “We have a lot to talk about in the Uber ride back!”

And then we see them, standing outside.

“Keep walking,” I whisper as I accidentally make eye contact with Jennifer Kelly.

“Girls!” she shrieks as if we’re old friends. “Sooooo . . . what did you think of the show?”

“Tori was fabulous,” I say as I hustle past. Then, under my breath, “What we could hear of her anyhow.”

We pile into our Uber, Jennifer Kelly a red-headed glimmer in the rearview mirror.

While Chandra and I recap the absurdity of our Tori Amos concert experience, I can’t help but feel grateful that her music comforted me while I figured out who I was. Some people, it seems, are still searching for that identity. And it isn’t Jennifer Kelly. But it might be Laura.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

By Cassie Bustamante

When I imagine heaven — or whatever awaits me on the other side — I envision a cozy room with a roaring fire, a lush, rose-colored velvet chair to sink into, next to which sits a side table holding a steaming cuppa. And surrounding me? Warm-toned wooden walls lined with shelves upon shelves of all the books I didn’t have time to read in my time on Earth. Currently, my TBR — “to be read” — list most definitely exceeds the amount of minutes I have left in this lifetime, and quite possibly the next, too.

And that pile of books grows larger by the minute. Every week brings exciting releases, offering new opportunities to escape into fictional worlds, delve into the minds of intriguing people or learn about places and times past. How on earth am I supposed to keep up with that while also working, running a household and keeping my kids alive at the same time? Therein lies the dilemma.

When overwhelm strikes, I have to step not back, but closer. Don’t look at the big picture, because it’s scary as hell. Instead, focus on one small part. After all, how do you eat an elephant? Well, frankly, I am a pescatarian, so I wouldn’t know. But I’ve heard it’s one bite at a time.

To celebrate our reading issue, here are a few of the nibbles I’ve taken over the last year that have stood out.

A few years back, I read Daisy Jones & the Six and loved it so much that I was ready to consume everything by Taylor Jenkins Reid. And yet, I didn’t. But if you want to know the trick to starting a book faster, it’s borrowing — versus buying — because you’re obligated to return it. Thankfully, a friend loaned me her copy of
Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. When I finished it, I didn’t want to return it. While the title may leave you doubtful, it’s a beautiful love story with so many facets of human emotion. Did I cry? Yes. But do I weep at the end of most books that enrapture me? Also yes. After every great book comes a period of mourning.

Colleen Hoover is some sort of magical unicorn who writes more books in a year than I get haircuts! Granted, I only go to the salon two to three times annually. Just like my stylist — hi, Caitlin! — she hasn’t yet let me down. (Even when I got bangs.) With so much hype around Verity, I had to read it and, boy, was it a gripping page-turner! While many of Hoover’s books are considered romantic, this thrilling tale was dark and unputdownable. By the last page, I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. For fans of Verity, or books that, if made into movies, would be in the film noir genre, also check out Push by Ashley Audrain.

When it comes to nonfiction, especially memoirs, I prefer the audio versions. Why? Nothing beats hearing the tone and emotion delivered directly by the author. Plus, I can multitask, strolling my neighborhood with my dogs at the same time. (Note: If you see a woman power-walking through Starmount, earbuds in, laughing hysterically or with tears streaming down her face, stop and introduce yourself to me!)

Two memoirs that had me walking more miles than I needed are Harrison Scott Key’s How to Stay Married: The Most Insane Love Story Ever Told and Jeanette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died. Key’s book shares a comedic and intimate look at his wife’s infidelity and the marital journey that followed. I found myself in hysterics and relaying quotes to my husband, Chris, who looked at me quizzically. A story of cheating that’s hilarious? But yes.

By opening a window into her vulnerability and letting out the innermost secrets of her heart, McCurdy shares the darkest corners of her life, the areas most prefer to keep locked behind a closed door. And I will always appreciate a memoir that’s written with honesty, no matter how hard or heartbreaking.

What’s next on my TBR? I’m not totally sure. But I think I’ll snag a novel from my living room bookshelves, sink into our worn brown leather sofa and read by the soft glow of a sconce, my dogs comfortably nestled by my feet. Maybe, just maybe, heaven is a place on Earth after all.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Outfoxed

A tale of rescue

By Cassie Bustamante

Before we had kids, I’d stop for any stray dog I saw. Once, with a friend, I rescued a flea-covered female dog who’d clearly had puppies and been left to fend for herself in a field. That dog, Gracie, went on to become my friend’s most loyal pal, seeing her through moves and devastating breakups. The last time I brought home a stray dog, my husband, Chris, looked out the window at the unfamiliar animal, then pointedly at me, my pregnant belly carrying our first child protruding, and said, “You’ve got to stop bringing home strays.”

And while I did, I still do what I can when I see an animal, especially a domestic one that’s possibly someone’s beloved pet, in need.

So one Sunday morning in June, the spring sun already shining through the green grass, turning its blades a glowing shade of chartreuse, I’m out for a leisurely stroll with my two rescue dogs, Catcher and Snowball. The neighborhood is quiet outside, but the smell of bacon wafts through the air. Almost home, where my own breakfast and French press await, I spy something unusual.

In the front yard of a stately brick house in Wedgewood, a neighborhood that runs adjacent to my own, Starmount Forest, an orange fox, shoulders hunched, and a fluffy black cat are having a standoff. The fox bares its teeth and stares, eyes narrowed, at the feline, whose back is arched.

I watch as they continue to hold eye contact. This is someone’s beloved pet, I think. My wild imagination takes off and I picture a family with small children, dressed in their Sunday best on their way to church, opening their front door to find their precious kitty mangled and left for dead.

My thoughts break when suddenly the cat lunges for the fox. For a moment my worries subside. I should’ve known a cat would be able to fend for itself. After all, are they not domesticated relatives of the king of the jungle, the lion?

The fox backs far enough off that the cat turns to walk away victoriously. And that’s when the fox makes his move. But he isn’t the only one to make a move.

“Hey!” I shout from about 40 feet away. “Leave the cat alone!” As if the fox, is going to say, “Oh, sorry! Right, I don’t know what I was thinking. Toodles.” Instead, the fox shifts its head in the direction of me and my entourage of dogs. Uh-oh.

And yes, I should’ve thought, This animal is a rabid beast — just get you and your dogs home safely. But, nope, I couldn’t get the image of a heartbroken family mourning their beloved cat out of my mind.

My dogs, who’ve been by my side, watching all of this unfold, peer up at me with worried eyes as I yank their leashes and hustle-walk toward home, still a quarter of a mile away.

I pick up my pace, the sound of my sneakers slapping the pavement almost matching my racing heart. Glancing over my shoulder, I keep an eye on the fox’s proximity. He seems cocky but intent, skulking behind us in a quick, yet not rushed, trot. All he has to do is sprint and we’ll become his Sunday breakfast.

Just then, a white pickup truck appears around the bend in the road. Oh, thank God! I think. But the truck passes me. However, when I look behind me, I see that the driver has parked between me and the fox, creating a literal roadblock for the wild animal.

This time, I don’t stick around to see what happens next. Catcher, Snowball and I take our chance to hightail it home to safety. To my hero on a white horse — or, rather, in a white armored pickup truck — whoever you are and wherever you are, thank you. Sometimes, as it turns out, the rescuer needs a bit of rescuing, too. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Curb Alert

Freedom, fear and fahrvergnügen

By Cassie Bustamante

The first car I ever bought myself — with funds matched by my parents — was a brand-new 1997 little black Jetta, purchased right after I finished my freshman year at Wake Forest. One of my close friends, Krista, had a similar car she called LBJ; so I dubbed mine LBJ Jr.

“Junior” was my ticket to freedom. Far from my Massachusetts home, that car and I made many scenic drives to Pilot Mountain, an area that reminded me of the rolling New England countryside. Cruising, windows open and mix CD blasting, was all the escape I needed when undergrad life felt overwhelming.

Over 20 years later, with kids who are just shy of my age then, it’s time to pass my current car, a 13-year-old cherry-red Ford Flex, aka station wagon on steroids, onto my son, Sawyer, and get myself a new ride. Neither of my eligible children has a license yet, but both Sawyer and his younger sister, Emmy, are permitted.

Fondly recalling my travels with Junior, I book an appointment at the Flow VW dealership. My only rule? No bold colors. I’ve had enough of people telling me they spotted me in my bright-red bus. Let that be Sawyer’s problem soon, God willing.

Behind the wheel of a dark gray 2021 Touareg, I’m smitten. It seems — at least compared to the 2011 clunker I’ve been schlepping around in — to have all the bells and whistles. Seat warmers and steering wheel warmer? It might be June, but my cold winter hands will thank me in December. But practical Chris, along for this car-shopping ride, wants to visit another dealership before going home to confer.

“What’s there to discuss?” I ask in our kitchen that evening. “I liked the first one. Sold!”

“This is a big decision,” he replies, hoping I’ll put a little more thought into my choice. Where he likes to take time to assess all angles, I go with my gut.

“The moment I sat in it, I knew. It’s got everything — even a sun roof!” I exclaim. “Plus, loads of people drive gray cars — no one will know it’s me!”

Later that week, we sign on the many dotted lines and make it official. In the parking lot, keys in hand, my heart races, giddy with excitement. Chris zips off, homebound, while I take time to adjust mirrors and seats.

I start the ignition, open the sun roof and cruise home, wind whipping strands of silver hair every which way. I pull into the driveway behind Chris’ car and open the door to the anxious faces of my three children and Chris all asking, “How was it?”

Glorious.

Fourteen hours after completing our purchase, Chris offers to take 16-year-old Emmy on a driving lesson. My recommendation? Grimsley parking lot, perfect for pulling into and backing out of spaces, a skill she needs to practice.

“Do you wand to play car Tetris, or do you think it’s safe parking in the street?” I ask, apprehensive about passing drivers accidentally scraping it.

“It’ll be OK for a little while,” Chris assures me, knowing I am headed to the office shortly.

Brand-new car now nestled into the side of the street, I turn my attention back to my open laptop, waving as Emmy and Chris exit.

A moment later, I hear it. A light thud. Not a crash, but strange and alarming. My gaze follows the sound to outside, where Chris’ small white SUV is angled directly into the left rear of my VW.

“Are you even kidding right now!” I shout to no one. Breathe. Maybe they’ve just hit the bumper.

Chris marches from the passenger to the driver side. Even from my vantage point, I can see Chris’ clenched jaw, fighting back a stream of frustration. Red-faced, Emmy bolts inside in a blur. Her bedroom door slams, followed by the click of her lock.

Meanwhile, Chris reverses his car, and my own drops about a foot back down to the ground. Nope, definitely not just a little love tap.

I feel the rage bubbling up and there’s no shoving it back down as Chris walks in the front door. “What were you thinking?!” I scream. “She’s not ready to back out of our driveway! And my car, my new car, was right there!!!!”

Chris does not rise to meet my level of emotions and calmly says, “She did great backing up. She put it into drive and then saw a car coming behind her and panicked.” Like a deer in headlights, she froze, foot off the brake, and rolled right into my car.

Exasperated, I leave him to deal with the insurance filing for not one, but two cars — his is in even worse shape than mine — and turn my focus to the real damage control.

I stand outside Emmy’s door. “Can I come in?”

“No!” she says between sobs.

“I’m not mad, Emmy. I just want to talk.”

A click. I’ve been granted entrance.

“I told Dad I wasn’t ready,” she hiccups. “I didn’t want to pull out of the driveway!”

“I know,” I reply, rubbing her back. “Look, you’re OK. The car will be OK. And on the bright side, you — and my car — have had your first fender bender. It has to happen at some point and why leave home to do it!”

She’s calming down. “I’m just really sorry.”

“This is not your fault, Emmy. They’re called accidents for a reason,” I say calmly. Then, with fire behind my voice, “It’s 100 percent Dad’s fault!”

That coaxes a laugh out of her. And I know in time, we’ll all be laughing about it.

A year later, we all see the humor in it. A core family memory for sure. We’re still slowly chipping away at having two more licensed drivers in our household, but, one day, we’ll get there. And those new-driver nerves? They’ll be replaced by the exhilarating thrill that comes with facing the open road, outstretched before you, beckoning you to enjoy the ride. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

A Souvenir

The best thing we brought back from Mexico didn’t come home in our suitcase

By Cassie Bustamante

The year I became pregnant with my second child, 2006, I wasn’t quite ready. My husband, Chris, and I knew we wanted two kids, a boy first and a girl second, as I’d always envisioned. But we’d just had our first baby — yes, a boy — in the summer of 2005. We were going to start trying again in the fall of 2006 so our kiddos could be almost exactly two years apart, just like my older brother and me.

Before we added another babe to our brood, just like Conrad Birdie, we had a lot of living to do. In April, we dropped off our infant son, Sawyer, with my parents and snuck in a Great Apple getaway, exploring landmarks, strolling Central Park and savoring the city’s finest cuisine — street-side pizza, slices so humongous and dripping with mozzarella that they had to be folded to be eaten.

Then, in May, came Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, thanks to Chris being a top performer at work. Again, Sawyer stayed with grandparents while Chris and I — with a group of his coworkers, bosses and plus ones — sipped Piña coladas and sangrias, complete with cocktail umbrellas, next to a glimmering turquoise ocean. Chris and I took an excursion into the city to savor authentic local fare, but also took part in resort activities with his work pals.

A group of his coworkers wanted to hit up karaoke night and asked us to join them. When we got there, it was clear that no one in our group was actually willing to sing. Hold my margarita, I said.

Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me, I think they’re OK, I began Madonna’s “Material Girl” nervously. But, after a beat, I was feeling it. What I lacked in singing chops I made up for in dramatic flair, sauntering around the room and gesticulating in a flirty manner. I didn’t win the night’s competition, but I did come in second, losing to a resort-goer who could actually carry a tune. Plus, I won the respect of Chris’ cohorts, who thought I was brave.

And I caught someone’s eye that night — my own husband’s.

A few weeks after landing back on U.S. soil, I discovered we’d brought home an unanticipated souvenir. Feeling a little funny, I purchased a pregnancy test kit, complete with three tests, just in case. I took the first one. No, this can’t be.

I guzzled a bottle of water so that I could try this again. Surely, it was a false positive. I took the second. Then the third. Positive, positive.

That evening, Chris sat at the computer desk in our home office, the beeping of dial-up connection sounding through the room as he prepared to email the latest photos of 9-month-old Sawyer to his parents. I paced the house, reluctant to spill the beans. Building up my nerve, I’d walk into the room, ready to burst, but instead hesitate and mutter something like, “What do you think about trying this new recipe tomorrow?”

Finally, my nervous energy got to him. “Is there something you want to say, Cassie?”

“OK, yes,” I said. The rest of the words tumbled out hurriedly. “I’ve been feeling a little off, so I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. Actually, I took all three tests and, well —”

I fanned them out in my hand, six pink lines glaring back.

“Are you upset?” I asked sheepishly.

“Upset?” Chris burst into laughter. “Why would I be upset? We’re having a baby — again!”

“Well, it’s a little earlier than we planned,” I sputtered. “I just thought maybe you’d be mad because this is not exactly on our timeline.”

His blue eyes twinkled as he got up and pulled me into a hug. “You never have to worry that I’d be mad about you getting pregnant, ever. Unless, of course, it’s not mine,” he deadpanned.

I wiped away tears, “Oh, it’s yours.”

Eleven months later, we left our 21-month-old and 4-month-old babies with my parents and jetted off to Puerto Vallarta again, and again it was on account of Chris’ job performance. As the president of his company spoke, he commended Chris, saying “And now Chris is going for a third!”

“Oh, no, he’s not!” I blurted out loudly. The crowd of colleagues erupted into laughter as I realized my blunder — his superior had meant a third year of top-notch numbers.

We never got that third trip. But, as it turns out, we changed our minds about that third child many years later and welcomed our incredible, “not-an-oops” caboose, Wilder. Still, there is one thing I know for certain: Any future vacation souvenir must come home in our luggage. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Dirty Laundry

It’s all about knowing when to fold and when to hold

By Cassie Bustamante

I recently came across a meme that depicted the sign for infinity, a sideways figure eight. Above it read: “The symbol for laundry.” Accurate, I thought. With three kids, it’s never-ending.

But I can’t complain because before we were even married — when we were living in sin in the nation’s seat of sin, New Orleans — my husband, Chris, and I set up a system that has worked well now for over 20 years.

Of course, “set up” is a bit of a stretch. We didn’t exactly thoughtfully lay out a plan. It went more like this:

Freshly laundered clothing strewn on the bed in front of me, I begin folding a pair of Chris’ jeans in half the long way and then into thirds. My hands, well-manicured and soft, no visible signs of aging (Hey, this is my memory, OK?), maneuver while my Sony CD player shuffles through discs. Absentmindedly singing along to Frou Frou’s “Let Go,” I’m in the sort of meditative trance only a tedious task can produce.

Suddenly, Chris’ judging eyes bore into me and pull me right back into my body. I can see him biting his lip, trying to hold in whatever it is he’s thinking. After a beat, he says, “Can you pass me those jeans?” And he proceeds to shake them out and meticulously refold them, seams aligned exactingly.

Frankly, I should have seen this coming. Our relationship began — brace yourself — when Chris was my boss and I was his intern at the Hanes Mall Abercrombie & Fitch kids’ store back in 1999, just a few years after the most infamous intern scandal of our time. He was the one who taught me how to fold the perfect denim wall. There was a science — an art form, really — to lining those pairs of jeans up just so. When stacked in the wall together, they were the perfect height, filling the space between shelves, each pair a uniform thickness.

“What’s wrong with how I did it?” I ask. Though, honestly, I know I’ve never quite mastered the art of folding clothes with that crisp prêt-à-porter look he’s capable of achieving. (Don’t tell him that. We don’t need any gloating around here.)

“I just like them, um, a certain way,” he says, clearly choosing his critiquing words carefully to maintain unwedded domestic bliss.

“Then why don’t you fold the laundry?” I sputter, not really a question, mind you.

“OK,” he answers and, surprising me, immediately takes over.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I stifle any witty retort — a real challenge for me — and simply say, “OK, then. All yours.”

From that moment on, Chris has been designated laundry-folder in our house. It’s a role that fits his very particular Virgo personality to a tee, a perfect use of his skills.

And, in the end, we both win. He gets his denim folded just the way his heart desires. And I get out of untangling and sorting endless piles of laundry. Well, mostly. I do have to refold my T-shirts because I have learned that Marie Kondo’s method really does make it easier to find clothing in a stuffed drawer. But I’ll never whisper a word about it. He can keep his job. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

The Road Not Taken

A thank you to a strong woman who made a strong impression

By Cassie Bustamante

“What do you mean you’re going to work at Abercrombie & Fitch? You need to go to grad school,” my college advisor, Dr. Meg Zulick, says to me when I tell her my plans for after graduation. “You’ll be wasting your talents there.”

I’d been working part-time at the mall-based retailer and saw what seemed like an easy upward path. After four years of college, the last thing I wanted was more college. Admittedly, my boyfriend at the time (and future husband), Chris, who knew how to rock that A&F visor, just so happened to work there as a manager. It was a job and I needed one. I more than liked my boss and it paid decent wages. To be fair, it’s a career path that worked out well for Chris. Twenty-four years later, he’s gone from store manager to district management and is now a senior area leader for the restaurant chain Cava, a role in people development that he finds challenging and rewarding.

But me? No, I’d completely lost my footing and was unsure of who I was or who I could be in this world. But Dr. Zulick knew better. She’d been my advisor since I declared my double major in English and communications at Wake Forest University. And she was not having it.

Since she’d been assigned as my advisor, I’d opted to take her class, American Rhetoric, followed by American Rhetoric II. In both, we studied speeches and songs that influenced historic movements. As a fan of strong female artists — the Indigo Girls, Patti Griffin and Tori Amos ranked in my top five — I thought I knew a thing or two about music that mattered. But before stepping foot into Dr. Zulick’s classroom in Carswell Hall, the brick building that was home to the communications department, I’d never once listened to gospel music.

In her classroom, my eyes — and ears — were opened. Here, the powerful voice of Mahalia Jackson, whose music was central to the Civil Rights Movement, echoed throughout. “This Land is Your Land,” a beloved Woody Guthrie song, took on new meaning once I learned more about the man behind the lyrics. Later, his son, Arlo, penned the song “Alice’s Restaurant Massacre,” a tune my family listened to every Thanksgiving on our drive to our gathering, just outside Worcester, Massachusetts. Growing up, I’d had no idea that the seemingly silly diner ditty I loved to sing along to was a protest anthem.

During many of Dr. Zulick’s sessions, a TV set would be wheeled in and we’d watch black-and-white footage of Dr. Martin Luther King’s speeches, such as “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop.” For speeches that preceded the age of radio and television, we read manuscripts, including the words of famed abolitionist, civil rights and women’s rights activist Sojourner Truth.

I consumed and dissected every piece of rhetoric she fed us — and I loved it. There’s nothing I like more than discovering meaning behind lyrics and writings. During classroom discussions, my hand flew up. I poured myself into the papers I turned in to Dr. Zulick. I trusted her implicitly with my thoughts, through which she came to understand what lit me up. And, folks, I would discover fairly quickly that it wasn’t retail.

So, it’s no surprise that I find myself sitting across from her, red-faced and exasperated, as she says, “You’re making a mistake.”

And yet, I walked away — leaving college and Dr. Zulick behind me. I didn’t ask for a letter of recommendation so I could go on to grad school. Instead, I took the quick and easy route, thinking retail management might be just right for me. I married Chris and had a few kids. But — through a series of steps and missteps that led me along a path of finding out not only who I was, but what I could be — I found my way to O.Henry, where my love for rhetoric has found a home.

A year ago, I reached out to Dr. Zulick, still a Wake Forest professor. She agreed to meet me for lunch and suggested her favorite dive, Winston-Salem’s West End Café, a restaurant I remembered well from my undergrad years.

Across from Dr. Zulick — who insisted I call her Meg — in a booth, I replayed the last conversation we’d had. “I know I didn’t listen to you, but I wanted the opportunity to say to you in person how much impact you had on me. Your classes opened my eyes, but do you want to know what really stuck with me?” I asked her.

She shook her head.

“You believed in me. And your faith in me has stayed with me for more than 20 years.”

Over sandwiches, we talked about the past — her Pennsylvania-Dutch upbringing and her small local Quaker community — and the future, her retirement creeping around the corner. We chatted about my plans for O.Henry and she offered up some story ideas.

“Well,” I said, “maybe you could write them for us?”

“You know,” she said, “I just might take you up on that.” OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2024 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Waffling?

A surprising engagement

By Cassie Bustamante

I don’t like surprises — unless I suspect they’re coming — in which case, it’s no longer actually a surprise, eh? I am 100 percent that person who will go snooping in my husband’s side of the closet, riffling through his drawers as a stratagem to keep myself totally unsurprised. Chris has known this from early on in our relationship and has mastered the workaround.

So let’s rewind to Christmas, 2002, when we’d been together for almost three years — three years that involve me hopping from North Carolina to Tennessee, from Texas to Louisiana, following him around while living in sin. After dropping hints for almost two years, I decide it’s time to put a ring on it. When you know, you know.

But Chris, ever the practical Virgo, likes to have things clearly mapped before making big moves. Me? Once I’ve made up my mind, I leap and figure out the rest on the way.

When he asks me for Christmas gift ideas that year, I hand-write an elaborate list that reads something like this: “waffle iron, The Nanny Diaries, ring, bread machine, In Her Shoes, ring, J. Crew top, ring. . . ” On it goes, an exhaustive list of things he knows are marginal — kitchen appliances, books I can buy myself, random items of clothing — and the thing I really want repeated so many times it can’t be missed.

We’re spending our first Christmas alone, just the two of us and our beagle, Charlie. Chris is working and can’t get away to visit the parents and I’ve opted to stay with him in our New Orleans apartment. But I am OK with it because I know my ring is coming and, while I’m certainly not getting a Lexus, it’s going to be “a December to remember.”

In fact, a mysterious package — with “Do not open until Christmas” in his mom’s handwriting — arrives earlier in the month for Chris. I think I know what’s inside, but there’s no way to stealthily open and reseal it. Trust me, I would if I could.

On Christmas Eve, we share a romantic meal I’ve prepared of duck à l’orange, whipped rosemary mashed potatoes, a simple tossed salad and warm, crusty rolls. We pair it with a chilled pinot grigio. For dessert, a decadent apple pie. The apartment smells of citrus and cinnamon, just as it should at the holidays.

Christmas morning comes and I drag Chris out of bed, anticipating the diamond awaiting me. Instead, I unwrap every single book, sweater and kitchen gadget from my list. What’s not there? A ring.

Disappointed, I distract myself by breaking in the brand-new waffle iron, a top-notch Williams-Sonoma one at that, but this meal is not like the night before. I’m quietly fuming, the air of romance evaporated.

“Everything OK?” Chris asks.

“Fine,” I offer. It’s the answer I give when everything is, in fact, anything but.

He looks at me, but I avoid eye contact. “Anything I can do?”

“Nope.”

We clean up in silence and Chris tells me he’s going to shower.

“Fine,” I mutter again and slink to the sofa to pout while sappy Christmas movies featuring happily married couples play on the TV.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear Chris enter the room, but don’t look up.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to make you feel better?” he asks.

“Nope,” I repeat. “Nothing.”

He approaches the couch and stands over me. “How about this?” In his hand he holds a small black box. Inside is a simple gold band with a single diamond. His great-grandmother’s, he tells me.

Holding back tears, I punch him in the arm, saying, “You’re such a jerk, but I love you.” He smirks, pleased with himself that he’s managed to surprise me after all.

As I write this story, I have to laugh at myself. I wouldn’t marry me — I was the jerk. But, 22 years later, we’re still going strong. So is our waffle iron. Some things were just made to last. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2024 Chaos Theory Department