Changing Michael (8 page)

“Why?”

“Does Gut listen to classic rock?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he'd like it if you did too?”

“I don't know.”

“What if he had to come down the hall and tell you to turn it down?”

Michael wasn't following.

“Don't you think he'd be a little conflicted?” I said. “Telling you to turn down music he likes?”

“Maybe.”

Something outside the window caught my attention—a woman picking her way up the driveway. She was small and thin and immediately reminded me of some kind of rodent. That's another theory of mine, by the way. Physically, everyone in the world looks like one of six animals: fish, bird, rat, pig, bear, or horse. Try it sometime.

“Who's that?”

“My mom,” he muttered.

Wow.

Michael and Mom definitely looked like they both belonged to the rat family. Something about the nose and mouth. They weren't so startling on Michael, but on Mom they were disturbing.

“Let's go meet her,” I said, slipping out of his room and down the hall. Michael tried to say something, but I ignored him. On my way past Gut, I said, “They get to that story yet?”

“What story?”

“The weird one I was telling you about,” I said. “The one I couldn't remember.”

“Ain't no story,” he said, scowling at the TV. He sounded like a toddler:
I'm
not
gonna take a nap!

I let him sulk and found my way to the kitchen. Michael's mom was unloading groceries.

“Mrs. . . .?” I almost said “Mrs. Rat,” but stopped myself just in time.

She looked at me as if I'd threatened to kick her. “Yes?”

“I'm Michael's friend Matthew,” I said, just as Michael rounded the corner.

“Oh . . . hello,” she said.

“Did you get waffles?” Gut asked from the couch.

“Would you like some help putting those away?” I asked.

She stopped for a second, as if trying to remember something. “No. Thank you.”

“Michael wanted me to meet you,” I said, smiling.

“Did you get waffles?” Gut asked again, louder this time.

“Yes!” she called.

“Likes his waffles, doesn't he?” I said.

“Yes,” Mom said.

“Okay, well, you probably need to go,” Michael said, trying to shoo me out the door.

“No, I'm fine,” I said. I wasn't about to let Michael chase me away. When would I get another chance to experience the whole family together? “Are you just getting home from work?”

“Yes,” she said, busy putting cans into cabinets.

“Where do you work?”

“At the hospital,” Michael said.

“Are you a nurse?” I asked.

“Medical records,” Michael said.

“I didn't know you were a ventriloquist, Michael.”

Mom and son gave me the same baffled look.

Okay, so his looks
and
sense of humor came from Mom.

“We're out of butter,” Gut said. He'd managed to pry himself off the couch.

Mom glanced at him. “I wish you'd told me that this morning,” she said to the head of lettuce on the counter.

“Forgot,” Gut said, beginning to pick his teeth.

“Toothpick?” I offered.

Gut shook his head.

“Okay, well . . .” Michael began.

“Did you tell her yet, Michael?” I said, interrupting.

“Tell me what?” she asked, alarmed.

Michael stared at me.

“Fine, I'll tell her. Your son is incredibly modest,” I said. “They want Michael to play football.”

Gut snorted.

“Who does?” She sounded worried.

“The school. Michael's not sure he wants to do it, but still—”

“Them elves he's always fightin' might not like it,” said Gut. “Might attack the house or something.”

“Did you play football in high school?” I asked Gut before Michael could respond.

“Fullback,” Gut grunted. “I didn't just run around kickin' balls like a little—”

Mom looked at Gut, then said, “Michael doesn't really like team sports.”

“Mom!” Michael said.

“Well, you don't,” she said, then went back to her groceries.

“Michael's one of them loner guys you hear about on TV,” Gut said.

“Kind of like a race car driver,” I said.

“What?”

“Kind of like a driver.”

“Nah,” said Gut. “They got a whole pit crew to work with.”

“But when they're racing, I mean. When they're out there on the track all by themselves. Must get kind of lonely.”

“What do you mean?” Gut asked, hairy eyebrows knitting together.

“Good thing they have those pretty girlfriends . . . or whatever.”

“
Whatever
?” he repeated.

“You know—girlfriends, families . . . significant others.”

Gut grunted and looked away.

“So, you ready to go?” I asked Michael.

He nodded.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to Michael's mom.

“You, too,” she said.

Yeah, right.

“You'll let me know if you hear that story?” I asked as Gut shuffled back toward the couch.

“Uh-huh,” he said, absently.

Michael and I headed out. I shook my head on the way down the stairs.

“What?” Michael asked.

“Going to be a little harder than I thought,” I said.

“Why?”

“You're not going to get much help from Mom.”

Michael was quiet.

“Michael, where's your dad?” I said.

He didn't answer right away. I took a quick peek and figured I was in for a battle, but before I could begin the assault, he said, “Baltimore.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

“Michael, that's only, like, forty minutes away. Do you ever see him?”

A headshake.

“Why not?”

I looked over when I didn't get an answer.

Michael's eyes were on the ground and his jaw was set. He looked like he was preparing for a dental procedure.

“So, when was the last time you saw him?” I said.

“I'm not sure,” said Michael. “It's been a while.”

“Days? Weeks?”

“Years. Since I was little.”

“Why?”

We hit the busy intersection. Michael finally shrugged. “He left us,” he said. “Why should I go see him?”

“Aren't you curious?”

“He's a drunk.”

That was a pretty good reason.
But wait a minute
, I thought.
How would he know?

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your mom probably doesn't talk about your dad much, does she?”

“Not really. Not unless I push,” he said.

“So how do you know?”

“How do I know
what
?”

“How do you know she's telling you the truth?”

Michael hesitated.

“Why doesn't he try to see me?” he asked.

“Maybe he's not allowed,” I said. “Maybe there's a court order or something.”

Michael was quiet. I couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this before. “But wouldn't he try anyway?” he asked.

“Try what?”

“Try to see me? To tell me what was going on?”

“I don't know, Michael.”

I suddenly realized we'd turned off the main road. We were on our way to Flap's bookstore. I began to wonder how many times a week Michael ended up at Flap's.

It was like a cigarette, or a security blanket. After every argument with Gut, or a bad day at school, Michael headed for the store. It was a habit he needed to break. He couldn't keep running to the bookstore every time someone hurt his feelings. He needed to start standing up for himself, and he definitely needed to stop believing everything people fed him.

“Your father's a drunk.” “You need to talk to someone about your dreams.”

Michael needed to see his real dad and draw his own conclusions.

I stopped.

“Michael, what day is it?”

“Uh . . . Wednesday, I think.”

“What are you doing this weekend?”

I waited for him to flip through his mental calendar.

“Big plans?” I asked, getting impatient.

“No . . . I can't think of anything.”

“Well, if you can clear a couple hours, I think we should take a little road trip.”

“We should?”

I nodded.

“Wait. You mean you want to go to—?”

“Yep.”

“But I don't know where he lives.”

“You know his name, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

I took Michael by the shoulders and turned him back toward the main road, away from the bookstore.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“You're going back home,” I said. “I need you to use that lovely computer in your room and find out where your father lives.”

Michael stared at me, then glanced over his shoulder toward the bookstore.
Probably hoping Flap will open the door and wave him over
, I thought. But I also had a feeling that seeing his father was, in fact, something he wanted, so I waited patiently, even though I wanted to shake him.

“What if he's not there this weekend?” Michael finally asked.

“We'll leave a note and show up some other day,” I said. “At least you'll know how to get there.”

“He probably won't be there,” Michael said.

“You're probably right,” I said. “We'll just head up, leave a note, and come back down. It'll take like an hour.”

Michael seemed to like this. He took a few steps toward home.

“There's a bookstore in Baltimore I'd like to visit,” he said.

“Sure. Road trips are supposed to be crazy like that.”

“It's a used bookstore,” he explained. “They have a lot of out-of-print books.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's really cool. They specialize in rare and hard-to-find science-fiction and fantasy.”

I led Michael back to his house. It was like steering a senile old man back to the safety of the nursing home. He told me more about the bookstore. I nodded and said things like, “Oh, wow, that sounds cool.”

When I left him near the side door, he was still talking about it. Apparently, it was run by elves, filled with treasure, and served as the entrance to an alternate universe (much like Wanda's house). Or at least that's what I think he said—I wasn't really listening.

I remember debating my long-term career plans on the drive back to school. Obviously, I was a highly desirable candidate for any of the premier schools of social work, as well as a top architectural prospect. Not to mention the letter of intent the police department was badgering me to sign.

Lying in bed that evening, I envisioned the happy reunion I'd arranged for the weekend. I wondered how emotional it would get. I wasn't big on crying, and I definitely didn't want anyone hugging me. It would kind of put a damper on things. Hopefully, I'd be safe if I stood to one side and held up a hand if anybody got too close.

“I'm sorry, I'm a professional. I'm not at liberty to get physically involved with my clients.”

Strange, though, how things don't always turn out like they're supposed to.

With the exception of my home visit on Wednesday and the impending road trip, the week was pretty uneventful. And as an added bonus, the rumor I'd started about Michael was beginning to make some good headway.

“Did you hear about your little buddy, Michael?” Jack asked Thursday at lunch.

“Michael? What about him?” I asked, suddenly pulled back into the present. Jack had been going on and on about some love interest (although “love” wasn't the right word).

“He got in a fight. Downtown. At the Crossbow.”

“He what?” I said, trying to look surprised. “What the hell was Michael doing at the Crossbow?”

Jack shrugged. “I don't know, but apparently he beat the crap out of three guys.”

“Get out,” I said.

“Seriously,” Jack said, like he was an eyewitness.

“Please,” I said. “Michael? You're telling me he was just hanging out in D.C. and gets into a big fight? Where'd you hear this shit?”

“Nathan.”

“Nathan,” I said, grimacing. “Nathan's everywhere, isn't he?”

“What do you mean?”

“He's a little busybody. Ever notice how Nathan's
always
right in the middle of everything?”

“I guess.” Jack shrugged.

He was quiet for a while, considering. I started to worry that I'd overplayed my hand when Jack asked, “Anything going on this weekend?”

“No idea,” I said. I told him to give me a call if he found a party or some small but notable gathering worth attending.

Anyway, Saturday finally rolled around, and since Mom was in the kitchen buried in work, getting the car for our little road trip wasn't hard.

I suppose you're probably wondering why I never borrow my dad's car. No point. He's been ridiculously overprotective since the “driveway incident,” which is absurd because it really wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know Mom was parked
outside
the garage door instead of inside like a normal person? And not only was she on the other side of the door, she was parked
directly
behind
Dad's car, so when I opened the door and started to back out, well . . .

And it really wasn't
that
bad. Dad had a fit, though, and since then it's been next to impossible to pry the keys out of his hand.

Since Mom was preoccupied
and
facing away from the keys, I trotted down the stairs, sent an arm into the kitchen, and silently slipped the keys off the hook and into my pocket. I took a couple steps toward the garage, mumbled something about going out for a while, and bolted.

I'd talked to Michael on Friday afternoon, and he'd asked me to pick him up at Flap's. To be honest, I wasn't sure whether I'd see him or not. I figured he'd probably worked himself into a minor stroke thinking about the visit and decided to hide under his bed with a pocket Bible and his
Field Guide to Naked Old Men in Diapers
, but when I turned down Flap's street, there he was­—on the stoop and reading a book, of course—but at least he was there.

When he saw me, he tucked the book into his backpack.

“Hi,” he said, sliding in and closing the door.

“Flap wondering what you're up to?” I said.

“Yes.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“Movies.”

“Oooh, our first date, huh?”

He stared at me.

“So,” I said, pulling into traffic, “what should we do on the ride up? Sing songs? Play Truth or Dare?”

“It's only about forty minutes, isn't it?”

“Yes, but it's a
road trip
, Michael,” I said. “You have to get into the spirit of the thing.”

He thought about this for a minute.

“I don't really know any songs,” he said.

“You would if you'd been listening to classic rock as I instructed,” I said, frowning.

I glanced over at him. He squirmed a bit.

Probably worried I'll force him to sing.

Well, if it upset him that much, maybe I would. Then again, there were other, more interesting ways to make him uncomfortable. I thought for a minute.

What do I want to know?

“So what's with the Bible study? You joining the priesthood?” I said.

“I've thought about it,” he said quietly.

“And . . .? Is it the celibacy thing?”

“No.”

“So it
is
the celibacy thing,” I said, nodding.

“No, I'm not Catholic.”

“What's the difference?”

“Priests are Catholic, and I don't believe in the tenets of the Catholic church.” Before I could ask, he said, “I don't believe what they believe.”

“Thanks for dumbing it down.”

He looked to see if I was angry. I wasn't.

“I have thought about becoming a minister,” he said.

“Is that like a super-priest?”

He looked out the window.

I sighed. “Michael, it's not a very long drive, but I would hate to have to make it unpleasant for you.”

But he wouldn't come around. I squeezed the wheel hard with both hands and tried to keep my voice casual.

“I'd be a good priest,” I said.

“You?” Michael said, a little too strongly.

“Yes, me. I think I know a little more about people than you do.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means I know how to handle them. So do priests. They're all just sheep-herders.”

“Shepherds,” he said.

“What's the difference?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“They're right about one thing—people are sheep,” I said. “And it's our job to herd them around.”

“Whose job?”

“Smart people. Like you and me,” I said. “People want to be led, Michael. They want to be told what to do. It's easier than thinking.”

“But that's not a minister's primary responsibility,” he said. “Ministers are concerned with the spiritual well-being of their congregation.”

“Minister? I'm going to be a priest,” I said.

“You're Catholic?” Michael said, dubiously.

“Maybe.”

My mom's Catholic. Every once in a while, she actually succeeds in dragging us to church—usually a guilt-ridden Christmas or a reluctant Easter visit. Church is like visiting an elderly relative. You know you're supposed to go more than twice a year, but never seem to find the time.

Our church had a long name I could never get right, and fairly graphic images of suffering on most of the walls.

“Anyway,” I continued, “priests—
and ministers
—tell people what to do, don't they? They tell them what to do and how to do it. They let their sheep know if they've been bad or good—hey, kind of like Santa Claus! Then they tell people what they need to do to get their presents when they die. “Michael,” I said, turning to face him, “I think I just figured out why God has a long white beard . . . Santa!”

Michael stared at me a second, then turned back to the window.

“What are you doing?”

“You're not being serious,” he muttered.

“Oh, yes I am, Michael. Do you honestly believe the average sheep thinks about ‘spiritual well-being' as much as you do?”

No response.

“Do you?”

“Probably not,” he said.

“Of course not,” I said. “And why do you think the average sheep goes to church?”

Michael shrugged.

“Do you think it's because they love rolling out of bed on Sunday so they can sit on uncomfortable benches and listen to someone tell them they're going to hell?”

Michael tried to interrupt, but I was on a roll.

“They go because they think they have to,” I said. “They think if they show up and kneel when they're supposed to and move their lips during the songs, God's going to let them into heaven.”

“I don't—”

“Oh,” I said. “And they do it for their kids. They're too lazy to teach their kids anything, so they drag them to church and turn the kids into sheep, too.”

I wanted to keep going but temporarily ran out of material. I hate it when I run out of material or lose my train of thought. It gives someone else a chance to jump in, and I'm only a good conversationalist when it's my turn to speak.

So I usually ask a question when I run out of material. Questions give you a chance to reload.

“So why don't you want to be a minister anymore?”

He answered, but not loud enough for me to hear.

“What?”

“I don't think my faith is strong enough,” he repeated.

“So?”

“So?!” Michael said. “How can you be a minister if you don't . . . if you're not sure what you believe?”

“So you're telling me that all the ministers in the world believe every bit of what they're saying 100 percent of the time?”

He hesitated.

“Michael?”

“Yes, I think most of them—”

“Most of them?”

“
Some
of them probably have . . . I'm sure they have moments . . .”

“You don't sound very sure.”

“So you think they're all liars?” he said, flushing.

“Maybe not all of them,” I said, “but a good minister's probably like a good salesman.”

Michael looked like I'd forced a lemon wedge into his mouth.

“Sure! You're a salesman and God's your product,” I said. “There's a lot of competition, though. You've got your Jewish product, your Catholic product, and so on. And there's the imported stuff—Buddhism and so forth. Then you've got the cults at the very bottom. They're like the guys on the shopping channel—they've got to give you the hard sell because their product is such a piece of crap.”

Michael was staring at me.

“Anyway, you've got your product, and you know it's pretty good, but you've got to dress it up a little. You need them to want your product more than they want the other ones.”

Michael tried to interrupt again. I held up my hand. “I'm not talking about lying,” I said. “You just don't mention the fine print right away. Let them think they're eligible for the gold card and throw in the details right when they're signing the contract: ‘Oh, by the way, not everyone gets the bonus package. But if you want it, here's what you need to do.'”

I was pretty happy with myself when I finished, so I was a little annoyed when I glanced at Michael and found him staring out the window again.

“So?” I said.

“So?” he said, without turning.

“What do you think?”

“I think you missed the point.”

“What the hell do you mean?” I said.

I was pretty pleased with the case I'd built and not real happy with the reception it had received.

“And quit talking to the window or I'm going to roll it down for the rest of the trip. I can do that, you know.”

Actually, I wasn't sure if I could. There were a lot of buttons in Mom's car and I didn't know what half of them did.

I felt kind of bad when he turned to face me. He looked like he was going to cry. Or get sick. I didn't want to see him cry, and I definitely didn't want a spray of vomit in my direction.

“I couldn't do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Be a salesman.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's not honest,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because I need to believe the things I say.”

I sighed. “But you just said some of them have doubts,” I said.

He shrugged. “I'm different, I guess.”

I guess?
I held my tongue and tried to hit him from a different angle: “So why did you want to be a salesman?”

“What?”

“A minister? Why did you want to be one?”

“I wanted to help people,” he said.

“Michael, helping people is hard.
Telling
people what they need is the same thing, and it's much easier. That's how you need to think of it.”

“It's not honest.”

“Okay, so who do you want to help?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Well, do you want to help poor people? Hungry people? Oh, wait—I guess if you're poor, you're also probably hungry, right? Do you want to help children? Old people?”

He didn't respond.

“Well?”

“I don't know,” he said, flushing. “Everybody, I guess. Spiritually.”

“Didn't Jesus already do that?”

He tried to look out the window.

“Michael, I'm being serious,” I said. “Are you listening to yourself? What kind of goal is that—‘I want to help everyone'?”

“What's wrong with it?” He was bright red now.

“You sound like a creepy Christmas card or some adorable figurine. ‘I want to make the whole world happy!'”

“Let me out.”