Changing Michael (15 page)

“So in the early ‘70s, there was this movement in jazz toward—”

“Dad, we have to go,” Michael said.

I closed my eyes.
Why is there never any tact?

His father didn't seem too happy about the interruption. “What do you mean?” he said. “It's not even nine yet.”

“I've got school tomorrow,” Michael said.

“Yeah, me too,” I agreed, hoping his father didn't suddenly remember it was Friday.

“So?”

“It's kind of a long trip back,” I said.

“It's like forty minutes,” his father said.

“I've still got some homework to finish,” I said.

“So? Skip it.”

I was temporarily out of excuses.

“Come on,” his father said. “Just stay another hour. We'll listen to a few tunes, then you can go.”

“Michael's got to meet someone,” I said, recovering.

“Do you now?” his father said, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, Michael doesn't like to piss her off, do you Michael?”

Michael shook his head emphatically.

His father rolled his eyes. “Michael, let me give you a little advice about women,” he said.

We pretended to listen to a five-minute lecture on the way a “man” is expected to act in a relationship. It isn't worth repeating.

“Yeah, well, anyway, Michael likes her, so we have to get going,” I said. “I guess she lets him touch her or something.”

His father laughed. Michael frowned.

“All right, then. I guess I understand,” his father said.

He grabbed my hand and shook it. He turned to Michael, hand outstretched, but suddenly had an idea. “Hey, wait a minute. I've got something for you,” he said. He set his beer by the couch and hurried back to the records. Michael glared at me.

“Well, it's getting us out of here, isn't it?” I said.

We spent an uncomfortable minute watching his father flip through albums, talking to himself the whole time. Things like: “Oh, yeah, got to have that one. That one's a classic.” Finally, he hurried over with an armload of records. “For you,” he said, shoving them into Michael's arms.

“I don't have a record player.”

“Get one from a yard sale or something. Actually, they're starting to make 'em again. People are coming back to analog. It's much warmer than digital and—”

“I've got one you can have,” I offered, hoping to head off another lecture.

“See? There you go,” his father said, satisfied.

“Why are you giving them to me?” Michael asked.

“And say hi to your girlfriend for me,” his father said with a smirk. “Man, I'm glad Chrissy won't have a boyfriend. Couldn't deal with that.”

Somewhere in the apartment, a door slammed.

“Ah, shit!” his father said, covering his eyes with a hand. “Thank God I've only got one kid,” he said, heading down the hall. “Two would've killed me.”

I stood in the middle of the mess Michael's father had made, too stunned to say anything right away. “Well, I guess we should go,” I said, listening to his father rap on Chrissy's door.

“Come on, Chrissy, open up. I didn't say that right. Let me explain.”

“Yeah, I guess we should probably get going,” I mumbled, looking at Michael's feet. I tried to glance at his face but couldn't deal with what I saw. I ended up back at his feet. I'm still not sure whether he dropped them intentionally or they just slipped, but I figured our time was up when the records hit the floor.

I led the way out the door and down the hall to the stairs. I suddenly remembered the lovely couple from earlier and wondered if they were still on the landing.

Thankfully, they'd moved on. Maybe they'd found a nicer floor. Or a roomier stairwell. I didn't care. I just wanted to get outside. I tried to worry about the car but couldn't work up the energy. My brain felt like a bridge well past its weight limit.

I wove my way through some people near the front door, ignored a few comments, and found myself outside on the sidewalk. I turned to wait for Michael, but he was right on my heels. He brushed past me without a word. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes . . . well, I don't really have the words to describe them.

The car looked okay, but even if we'd found it with one tire, no doors, and a fire in the backseat, I still would have tried to drive home.

Michael's father and this city could go to hell.

I pulled away from the curb and headed out.

Driving away from that apartment building felt like finding the surface after a long, frightening swim under the ice.

We didn't speak on the ride home. Michael finally broke the silence when I dropped him off in front of his house.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem,” I said. “I figure I'll have my chauffeur's license pretty soon and I can start charging.”

“Not for the ride,” he said.

I waited.

“Thanks for showing me my mom's not a liar.”

“What?”

“Thanks for showing me my father the drunk.”

“Michael . . .”

He slammed the door. I watched him work his way around the junkyard in the driveway and through the side door. The lights were on inside. I wondered if Flap was still there. I wondered if they were up, waiting for him.

For their sake, I hoped not.

After pulling into the garage, I killed the engine, and sat for a minute, thinking.

Thinking about the night and how every part of it had been a piece of crap. Wishing I had turned off the phone and crawled into bed at 7:00.

Unlocking the door to the house, the last thing I needed was a chatty parent.

I opened it as quietly as possible. There was a light on in the kitchen.

Damn it.

A crappy end to a shitty evening.

“So, where'd you go?”

“I took my new friend Michael up to Baltimore to see his biological father.”

“Sounds like fun! Did you guys have a good time?”

“His dad was drunk and acted like a tool.”

“Oh, that's great! Good for you.”

I slipped out of my shoes and resigned myself to the brief walk to the kitchen. Maybe I'd just wave and swing upstairs. I stopped a few yards shy and listened.

No sounds, no voice requesting my presence for a debriefing. I took the last few steps.

No Mom.

“Thank
God
,” I muttered.

I couldn't tell if she'd simply stepped out of the room or hadn't been in it for a while. I wanted something to drink, but had to weigh the desire against an unexpected opportunity to make it to my room unmolested. Hanging around for even a minute seemed like pushing my luck, and tonight felt like a bad night for that. I looked for any signs of recent activity.

In a little clearing between two piles, I noticed a mug and a plate. The plate held the tattered remains of some bread or pastry. There was only an inch or so of liquid in the mug. No steam.

Could she actually be in bed?

I decided to risk it.

Bathroom
,
I decided, getting myself a glass of juice.
She's probably in the bathroom.

I took a sip, listening, but downstairs really did feel empty.

At least I've managed to catch one break tonight.

I left the empty glass on the counter and, starting for the stairs, felt the need to stop as I passed the table.

Toast
, I decided, looking down at the plate.
Coffee,
I decided, peering at the mug.
Possibly chai?

Who the hell cares? Let's go!

But I didn't. Instead, I found myself lingering at the edge of the table, on the cusp of remembering something.

The papers.

I smiled. Mom's secret papers—the ones she'd shoved under a pile before I could get a look at them.

I reached for the pile and lifted the corner, pulling the bottom third closer.

Disappointing. The top few pages were nothing but columns of numbers below headings that made no sense. I toyed with the idea of “accidentally” spilling the rest of Mom's coffee over a pile or two.

Looking through the rest of the pile, I found a stapled set at the very bottom. These were different. The paper was longer and there was a seal near the bottom of the first page. I became a bit more interested when I saw my last name scattered here and there across the length of the document.

I began to read. About halfway through, I sat down.

I shoved the plate and mug to one side. The toast ended up on the table. I left it.

I skimmed the document once, stopping to read here and there. Then I read it again, slowly.

It was pretty self-explanatory. Mom wanted to separate from Dad.

I sat for a minute, thinking, then slipped the papers back into place. I straightened the stack, then gently pulled the mug and plate back to their former positions. I replaced the toast and carefully swept the crumbs into the palm of my hand.

I stood by the trash a while, brushing the crumbs from my hands.

Thinking.

I crossed the room, hooking the keys over their ring. I started up the first few stairs and stopped. I stood for a moment, then came back down and into the kitchen.

At the edge of the table, I found the right pile and pulled out the set of papers again.

I walked over to the trash can.

I stood over the papers, considering, then pushed them down, hard. I pulled some soggy plastic and used napkins over the top for good measure.

Rinsing my hands, killing the lights, and climbing the stairs.

Getting undressed and slipping into bed.

Feeling . . . grateful—grateful that I didn't feel a damn thing.

In fact, I started to fall away the minute my head hit the pillow.

After a time, I heard someone walking downstairs and didn't think twice about it.

Falling asleep and refusing to wonder whose footsteps. Because it didn't matter. It didn't matter if they went from the living room to the kitchen.

Why should it?

Michael and his father tried to bother me for a while, but I wasn't about to let them. There was nothing to keep me from falling asleep, just like I always did.

One last attempt: Michael's voice, just before I fell.

Saying just one word: “grifter.”

His voice came and went, leaving me completely alone.

Saturday morning came. I slept in.

And when I finally admitted to myself that trying to doze off one more time was a lost cause, guess what?

I was
still
finished with Michael.

I stretched but didn't get up.

I'd poured a ridiculous amount of time, energy, and expertise into him . . . and what had he given me in return?

Nothing. Not even a few bucks for gas money.

Just a lot of trouble topped with attitude.

I will admit it: I was reluctant to close the book on him completely. There was one last piece of information I wanted. I wanted to know what happened after I dropped him at his house Saturday night, but I wasn't about to ask. I knew Michael would try to apologize to me at some point, and when he did, I'd extract the information and dismiss him for good.

I'd keep an eye open for him at school on Monday, but I wouldn't go out of my way to find him.

Why should I?

I'd tried to help Michael and he screwed it all up.

Actually, considering the size of the battle and the stupidity of my subject, I felt like I'd done an admirable job.

And when you think about it, I
was
fairly successful. Because of
me
, Michael's life was far better than it had been, both at school and probably at home.

Michael was no longer at the bottom of the food chain. He wasn't anywhere near the top (like me), but he'd definitely come up from the bottom of the ocean. Michael got considerably less shit from the general public than he ever had. In fact, more than a few people thought he was a badass.

And he'd finally seen his father again. Granted, it hadn't gone as well as I'd anticipated, but still, at least he'd been up to see him.

And Wanda! If you could believe Michael's version of “The Parking Lot,” Wanda might actually want to see him again.

(Which reminded me, I still needed to have a talk with her about ditching me.)

And that whole “grifter” thing? I think Michael's full of shit. If I'm such a con artist, then what the hell did I get out of our “friendship”?

So it was settled: With the exception of a few minutes to hear his apology, no more Michael. He was officially dismissed, and the dismissal felt good.

But even I had to admit, while he was a massive pain in the ass, he'd temporarily helped to alleviate some of the monotony of school. Now that he was gone, I would need another distraction.

I suppose that's why I started thinking about Chrissy.

Or maybe I wanted to prove Michael wrong and show everyone (once again) what a helpful young man I am.

I don't really know, but whatever the reason, she kept coming up that morning as I started thinking about a new distraction. And when she did, it was almost always the comment her father had dropped—the one about her not having a date or a boyfriend or whatever he'd said. Don't ask me why. After all, I'm sure she'd heard far worse when he was hammered.

Even though Michael had been a huge expenditure of time and effort, I was now rolling out of bed and into the shower, on the verge of making my second trip to Baltimore in less than twenty-four hours.

Getting the car again wasn't a problem. When I came downstairs, Mom's car was in the garage, although she was nowhere to be found (not that I made much of an effort to find her).

Who knew where Dad was.

Driving up to Baltimore, I hoped that Michael's father was working on a nice hangover. I figured persuading him to let Chrissy out of his sight for two minutes would be much easier if his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders.

It was kind of nice going up in the middle of the day: sunny, and not much traffic. And even if they were out, or he wouldn't let me see her, at least it felt like I was doing
something
to counter the unpleasant aftertaste of “The Michael Affair.”

I hadn't bothered to pull up the directions. I was in a hurry and figured I could probably remember them—the last visit was still pretty fresh. Coasting down their street, I looked hard for the line. Once again, however, I missed it. I got distracted by a weird-looking bug on the dashboard, and when I was finally able to shoo it out the passenger-side window, I had already crossed.

My memory is always pretty reliable, and in no time I was pulling up in front of their apartment. I was halfway to the door when I remembered I should be parking on a side street. It took some of the spring out of my step, but it didn't take long to find a better spot and resume my approach. I was almost to the building when another bothersome thought cropped up. The security door.

Although it hadn't been a problem on our last two visits, I wondered if Dad would be a little less inclined to let people in this morning.
Oh well. I'm here. Might as well try.

I pushed the button.

Nothing.

Great.

I tried the door, then leaned in closer, wondering if anyone was on the other side. I couldn't see much. The hallway was dark and the glass was filthy. I almost had a heart attack when the door suddenly flew open.

A skinny little guy stopped, gave me a quick look up and down, and held the door open for me.

“Forget your key?” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I hate this fucking door,” he said.

“You're not the only one,” I said, disappearing inside.

So much for security.

They might not be home, but at least I'd know for sure. But just as I rounded the first landing, I stopped in my tracks.

Something occurred to me.

What if they
were
home but couldn't hear the buzzer? What if Dad was having a few beverages and listening to some tunes?

I closed my eyes, groaned, and dragged my legs up the rest of the steps. No time for self-pity. I needed to plan. What would I do if Dad was drunk? Listen to the beginning of the music lecture, then bolt for the door? And what about Chrissy? Would she know I tried to see her, or would she have locked herself in the bedroom?

I made it to the third floor and headed down the hall with my head cocked to one side. Music came through some of the doors, but it was low and cautious, as if it knew someone had a hangover. I heard some TVs and a few voices, but a lot of the apartments felt empty.

I stopped in front of Michael's father's door and put an ear to the wood.

No music, but that didn't mean I was in the clear. A picture came to me, of Michael's father standing eagerly on the other side of the door, records in hand, just waiting for me to knock.

I chased the image away and tapped on the wood.

No one answered, but I knew I needed to give it a real try. I stepped forward with my arm in the air, but before I could knock, the door swung in. I let Michael's father stare at my arm for a few seconds before I realized I wouldn't need its services.

“How'd you get in?” he asked.

“They know me here.”

His eyebrows bunched up, but he didn't say anything.

“So, how's it going?” I asked casually.

He was in a dirty white robe and hadn't brushed his hair. He looked like he'd seen better days.

“Is Michael with you?” he asked, out into the hall.

“Nope.”

His father nodded but kept his eyes away from mine.

“Kind of quiet in there,” I said. “No music today?”

Definitely the wrong thing to say, but I hadn't given myself enough prep time.

“Yeah, Chrissy told me you guys were here,” he said tightly.

“She told you?” I said.

“Memory problems,” he said, tapping his temple and giving me a grimace.

I nodded.

“Did I . . .?” he started, but couldn't finish.

“You mean last night?”

He nodded.

“You were all right,” I said. “You just talked a lot about music.”

He shook his head from side to side.

“You tried to give us some of your albums.”

“I did?”

It was like talking to one of my friends:
“Dude, I was completely wasted last night. Did I do anything stupid?”

“No, you were all right. Don't worry, everyone throws up in their driveway, then somersaults through it.”

“Did Michael . . . I mean, was Michael upset?”

“A little. But he'll get over it.”

Michael's father closed his eyes and sighed. “You don't know what it feels like—what it did to me to see him again,” he said.

“I wouldn't worry about it,” I said, but only because I wanted him to stop. Then I saw my chance. “I'm pretty sure he'll be back,” I said. “But you
were
kind of mean to Chrissy.”

“How?” he demanded.

“You said something about how you were glad she wouldn't ever have a date. You didn't say it to her face, but she was listening.”

“So that's why she's so mad,” he said, as if I'd solved a gigantic mystery for him.

“That's why I'm here,” I announced. “I'm going to take her out.”

He took his time digesting the words.

“What do you mean?”

I tried to look behind him. No Chrissy, but that didn't mean she wasn't around.

“Not a real date,” I said, quietly. “Just out for a while.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't even know you,” he said. “I'm not going to let my daughter go out with some kid I don't even know.”

“How is that different than some guy from her school taking her out?”

“For one thing, you're older than she is,” he said. “And why the hell are you doing this anyway?”

“I'm not that much older,” I said.

It was pretty lame, I realize, but what do you want? I was improvising.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“I just told you.”

“So you're just going to keep her locked up forever?”

“Maybe. It's none of your business what I do,” he said, getting pissy.

I had to tone it down or he'd shut that door for good.

“Sorry,” I said. “Look, I know it's not my business, but what are you worried about? You don't think I'm going to try something, do you?”

He kind of snorted and grimaced at the same time.

“We'll just go to the aquarium for a while—she likes sea horses, right?” I said, remembering the poster. “And people are always getting hysterical about how great the aquarium is here.”

“So I'm just supposed to give you a few bucks and tell you kids to have a good time?”

“I've got money,” I said, even though I knew that wasn't the point.

“Look, I already said no, so I don't know why we're still talking about this.”

The door was about to close.

That's when I suddenly imagined Michael standing beside me. He put a hand on my shoulder and nodded encouragingly. The image was going to make me either laugh or vomit all over Dad.

“Something funny?” his father asked.

“Sorry. Just thinking about something Michael said.”

“About me?”

“No, no . . . something we were talking about the other day.”

He stared at me and said, “Well, anyway, I'm sorry you drove all the way up here.”

It only took a second to decide. I knew what would get me in, and although it wasn't something I intended to submit for end-of-day announcements at school, if there was ever a time to play the card, this was it. Besides, who cared if Michael's drunk father knew? After all, he'd probably flush the new information out during the next good bender.

“Look, you don't need to worry about me . . . about me trying anything. I think I might be gay.”

I watched his father's face. He definitely wasn't expecting the information he'd just received.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“I think I prefer boys instead of girls.”