Changing Michael by Jeff Schilling Page B

cabinets.
    â€œWhere do you work?”
    â€œAt the hospital,” Michael said.
    â€œAre you a nurse?” I asked.
    â€œMedical records,” Michael said.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œForgot,” Gut said, beginning to pick his teeth.
    â€œToothpick?” I offered.
    Gut shook his head.
    â€œOkay, well . . .” Michael began.
    â€œDid you tell her yet, Michael?” I said, interrupting.
    â€œTell me what?” she asked, alarmed.
    Michael stared at me.
    â€œFine, I’ll tell her. Your son is incredibly modest,” I said. “They want Michael to play football.”
    Gut snorted.
    â€œWho does?” She sounded worried.
    â€œThe school. Michael’s not sure he wants to do it, but still—”
    â€œThem elves he’s always fightin’ might not like it,” said Gut. “Might attack the house or something.”
    â€œDid you play football in high school?” I asked Gut before Michael could respond.
    â€œFullback,” 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.”
    â€œMom!” Michael said.
    â€œWell, you don’t,” she said, then went back to her groceries.
    â€œMichael’s one of them loner guys you hear about on TV,” Gut said.
    â€œKind of like a race car driver,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œKind of like a driver.”
    â€œNah,” said Gut. “They got a whole pit crew to work with.”
    â€œBut when they’re racing, I mean. When they’re out there on the track all by themselves. Must get kind of lonely.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Gut asked, hairy eyebrows knitting together.
    â€œGood thing they have those pretty girlfriends . . . or whatever.”
    â€œ Whatever ?” he repeated.
    â€œYou know—girlfriends, families . . . significant others.”
    Gut grunted and looked away.
    â€œSo, you ready to go?” I asked Michael.
    He nodded.
    â€œNice to meet you,” I said to Michael’s mom.
    â€œYou, too,” she said.
    Yeah, right.
    â€œYou’ll let me know if you hear that story?” I asked as Gut shuffled back toward the couch.
    â€œUh-huh,” he said, absently.
    Michael and I headed out. I shook my head on the way down the stairs.
    â€œWhat?” Michael asked.
    â€œGoing to be a little harder than I thought,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou’re not going to get much help from Mom.”
    Michael was quiet.
    â€œMichael, 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.”
    â€œReally?”
    He nodded.
    â€œMichael, that’s only, like, forty minutes away. Do you ever see him?”
    A headshake.
    â€œWhy 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.
    â€œSo, when was the last time you saw him?” I said.
    â€œI’m not sure,” said Michael. “It’s been a while.”
    â€œDays? Weeks?”
    â€œYears. Since I was little.”
    â€œWhy?”
    We hit the busy intersection. Michael finally shrugged. “He left us,” he said. “Why should I go see him?”
    â€œAren’t you curious?”
    â€œHe’s a drunk.”
    That was a pretty good reason. But wait a minute , I thought. How would he