My phone buzzed around seven that evening. I was in my room.

“The Michael and Wanda Show” at Gut’s Laugh Factory had made it a tough day, and I just wanted to get into bed, but I wasn’t comfortable giving myself a second-grader’s bedtime, so I was glad for the distraction—even coming from the person on the other end of the line.

“Matthew?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s Michael.”

I was quiet for a second. I was almost happy to hear from him. The whole performance with Wanda had thrown me, and it was a relief to hear old, awkward Michael again.

“What do you want?” I said.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“I mean,” he stumbled, “are you going to do something tonight? Are you doing anything right now?

“Yes. I’m fondling myself, Michael.”

“Oh . . . sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“Something I can do for you?” I asked.

“Well, kind of . . . I mean, when you’re done with . . . you know . . .”

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not really fondling myself. And even if I was, why would I share that with you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just need a ride.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, becoming a bit more interested.

“Do you think—if you’re not doing anything—do you think you could give me a ride?”

“Where?”

“To my father’s.”

I paused. Definitely not what I was expecting.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His turn to pause.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” he said nervously. “I just want to get out of the house for a while.”

“Why?”

“Can you just pick me up?”

“Sure,” I said. “Then maybe I’ll leave you somewhere. Kind of like me this afternoon? Remember?”

“I’m really sorry about that. I can explain. Can you just give me a ride?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Okay,” he said, nervously.

I thought about it. I’d been tired before the call, but I was awake now. Mom was home and in for the night. And he sounded desperate.

“Umm . . .?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Should I call you back or something?”

“Huh?”

“So you can decide.”

“You at home?” I asked.

“Jimmy’s store.”

“Of course. Do I have to talk to him?” I asked.

“No. He’s not here.”

“Where is he?” I said.

Michael hesitated, then said, “He’s at my house.”

I was suddenly very interested.

“What’s he doing there?”

“Matthew.”

“Is Gut there, too?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Matthew, please,” he said, like a little kid about to have an accident. “Just come get me.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in a bit,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Actually, I don’t know how long it’ll take me. I’ve got to get the car from my—”

But Michael had hung up. I stared at the phone a moment, then tossed it gently on my bed.

Flap and Gut together at last?

Had they ever met? Flap was the kind of guy who’d have an “I Brake for Hobbits and Unicorns” bumper sticker on his car. Gut was the kind of guy who’d have that stupid little kid urinating on hobbits and unicorns in the back window of his truck.

But then again, Gut had a name now, and a life away from his couch. He wasn’t a bigot, and he didn’t hate his stepson. Making fun of him now wasn’t much fun.

I still had Flap, though.

I went down the stairs, hit the landing, and turned into the kitchen. I found Mom in her usual spot.

“Do you live in the kitchen now?” I asked.

“Hilarious,” she said, without looking up.

“Going out,” I announced.

“Okay.”

This was so startling I stopped in my tracks, hand dangling in mid-air on its way to the keys. Mom continued to frown over her papers until something told her I was still in the kitchen.

“So you’re going out? Where are—where do you think you’re going?” she tried, apparently realizing her mistake.

“Out,” I said, quietly.

“Where?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I raised my eyebrows and nodded at the glass of wine next to her. “Something wrong?” I asked.

“No,” she snapped. “It’s just been a hard week, Matthew. That’s all.”

“Has it?” I asked.

“Yes, Matthew, it has.”

She reached for the glass and took a sip.

Mom is absolutely not a drinker. More than one or two glasses and chances are good she’ll barrel into a wall on her way to bed.

“I can have a glass of wine once in a while,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“I’m concerned about your drinking, Mom. I’m a concerned family member.”

She took another, larger sip.

In Mom’s world, there were only a few occasions that called for a drink (two glass maximum)—weddings, funerals, and, sometimes, my father. Dad’s not what you’d call an ideal husband.

“Dad?” I asked, nodded sympathetically.

“Be quiet, Matthew,” she said. “Weren’t you going somewhere?”

“Grandma finally die?” I said.

“Matthew!”

“These erratic mood swings are stunting my emotional development,” I said.

“What development?” She smirked.

Now I was torn.

Michael had probably wet himself twice wondering when I’d get there. But on the other hand, Mother was feeling a bit scrappy this evening. It was such a rarity, I had to linger.

“I think it’s time the three of us had a family meeting about your boozing,” I said.

“Just go, Matthew,” she said, waving me out of the kitchen.

“No,” I replied, holding up a palm. “No, I will not turn my back on you. Not when you need me the most.”

Mom groaned. I took out my phone and began pushing buttons. She looked up.

“Matthew? What are you—?”

“I’m sure I have his number in here somewhere,” I said, scrolling through my contacts.

“Don’t call your father! That’s about the last thing I need right now.”

“Ah, there he is,” I said. “Do you want to talk to him or would you like me to explain?”

“Tell him to pick up some milk on his way home—if there’s a store open at that hour.”

Mom pulled a set of papers closer and began to read. I kept the phone close to my ear, but let it drop, deciding against holding a pretend conversation with Dad.

“What are those?” I asked, taking a step forward.

Something about the set of papers directly in front of her had caught my eye. I’m not sure if it was a name, the look, or what. But something about them was unusual.

Her reaction confirmed it. Before I could take a second step, she grabbed the papers and stuffed them under a nearby pile.

I wanted a look at those papers, but knew I wasn’t going to get one if I pressed. And although it was quite unusual for me to do so, I reversed my original position and opted for that fake phone call with Dad after all. Pretending to hear something, I looked at the phone, then brought it quickly to my ear.

“Hello? Dad? Oh, thank goodness.”

“Matthew,” Mom warned.

“No, no . . . I’m okay. It’s Mom . . . Yes, she’s at it again.”

“Give me that phone,” she said.

I shook my head.

“Angry,” I told the phone, “and abusive.”

Mom narrowed her eyes. Then she smiled.

“Tell him about the milk,” she said.

One more sip of wine and she was back to work.

Damn. Wonder what blew it? Oh well.

Making sure I remembered which pile those papers were in, I backed away from the table. After two glasses, maybe she’d forget this whole conversation.

“Okay then, I guess you’re safe to leave alone. I’ll be back at the usual time. Midnight?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

I lifted the keys off the hook.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I want you back by—”

Unfortunately, the door to the garage swung closed before I could catch the rest of her sentence.

“Someone should really fix those doors,” I said, heading for the car.

Although I expected to see an angry lady at any moment, the door remained in place as I started the car and pulled out of the driveway. Still hopeful, I didn’t close the garage door until I was on my way up our street.

Oh, well—another day.

All things considered, the evening was picking up nicely. Something was going down at Michael’s house and I had scored another win at home.

And the papers, I reminded myself. Don’t forget the papers.