His Name Was Michael

By Layne Mulcahy

Jonesville, Missouri is a tiny town in the midwest of Nowhere, America, that boasts a population under a thousand, most of whom are devout Christians somewhere between working-class and poor. The town has a handful of churches, if they could even be called that. Every Sunday morning, for example, Jonesville’s single nondenominational parish gathers in the living room of the pastor’s little farmhouse out by the highway to hear the service, and every Sunday afternoon the pastor’s wife holds Sunday school in the backyard, a tract of land double the size of the house and decorated only with dry, bone-colored grass. The rest of the churches are similar, only one having its own dedicated building, the others housed in homes, old sheds, and barns. That’s no bother to the people of Jonesville, though. They’ve watched passionate sermons delivered from fireplace pulpits while sitting on folding chairs and old couches for generations. It’s simply the way things are.

Trevor Midfield is not from Jonesville, Missouri. He’s not from there, but he spent his entire childhood speeding down the highway seeing the curious little farmhouse churches whiz by his window and wondering how tiny a town must be to not have proper ones. His imagination would wander, conjuring intricate fantasies onto the infinitely rolling cow pastures. Chief among them was the story of a young boy—always roughly his age, whether it be seven or fourteen—who would appear on the pastor’s doorstep, unknown to anyone around, and become a ward of the town. He had a name but no history, no family, and no home. The pastor would offer for him to stay in the farmhouse, and he would oblige. The following Sunday, the townsfolk would gather, as they always did, and be taken aback by the mysterious youngster who now found himself among them. In some versions of the story, he became like an adopted son to the pastor, who had never fathered children of his own. In others, all the people of Jonesville chipped in and raised him together. In others still, the pastor had a beautiful daughter (conveniently his age), and they fell in love.

These stories had been the undercurrent of Trevor Midfield’s whole life. Even as he grew older, as he moved away from his modestly rural hometown to the modestly urban Kansas City, these stories captivated him. At every dead-end job, in the waiting room before every interview and audition that would never be “the one,” his mind returned to the boy. It was a quaint story, a relic of a simpler life that he had always dreamed of but never had. It was three weeks ago now that he had decided to make it real.

As his ‘98 Toyota braved the blank interior of his home state, Trevor was not pondering the imaginary boy. No, at this exact moment, passing identical cow pastures to the ones that framed his fantasy, he was contemplating the thought that he might be stupid. He had given up on three years of busting his ass for the slightest chance at something in the city, and for what? To chase a dream? Dream-chasing was what had brought him to Kansas City. Now he was chasing something else, taking the interstate at 95 the whole way there, as if something was waiting for him–something that he couldn’t stand to be apart from for a second longer than he had to. But what could be waiting for him in Jonesville? It was barely a speck on the landscape of the Missouri nothingness; he hadn’t even called ahead and reserved a place to stay. Yet, he felt that something was pulling him closer, something that compelled his foot to press the gas a little harder and kept his mind firmly on the prospects of what on earth he was going to do when he got there.

“I’ll write a book,” he said. It was barely a mumble tumbling out of him, and for a moment he was hardly aware that he’d said it at all, but Trevor had a magnetic field, and a few seconds after releasing the sentence to the free air, it came right back to him and stuck in the very front of his brain. He said it again. “I’ll write a book. I’ll write a book about the boy and about Jonesville and about the little farmhouse churches on the highway and—” He kept on babbling every pointless detail that came to mind and continued speeding south towards Jonesville.

The heavy door of Trevor’s motel room swung shut and latched with a thick clack. The space was awash in dim, yellow light, illuminating two twin beds (didn’t he ask for a single?), a sagging dresser, and two closed doors side-by-side against the back wall, presumably a closet and a bathroom. He hazarded a step further in and the carpet crunched under his boots. Welcome to your rural paradise, he thought. Isn’t this worth throwing away your life for?

“What life?” He responded out loud with a chuckle and dropped his backpack from his shoulder to his hand. This was his second chance. It may not be glorious, but it was hopeful; even in the semi-dark of this dingy motel room, he felt it. What it exactly was, however, was another matter entirely, and Trevor pushed it out of his mind with a yawn. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and more than anything he needed to wash off the day of driving and get to sleep.

All eyes were on Trevor as he left the motel the next morning. His room faced toward what passed for a main street in Jonesville. He figured that anything there was to see in town would be within walking distance, so he’d laced up his boots around eight and stepped confidently out into the morning sun with a renewed sense of childlike hope and wonder.

Not four steps down the street, an old man came barreling past him at surprising speed, nearly knocking him into the road. The old-timer turned back to look at him; but his eyes were cold and hard, and he offered no words of apology before continuing. Trevor was barely aware of it at first, but as he followed the road toward a sign reading “Misty’s Cafe,” the other pedestrians sidestepped him as well. Their conversations, already exchanged in hushed tones, died as he passed, and he felt their eyes lingering even as they started speaking again. Just before he reached the cafe, a truck approached at a meandering pace, and from the open passenger window came the face of a little boy, wide eyes locked on Trevor, mouth agape and slightly trembling. A hand appeared from the driver’s side and yanked the boy back inside, breaking their eye contact and sending a shot of dull confusion down into Trevor’s stomach. But he had arrived at his destination, so he did his best to dismiss it and stepped inside.

The cafe was a half-step from empty, the only other occupants being a middle-aged woman sipping a coffee in the back corner and a girl behind the counter who couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Trevor’s twenty-one. She smiled at him as he entered, but it was a rehearsed gesture; her eyes were off in some other place entirely.

“Hello, stranger. Welcome to Misty’s cafe. I’m Misty, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get you to drink?” The whole sentence had a mechanical efficiency to it, broken only by a brief pause as she lingered on the word stranger. Trevor muttered something about orange juice and water, and Misty was off, disappearing into the back so fast that she tripped around the corner and filled the silent room for a moment with the scrape of her heels against the linoleum. He looked down at the counter to browse for breakfast options and realized that she’d forgotten to give him a menu. Finally pulling out a seat at the counter, he thought of trying to call for her and ask for one, but the quiet felt oppressive and unfriendly. Instead, he crossed his legs at the ankle and began to fidget with the hair tie on his wrist. He was in the process of pulling his hair back into a loose ponytail when Misty returned with two glasses and set them on the counter without looking at him.

“Can I get a menu, please? Sorry,” Trevor said, almost flinching from the volume of his voice. Even the woman across the diner had stopped slurping. The reflexive smile returned to Misty’s face, and she set a menu in front of him.

“Of course, just holler when you’re ready to order,” she said and once again disappeared into the kitchen, a little faster than necessary.

Before Trevor had finished tying his hair, the door swung open and shut behind him, and quick footsteps pattered towards the counter. He glanced over to see the towering figure of an anxious kid, roughly his age and skeletally thin, taking the seat directly next to him. Misty’s head appeared briefly around the corner, and her eyes shone momentarily with surprise and recognition. She passed a suspicious glance between the two of them, then returned to the kitchen without a word. Trevor looked back to the man next to him, but he didn’t appear to have noticed Misty’s reaction. He did, however, notice Trevor watching him and attempted to engage him in friendly conversation.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you around town before. What brings you to Jonesville?” His curiosity seemed genuine and his voice warmer than any he’d encountered so far. It was strangely disarming.

“If I’m totally honest, I’m not sure? That must sound weird. I dunno, I grew up in Elmdale a few miles that way,” he gestured vaguely south. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve been anywhere near here. I’m Trevor, by the way. Nice to meet you,” he added as an afterthought. The stranger shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Michael, and I guess we’re kind of in the same boat. I lived in Jonesville my whole life until I left for college.”

“And what brings you back home in the middle of the semester?”

Michael shook his head and let out a subdued laugh.

“Your guess is as good as mine, dude. I just… needed a break, I suppose,” he said, readopting his nervous posture from before. Trevor changed the subject.

“Say, what’s good here? I’ve never actually stopped in town before.”

Michael relaxed and laughed again.

“Not the coffee. I dunno what the Misties have got going on back there, but they do a truly masterful job of burning it.” He leaned over and pointed to the menu. “Pancakes are pretty nice, though. Order those with the bacon if you get them, it’s amazing.”

“Noted, but what did you mean by ‘the Misties?’ Have they got a whole colony of them in the back or something?”

“Not quite, but you’re pretty close. It’s a family business. Misty Sr. does most of the cooking; she opened the place way back before I was born. Her daughter, Misty Jr., mans the counter and does a lot of the waitressing. We went to the same school, but she was a few years ahead of me, so we never really talked.”

“If you never talked, what’s with the stink eye she was giving you earlier?”

“I didn’t notice any, but I’m not surprised. Between you and me, nobody in town likes me very much. And by very much, I mean at all. It would probably be more accurate to say that 80% of Jonesville hates my guts.”

“And the other twenty?”

“Aware that they aren’t supposed to like me but never actually got to know me that well.”

“Damn. What happened?”

Michael gestured broadly to the surrounding area and then pointed at himself.

“Traditional, tiny, rural town. Gay nonconformist with a penchant for getting into trouble. What’s not to hate?”

“Sheesh. I can see why you left.”

“And why my first stop is here instead of home.”

“Yeah.”

The woman with the coffee had left sometime during their conversation, so the two of them were alone in the once-again-soundless diner. After an awkwardly long pause, Trevor called for Misty Jr., and at length, she reappeared to take his order. He ordered the pancakes (with bacon), and she spun on her heel and returned to the back before Michael could even open his mouth to ask for a coffee. He raised his eyebrows and gestured toward her as she left. Trevor nodded.

“Yeah no, I see what you mean.”

They both laughed, and more conversation flowed naturally from there. Misty brought Trevor his food, but they kept talking as he ate, the topic shifting from school to friends to growing up rural. As the clock neared ten and Trevor was paying for his food, Michael hazarded a question.

“Do you have plans for the rest of the day? I’ve gotta stop off and see my parents, but after that, I’m completely free.”

Trevor considered for a moment and kept his eyes trained on his wallet as he responded, as if not meeting his gaze would hide his blush.

“Well, if you wanna show me what else there is to do in town, then I guess I’m not busy,” he said, cracking a smile.

“Sounds like a date,” Michael matched his expression and followed him out to the parking lot.

The setting sun sent slanting saffron-colored light across the stiff carpet of Trevor’s motel room. The TV was turned to a Spanish-language news channel, and Michael sat on the bed across from him, shoveling takeout barbecue into his mouth and cackling at some dumb joke he had made. Trevor threw a napkin across the room at him, but the air caught it and it sank to the floor between them without an ounce of the intended faux menace.

“Impressive,” Michael said, eyebrows raised. He scooped the napkin up off of the floor and set it next to him, then thought for a second before gesturing to his food. “This is so much better than lunch. I’m glad we decided to do takeout,”

“No kidding,” Trevor agreed. “And I thought Elmdale had gotten me used to being stared at.”

“Nobody noses like a Jonesvilleian; I’m pretty sure we’ve won a couple of state eavesdropping tournaments.” He stopped to laugh at his joke before taking on a more sincere tone. “At least we’re alone here, though. As long as that door stays shut, we can offend no delicate Southern sensibilities and avoid the wrath of middle-aged women with nothing better to do.”

Just as Trevor was about to reply, there was a firm knock at the door. They made a moment of eye contact and burst into laughter; Trevor was still giggling as he unlatched the door and pulled it open.

Before him stood a barrel-chested man with a gruff mustache and stern eyes slanted in a suspicion he had come to expect from the people of Jonesville. The man was at least six inches taller than him, though noticeably out of shape and not all that intimidating besides the eyes and the standard-issue gun at his hip. Michael had crossed the room while Trevor stared and was now peering over his shoulder at the man.

“Sheriff? What business have you got here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, kid. What would your mother think of the upright, respectable business you’re undoubtedly getting up to in a motel with a stranger?”

“Sorry sir, my name’s Trevor. I’m from Elmdale just up the road. Could you please tell me what all this is about?” Trevor asked, picking at his fingernails with his free hand and rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes, not quite comforted by Michael’s presence behind him. The sheriff barely inflected as he replied.

“There’s been a murder. You two are my primary suspects. Now if you’d come with me, please.” He stepped back from the doorway and gestured toward a parked car with “County Sheriff” across the side in forest green. Trevor stepped across the threshold before Michael grabbed his shoulder and pushed forward, placing himself between Trevor and the sheriff. Even though he was the taller of the two, he was small before that cold stare.

“Bill. Come on,” he pleaded, reaching out a hand as if to appeal to some unspoken history. The sheriff shrank away from him in disgust and took another step back.

“Michael McGrath, you are a scourge.” He took Michael by the shoulder and turned him around, producing a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. The whole arrest was one fluid motion, the monotone listing of Michael’s Miranda Rights punctuated by the click of the cuffs and the slam of the car door. Trevor was stunned, rooted to the spot in the doorway in a near-trance of just watching.

“You too, kid. Come on,” said the sheriff as he returned to the door, but Trevor hardly heard it. A dim confusion clouded him as the sheriff loaded him into the car and drove away.

Fluorescent lights. Chatter and rustling. Michael’s shoulder pressed against his, trembling, then gone, disappearing down a hallway. Trevor watched him go, and under the harsh precinct lights, he wasn’t the jokester with the glowing smile who had walked into the diner that morning. He was a skeleton, a bundle of shivering bones with eye sockets frozen wide and pointed straight ahead, seeing nothing, unaware that he was dead.

Then the sheriff steered him around a corner, and Michael was gone. Trevor was alone in an interrogation room with a stranger. Unable to do anything else, he began to cry. The sheriff’s face did not change.

It was the dead of night when they were released. Turns out, the evidence against them amounted mostly to “everything that goes wrong in Jonesville is because of strangers or Michael.” They were still suspects and they weren’t supposed to leave town; but nobody wanted to stay overnight and watch them, so the sheriff let them go. Not exactly best practice for a pair of murder suspects if you asked Trevor, but he wasn’t complaining.

Michael was silent for the whole walk back to the motel. Trevor tried to ask if he was okay, what they’d said or asked him, but there was no response, not even a glance. He thought he might call his parents or turn towards home at some point, but he never did. Michael was only aware of his surroundings as far as keeping pace with Trevor; his mind was somewhere else, and his eyes were no longer vacant.

When they reached the room, Michael was buzzing with anxious energy. He gathered the half-empty takeout boxes from the beds and threw away the stray napkin on the floor between them. They wouldn’t fit in the trash can, so he left them on the dresser and turned to Trevor. “I’m gonna take a shower, I think. Is that alright?”

Trevor nodded with furrowed brows and watched Michael go into the bathroom. When the water started, he turned to look over the rest of the room, unsure of what to do. The soft patter of the showerhead was mesmerizing, and he was suddenly tired. The bedside clock read 3:30. He’d been up since seven. Without deciding to, he crossed to the farther of the two beds and climbed in. In seconds, he was asleep.

Sunlight woke Trevor up around two the next afternoon. He rolled over and scanned the room. Everything was just as it had been before, except the other bed was unmade. He listened for Michael and heard nothing. That makes sense, he thought. It’s pretty late. But something still felt wrong. The word disquieting floated to the front of his mind, and that seemed right. He pushed himself up out of bed, and only now that he was standing did he see a sheet of paper on the dresser. The handwriting on it was large but rushed, making it difficult to read. He mouthed the words as he read them.

“Leaving town,” and farther down, in even more of a scribble, “heading south.” His first thought was that it would be a terrible idea to try and follow him. His second was that he would do it anyway. Three weeks ago he had thrown himself toward Jonesville like his life depended on it, sure that something there would change his life, no clue what it might be. Now, in a half-awake haze and a surge of emotion, he was sure it was Michael. It had always been Michael. Even though he didn’t know it, he had come here to meet a man whom the world had chased away. He had come here to be the reason that man stopped running. He felt it in his bones; the same sureness that had compelled him down the highway to Jonesville was compelling him to pack up his things and do it again.

Trevor left Kansas City because he had nothing to stay for. He climbed into his truck and took off out of Jonesville because he finally had someone to leave for.