Trevor wasn’t used to feeling intimidated by other men, especially after spending two years by Michael’s side. They had put three bodies in the ground together, and Trevor had never felt more indestructible. He had power in his fists, power in his kicks, power when his finger was on the trigger.
But there’s something horrible about Michael’s father, and he feels it instantly when he meets the older Townley for the first and only time outside the trailer. He’s taller than Michael, but not as tall as Trevor. He’s broader than Michael, square shoulders and a short thick neck, a square body and boxy hips, thickset legs and heavy calves. His hair is short and dark, some gray. His nose is sharp like Michael’s but wider, and his eyes are blue like Michael’s but beady and small, vicious and judgmental. His curled left hand creates a weighty fist by his side, his right hand moves the barrel of his shotgun and rests the gun against the trailer. Trevor doesn’t want to admit it, but the man is scary. Like if you put Michael on a whetstone and made all his soft edges blunt and pointy.
Trevor always thought he knew Michael well, and he thought he had a good idea of what Mr Townley would be like. Michael is always brimming with confidence, to the point that he’s obnoxious, a jerk with a superiority complex. Michael is fast, he’s quick-witted and athletic, he holds his shoulders broad and his head high, like there’s nothing that can stop him. Sure, Trevor’s seen a few weak moments, some self-doubt that seems unsourced and unfounded, but Michael’s pretty unflappable on the whole. He’s strong. Surely the father who hit him is nothing more than a pathetic alcoholic who has no control of his vigilante movie-hero of a son anymore.
But Trevor’s wrong. He didn’t know this side of Michael. He didn’t expect to see this side, either. His attention is drawn to the old man’s broad shoulders, and then suddenly to his friends narrow frame. It’s like he’s shrunk a full size, maybe two. His new posture is like a cower, under the beady glare of his imposing father. Trevor doesn’t know which is the more horrifying sight.
The old man moves slowly, he lights up a cigarette and talks to his son. Trevor can’t hear it all, hanging back a few paces. He was going to stay in the car, but he made a joke out of insisting on meeting Michael’s mom. Now the Townleys are on the deck of the trailer, Trevor waits on the ground before the small set of worn stairs. He overhears some talk about money, about jobs, but it seems like awkward small talk. He watches Michael jerk his neck to the side like he always does when he feels tense.
“You ain’t straightened out that goddamn neck yet, runt?” The gruff man barks a laugh, waving his hand up close to Michael’s head dismissively. “Don’t come back here beggin’.”
Trevor flinches, it looked like he was going in for a slap, his heart racing as he takes a step closer. The words register in his head a few seconds later - runt? His… no. Surely not. His Michael, who thinks he’s carved from marble and blessed by the Gods, is nothing but a runt to his own father? Michael Townley, the same one stood before him…
Trevor sucks in a breath between his grit teeth. He quickly climbs the stairs, but in that time Mr Townley has already gone back inside the trailer, the door swinging behind him shut. He hears Michael let out a shaky sigh. “Did he just call you a runt? Eh?”
Michael rolls his eyes, avoiding looking Trevor in the face. “Ignore it. He ain’t got money to give us.” His voice sounds thinner than usual, and his posture still looks small and timid. He puts a hand on Trevor’s arm, slowly guiding the way back to the car.
“Well, he’s an asshole. What about your mom?” Trevor huffs, walking where Michael is leading him, but looking over his shoulder at the door, desperate to catch a glimpse of the man again.
“No. Leave it.” Michael insists, doing his best to ignore the voices from the trailer. “She chose him. She always chooses him. He can beat her within an inch of her life and she’ll always let him come crawling back. Over me.” He states sternly, and Trevor can feel the bitterness leeching out of his friend. He swallows, blinking. “And he’s right, anyway.”
Trevor is silent for a moment. His brain is whirring a mile a minute as another piece of the intricate puzzle of Michael Townley slots into place.
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