#47 - Michael Fagan Incident

Queenie Thompson woke one morning to find a man sitting at the foot of her bed. She had lived alone in her single-wide trailer for nearly a decade, ever since her husband had died of a heart attack and her daughter had married and moved to Lambertville. To find a man in her room was a shock, and when she first spotted him, she yelped in alarm and pulled the Dutch Windmill print bed sheet over her face.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. Go back to sleep if you’d like.” The man said. His voice had an intentional softness, the way a father speaks to his little girl.

Queenie slid the sheet from her eyes and looked at the man. “Who’re you? Why’re you in my bedroom?”

“My name’s Michael.” He said. “I live here. Just near where the playground was. Double –wide with the picnic table? You know it?”

The Palace Estates trailer park sat on five acres and had once been home to seventy-two mobile homes. A tornado in May had destroyed or damaged nearly half of those, and most of the residents had used the opportunity to relocate. The playground – what had amounted to a couple of rusted swing sets – had also been cleared by the storm.

“I know the playground. Before the tornado, I used to take my little grandson over there sometimes.” Queenie said. She still had the sheet tucked up around her chin, her hands held protectively near her face.

“I’d seen you over there.” Michael said.

He was a small man, thin and narrow-shouldered. His posture was poor, sitting slightly hunched at the end of the bed. To Queenie, he looked like a little boy. She felt a sort of motherly-courage forming inside of her.

“Michael, what the hell are you doing in my bedroom?” She asked again.

“I’ve been meaning to come over for a long time. Just to say ‘hi’, ya know. We’re neighbors after all.” He said.

“We’re neighbors, that’s right.” Queenie said. She raised up on her elbows and leaned back against the headboard.  “But this ain’t normal.  You can’t just break into peoples’ house like this. I could call the police, do you know that?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Are you upset with me? You wouldn’t call the police on me, would ya?”

“I will if you don’t leave my bedroom.”

“Oh.” He said. “I’ll go to the kitchen and wait if you want. I was in there earlier.”

“I want you to leave my home!” Queenie said. She gave him the stern expression she used with her grandson when he refused to clean up his blocks or started playing with his food.

“I was just wantin’ to talk.” Michael stood. He turned and straightened the bedclothes where he’d been sitting. “That’s a nice quilt.” He said.

Something suddenly dawned on Queenie. “What were you doing in the kitchen?” She asked.

“Waiting for you to wake up.” He said.

“How long have you been here?”

“Oh, a few hours I suppose. I was just readin’ your magazines. Hope you don’t mind that I had some cheese from the fridge.”

Queenie just stared at him.

“And a bottle of that peach Bartles and James.” He said, his chin dropping. “Sorry.”

“I forgot I had that in there.” Queenie said. “Are you a thief? You want something? Money?”

Michael frowned. “I already told you I just wanted to talk. I ain’t a thief.”

“You stole my cheese. And my B and J!” Queenie said. She sat up, modestly bunching the bed sheet around her to cover her nightgown.

“Stole?” Michael said. “Like you said, we’re neighbors. If you came to my place, I’d be happy to return the favor!”

“Oh ho ho! I don’t see that happening.” Queenie said. “Now will you leave so I can dress myself?”

“Of course. Pardon me.” He nodded toward her politely and left Queenie to herself, closing the door as he exited the bedroom.

Queenie sat quietly at the edge of her bed and listened. A chair squawked as it was dragged across the vinyl tile of the kitchen floor. Then, his fingers tapping on the tabletop.

She reached for her cell phone on the nightstand and called 911.

“An intruder?” The operator asked.

“Yes.” Queenie said.

“Is anyone there in immediate danger?”

“I’m not real sure about that. He doesn’t seem too dangerous, but I don’t know what the hell he’s doin’ here.” Queenie sad. She stepped to the door and locked it.

The operator assured her that the police were on their way. She also instructed Queenie to stay on the line until help arrived.

“I’m gonna get dressed while I’m waiting if that’s OK?” Queenie said. “I’d like to be presentable when the officers arrive.”

“As long as you stay on the line, ma’am.”

Queenie changed out of her nightgown and slipped on a pair of stonewashed blue jeans, keeping the phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. She then put on a navy blue Penn State sweatshirt. Without access to her toothbrush, there wasn’t much she could do about her morning breath, but she did spend a moment fixing her hair in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door.

“Is everything still okay there, ma’am?” The operator said.

“I’m fine.”

She sat on her bed again, watching the door. He was still in the kitchen; she could hear him whistling. The tune was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. This made Queenie feel sad, and somewhat guilty for having called the police.

“Do you think he’ll get into a lotta trouble for this?” She asked the operator.

“He’ll be charged with breaking an’ entering. Beyond that, I can’t say.” The woman said.

“He doesn’t seem like a bad man.” Queenie said. “Just gotta screw loose or something.”

There was a knock on her bedroom door.

“Is it alright if I eat some more of that cheese?” Michael asked through the flimsy plywood. “I promise I’ll give you some when you come to my house.”

“He wants more cheese.” Queenie whispered into the phone.

“Ma’am, do what’s necessary to appease him. It’s best to keep him calm.”

Queenie spoke to the door. “Go ahead, help yourself.”

Faintly in the distance, Queenie could hear a police siren.

“Help yourself to anything you want.” She said.

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To learn more about the real Michael Fagan, read the original Wikipedia article HERE